In the square, people hang out, while others that live there hang out their underwear. Rosaries do too and won’t go away, as blasphemous customers eat out while others, strung out. drink in the square.
In the square, children run amok, mocking parents who try to shout louder than them with something like ‘You dare!’ While owners, barking up the right or wrong tree, on mortgages and rents keep their dogs on leashes or not anyway in the square.
Having joined up, seagulls on shore leave squawk easy while lower ranked birds tweet together on their karaoke. In the square, the street-lamps will light up and go out there just like cigarettes and fag-ends in the square.
John Di Girolamo was born during the swinging middle ages as the Battle of Hastings raged outside on a cold, miserable Saturday evening just outside 'The Juggler's Arms' in Oxford, Torquay and Exeter at the same time. Born to a family, he spent most of his early years learning how to open umbrellas for a rainy day, and the runnings of horses and sword swallowers and the costs they incurred. Having graduated in 'Circus Management', he took to spinning plates for a living and persuaded his father to buy a restaurant to fund what he believed would be a lucrative career move. However, in the the days leading to The Age of Post Punk', he quit and would embark upon what was to go down in history doodles as a notebook.
Few knew it then but he had already started copying poetry, and often written by other people. As the minutes passed by, and Sardinia loomed, the idea of collages and drawings suddenly hit him as a way of filling up what had become a kind of book with pages and all. One day while storming off in a huff because his mum told him to, he struck upon the idea of putting it all together over a long-playing record (later a CD) and during a commercial break in the digital age, decided a blog would end Cromwell's ill-fated republic.
Sent off by recorded post, it would be by chance that his poems would get to their ultimate destination as, meanwhile, his pigeon who had queued so loyally for so long, sadly died the day before it was sacked.
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A Pretty Kettle of Poetry 