I live with my muse in a music box. I live like a duke in a juke box. I sit within walls of sound in my bedsit. I turn my factory 45s churning out hit after hit.
Feel as close to a return paradise ticket there and back as a record player needle to a record track. As fictitiously far away from human contact as a ghost-written autobiography to fact.
Listening to your voice in my flatlet is like eavesdropping the one next door through a paper thin record sleeve wall while reading sleeve notes to a kindred spirit.
It’s been a day-by-day year, dear darling and being remote is a way to control it. Dreams overnight might not make it but long-playing ones might resound like music.
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 