Rock ‘n’ roll is about having fun. If you keep yourself in one piece to live long enough, well done! Parents told off by their children for pretending to be happily married at a local fair. Morris dancers from Ipswich in a square.
Drop-out students, apart from one, flunk ‘Psychedelia; the rock-social revolution of the 1960s” as they get pissed and take the piss out of hippies. Moos and boos and baas and aaaahhs! Don’t worry ’bout us; we’ll vote and cuss, but thank your lucky stars
we’re as revolutionary as our prospects are bright being kept in the dark in soundproof drawers. As trapped miners get pulled up into the light They’re soon forgotten to a round of applause.
That was the age of Aquarius but this of boardroom power and the how-dare-you-us. It’s getting harder and harder to get up in the morning these days. Must be those glass things of backward loops and handshakes they keep bringing on their trays.
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 
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