New Year’s Eve fireworks explode and shell the midnight skies after grammatically thicko teenage terrorists with their little bombs throwed have already beated ear drums of jumpy elderly passer-bys into submission and into hiding.
Funny how in a world claiming to want peace, the new year is seen in to a planned frenzy of endless war sounds to fire ceaselessly in a massive bombardment of crackers din.
Pets too have given up on their so-called human superiors and gone into hiding running to the nearest refuge in a home of intoxicated revellers. New year resolutions slurred out like no more predictions earnestly promised by fortune tellers and hopes for new year conquests by war mongering lovers.
We had a quiet night in on the home front, eating and drinking as midnight mayhem was counted down to blast off from ten. Met you before but don’t remember who. Saw in 2026 but don’t remember when.
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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