World Kissing Day

I’m a bit tearful thinking of it
but had some wine and that puts me in touch with what I’m feeling.
When my heart and head collide and fit.
Sorry, yes, it’s embarrassing.

Tough as nails I’m gonna drive it home.
Laying on the floor I’m ready to give in.
Writers everywhere have their favourite illiterate reader riddled with sin.
Tips for everyone serving a glassful of tonic with a nothing of gin.

This is the heart of the matter
as a matter of the heart:
I’m full of fear about the future today
and the future is full of fear that I’ve stayed up too late to not let tomorrow have its say.

Today was World Kissing Day.
We kissed all day.
You put me in a good mood and me you.
This poem isn’t about anyone but you.

oppo_0

Published by aprettykettleofpoetry

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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