Peter Yowie Posts

Prophet of the lost arts. The cafe is open and I write poems. It’s no longer a soap opera, it’s Americans without homes, addicted to opiods. A land of songwriters and seriel killers. I don’t walk on eggshells, I walk on burning coals, living out my addictions. Junkies haunt the alleyways and the tired faces of the drunks are a ticking clock. I walk the mean streets, the meat between the layers of white society. Free range beggars are in the doorways. From the lost paradise of my youth to these hard habits that are my truth. Why is it that I like going into a heart of a city, but I hate walking past the homeless with empty pockets?

I wear a T shirt that says in capital letters, NEW YORK, red bull (rebel). I’m here to tell you, Lady Gaga, as another artist, anything you ever did of any importance you stole from someone else.

Lady Gaga came to Melbourne the same time I was going through some massive changes following the death of my father. But there’s never been any acknowledgement of me as an artist, and really it’s about to backfire on the Lady.

What I learnt as a Melbourne underground artist is there’s no red carpet for me. The newly opened metro tunnel had a sign in the city, it was topped with barbed wire. What happened to me in my old school and library as a Melbourne writer trying to charge my phone, a power struggle over a power point. I was thrown against a wall by security and had the police called on me to be summoned to court, when the truth is it should be me taking you all to court.

Where was Lady Gaga in all that? On stage at Marvel stadium while me, the real superhero was being subjected to abuse. The Lady has given no indication that she is even aware of the trurh.

She’s a jazz great, with a voice like a black tourmaline crystal. Saturday night rituals, the witch of New Orleans. She’s the nemesis, the medicine. The music that falls from an upstairs window. Girl in mascara and lipstick, it’s the scars of a risk taking youth. She sings songs that make you feel like you’ve died and gone to heaven.

Ripples on the wide brown river, I sit on a memorial bench and hear the traffic on the bridge over troubled water. All the creatures great and small suck on the nipple of the triple muse. The river track is behind me, the river is before me. The top of my crown charkra and I’m a King for a day. Under the shade of an Elm tree, by the bended elbow of a bleeding river

A celebrity crush is not love, but I learnt a lot about myself. Love songs and pop songs, like water they shaped the rock of my heart and loneliness is not so bad, in my life it’s been a step away from holiness. You can carry a pop princess in your pocket, you can be in new York in a minute, you can have the attitude of a cynic and think every song she ever sung was a lie. Spinning in a turntable universe,

My friend works as a barmaid and is studying to be a teacher, and drives a valient and rides a motorbike. She knows all about women in rock, my bandbuddy. She suffered sexual abuse and still gets sexual harassment. Now I’m hearing a song, it ends and the rain rings out on a tin roof. A songwriter in the wilderness, a deer in the headlights. I have followed these divas, and tried to find reasons. There’s a song for all seasons.