Peter Yowie Poetry
Yes, the Lady makes me dance, and it was a fine romance in my head, and clutching a stuffed toy every night. And yes the Lady makes me think, I’m not who I think I am. Dogs are barking in the neighbourhood. I understand the power of make-up and costume, I say the Lady wears a thousand masks. I was confused by the Lady and intrigued but at the end of the day her music saved me.
Ugly truths and beautiful poems. The palm trees in the park are the closest I get to paradise. I watch Indian mothers with takeaway children. I hear New York is a lawless city, and youth is a flawless beauty and we made a sawdust treaty. Here the young men take off their shirts and open beers. Fear doesn’t always exist in just the shadows, cows in the paddock are tomorrow night’s dinner and one madman in the crowds and it’s death by a sharp smile. Intoxication was my alibi, rock n roll was my lullaby.
Look at me, I’ve got a warm bed every night, then look at the homeless man living on the edge of the city. The salute I learnt in the Airforce is longest way up, shortest way down. I spent the weekend taking the homeless man for drinks in the park. I’m not physically able to solve his problems, and he can’t solve mine. Instead we sat at a picnic table by the river. Oh, the riddles of life.
During the day he sits on the street between the pub and the supermarket, a fallen life waiting for falling coins. I buy him a sandwich sometimes and I feel like a king then, doing the lord’s work. But giving money all the time to the homeless beggar just begs the question who’s helping me. The ex boxer turned butcher walks past and says God bless, lives in excess are in the windows of the hotel drinking pints of liquid gold. The homeless man smokes butts he picks up off the street. Cut throat citizens walk past and give him nothing.
Do what’s in your heart, said my neighbour, kindness is not a curse. He labours all day, sitting on the street like the suffering Buddha in a hoodie
I’d pour myself another glass of daddy’s girl, the house wine at Cafe Riche, I can see it, I don’t have to be psychic. On a brick wall there’s a pink hearted Romeo and a bitch is a bitch. A celebrity crush that tightens it’s grip. Love reaches a fever pitch, then a lit cigarette after the pleasure I get from a magazine cover Goddess.
We were like a couple of suckling puppies. My hand was on his crotch that was hard, I was on a mission to Mars.
Lounge lizards in heaven are watching the news unfold, a world racing towards annihilation, but I’m a poet in the centre of a lotus flower, in isolation.
A Windows seat in a Brunswick Street bar, I watch the human traffic pass by, I’m a wizard with a goblet of fire. The blood sucking cold is here, the wind, hand sewn and frivolous, the privileged few are with us. Tranasaurus Rex on a lady’s jacket and I try to strike up a conversation.
When the lady sings her jazz, some fantastic melody in Vegas where we’re all on holiday from our sins, someone screams out sing it bitch and the audience whips the horses on a fast moving chariot in a show only for the 18 carat gold and over.
Happy hour still happens even for a sober man. I was struck by lightning, inspired to write, addiction makes a great story. Through adversity, seeing angels. I saw jesus, I saw Jack kerouacs Doctor Sax.
