Teatime rain brewing in teapot clouds, powers-that-be dunk their big biscuits in their big cup. A pretty kettle of fish and bones boiling in up-the-revolution kitchens with rights overlooked and doffed hats centuries kow-towed: something’s getting somewhere like a cat from a kitten or a dog from a pup.
Legendary ties get consigned to history, to be dug up again and again in eternal rematches that get postponed due to rain in waterlogged trench pitches. Fighting cats and dogs, with little mercy, a paw, a whisker, a tail, a skull, bubbling and steaming like being promise-vowed and brewed by 16th century revenge accountants and little quill-pushing civil snitches.
Meanwhile cats and dogs in many households live together in peace or blissful non-aggression pacts, at least. Time’s getting on and it’s getting muddled and old as future generations drink and guzzle and party-revel, oblivious to a copy-cat unneighbourly dog-barking politely-camouflaged unidentified cat-dog mechanical biscuit-eating Yeatsian beast.
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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A Pretty Kettle of Poetry 