About to go back to a torrential rain a month after 33 years ago wondering why stereotypical summers didn’t last as long as autumns on a tin coastal birds swirl over cliffs down-beating down to earth in a pantomime show with a why don’t they give me credit for doing what they wanted me to before it ended up in a bin?
Waking up with an alarm clock head at the same time every morning afternoons go by as quick as an evening disappearing into evening working is a long-winded way to get to a pensionable age with a visionary workforce with x-ray eyes seeing through the pointlessness of a blunt edged wage.
If everyone wrote what they thought in a diary or said what they’d ever written on shredded office paper there might not be so many trips down lanes lost to memory or so many tombstones jumping up and down in a comic who the hell were they? caper.
Tomorrow is a day with a concert ticket and a flight of fantasy which could end in disappointment if over worrying wins. I’m going back to a place I never liked but which now holds out a hand nostalgic and I’m going to love being tortured and having to pay for all my sins.
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 