Can’t remember which password. Don’t remember what to click. Can’t remember why this doesn’t work when it should. Don’t remember what option to pick.
Can’t remember how to read. Don’t remember what to say. Can’t remember that stuff about “hand” and “feed.” Don’t know what else to do but turn it off and prey.
Can’t remember what’s beeping in my head. Don’t know what’s crashing in my brain. Never remember what the IT department said was “so easy” before I forget it again.
Think it’s me or you or it that has to get away. Think one of us is mad and one donkey short of a bray. Can’t remember who’s meant to fit. Ah just remembered: “Byte the hand that stream feeds” – yep, that was it.
oppo_32
Published by aprettykettleofpoetry
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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