The dead are like those alive: Paranoid, mad, and clicking with nobody. Newborn souls buzzing around, trapped in a honey money modern mayhem medieval ancient digital world hive.
There’s no escape. Tracker dogs sniffing them out and tracking them down. Ropes or chains or rat face torture cages or red tape and surveillance squads unearthing corpses still breathing underground.
How is it in the afterlife? Can you still keep in touch? Back and beyond, betrayals and ambitions as cutting as a quality steel knife? Does it matter that much?
Not knowing where to start while looking forward to the end, this week has been one long headache and Friday topped it with a computerised migraine. Nothing works and I broke it anyway cos I lost my temper with cables and connections that tied me up in knots round the bend. Would take my guitar to the mountains but I can’t play, and I can’t climb but worldly fakes can feign. What’s your poison? Same again?
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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