I like walking by the sea with my head in the sand. I like picking up my seashell ears to listen for free to waves with their timpani drums and starfish band.
I like getting away from everyone all alone to be by myself to see what it means on my own. I like being by the sea in the winter and spring as autumn goes and summer’s about to be invaded by that near naked human thing.
I like throwing sea potatoes back to their long-lost friends. I like skimming slim-line shiny pebbles in their personal Olympics. I like looking up at seagulls overhead even though my wig falls off now and again. I like admiring the web-feet artwork they leave behind and poo poo their critics.
Nothing like being by the sea with a weathervane on top of my head spinning as sea breeze worries unwind. I like paddling with my sandwich board on, declaring myself free, as seaweed tangles up between my toes, just to remind me complete freedom isn’t that easy to find.
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.
View more posts
A Pretty Kettle of Poetry 