Made a guess at hearing the plane you were on leaving across the sea overhead as I looked up from my balcony breadcrust with your home emptied of your books, and clothes, as my books gather dust and wardrobe hangs like lead, moth-eaten with wanderlust.
I guess you’re halfway done with here and halfway done with there as, like you say, ™it doesn’t feel like home” like someone who needs space from what’s coming and what’s gone.
Every explorer needs an evening sat on the sofa. Every malcontent needs a laugh. Every day needs adventure. Every squeaky clean pop star needs a bath. Everyone waiting for something. Some have the wherewithal to force it. Some join the circus wearing their lucky ring as others stay put and frame their face in a photofit.
As your imageinary plane overhead flew away, way away today all this came to mind as brain cells keep thoughts under lock and key by self-imposed aviation design
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.
View more posts
A Pretty Kettle of Poetry 