Evening E.P

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PARADISE OF DEVILS
Live life for the moment
under a volcano
as hearts in ashes over-the-top blow
like passionate loves that went.

I count on your visits.
Help me get through my time.
Free as a jailbird that sits
preening feathers that off plume don’t rhyme.

Pure joy out of everything to lose.
Singing in a city full of blues.
Celebrate one of Dante’s circles
with a passport to a paradise of devils.

OUT OF IT
Someone dies and you know them
as you stick your head under the sand cos you don’t want to know.
Do your CSE maths on how long
you’ve got to go if their life was yours in Death Row.

Then there’s those who die before you
fresh as a daisy and with a wreath pressure.
Some maths don’t add up like 2 and 2
and tragic it is for sure.

I always hated maths lessons.
Never got Mr Colman and what he meant by ‘O’ level glory.
Survivors get on their knees to read obituaries and bless ‘em.
Glad I’m no part of it and out of it, end of story.

MYSTERY DEATH
Lots of clues but nothing
to build a case on.
Witnesses and testimonials
but it was a mystery death as mysterious as any death any book had been written on.

Take a deep breath after that last sentence.

Death’s a mystery
as mysterious as anything could be.
Birth is easy.
It’s as predictable as any rarity.

IN A PERFECT WORLD
Wars don’t exist.
You do your health good by getting pissed.
Nothing once living is ever on the menu.
The many stick it to the few.

It turns in everyone’s favour
and it turns out we all get what we deserve.
I’ve got too much money to spend
and you score the golden goal in extra time in the end.

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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