Wonderfully World-Weary Afternoon

Hanging the ‘Back Soon’ sign on my eyes
and shutting up shop for a while
I’ve posted ‘Gone Fishing’ online and gone offline
and laid myself like a stone on my sofa as far away as a mile.

Blissfully resigned to the fact that there’s no point to anything,
leaves on the trees outside rustle ripple clap
in a standing ovation
to my apathetic but admirable decision to stop struggling
and cat-nap paw-wrap the human condition.

My only goal is to do nothing but listen to music
as musical notes in my living room laze, lull and glow.
They yawn and stretch and give me the thumbs up
while saying ‘whatever’ to whatever the world has to throw at us.

oppo_32

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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