Passer-by footsteps are a beat while printed lyrics, straight out of a songbook, flutter on nearby window curtains over a paper street.
Couples hand in hand talk of fingers in a pie while babies in their prams deafen sighing parents as they bawl and cry. A hat on the pavement coins a musical refrain, but market forces won’t change till a chorus kicks in again.
I just sit and listen and chain smoke till it breaks. Forget what’s going on around the world cos it’s a load of (rhymes with this busker rocks) and is nothing to do with me as, elsewhere, money bag criminals on red carpets seem to always be getting away with it to fanfare handshakes. Meanwhile, feet on the ground, another song is a-foot played by an afternoon busker in old socks.
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 