My photographic excuse for soundventures into nighty nights. My wayward warrior selfishly fighting fights regardless of plights. My sweet, sleepy and reliant stargazer. My astronaut patiently waiting for the moon to retire as a hell raiser.
My reason to be, my responsibility. My ears and eyes, my steadfast surprise. My guilty and abandoned. My reunited and tandomed.
My stalker and stranger. My all bets off and wager. My not eating disorder fussy taster connoisseur. My killing machine serial killer wrapped up in fur. My ever faithful film star waiting at the dressing room door.
My unimaginable goodbye when I go. My miss you reminiscence come back show. My seeing, my being, my home comforts routine while rebelling. My mad cap comic capering and pointless staying ups with no meaning.
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 