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Peter Yowie Posts

Natives of new York tell me it’s a party town, and with no social lubrication I’ll stick out like a sore thumb, the lights won’t be blurring, the pussy-cat in the window will stop purring. There I’ll be with the kings of the sandcastle in a bar past my bedtime. Later that night I’ll catch the angel napping, swinging in a crescent moon while shit is happening.

Is Lady gaga the energizer bunny, soft, pink flesh and sunglasses or is she a fairy who leads me out of the forest, singing with her honest songs because we’re all a little lost?

An American woman on the tram talking with her friend about setting a trap for a mouse, you use chocolate not cheese. I’d just been at the Hive shopping centre, shopping for my addictions, a deal in my pocket, a six pack of beer. But they were a couple of ladies in laughter trying to live happily ever after.

The truth is I have to change, it’s like a light bulb hangs in my soul. There’s shivers on the surface of the river and I’m delivered from another night of drinking. In the thinking man’s Cafe I sink back a coffee with a copy of a book. I think the great poets have a name for it throughout history, it’s called publish or perish.

Pop music sends me down the rabbit hole to Michael Jackson’s tea party, to the bearded lady, the queer and the weird. Ivy starts to grow on their iron gates of hate, stilettos and a superman Cape, a peck on the cheek from Madonna is like a moon in the window, like a wink from the Mona Lisa.

Gym bodies, working off our sins. She flashes me a smile, I catch it and ride it all the way to the shore. Sore muscles, hustle at the next machine, the sweat pours. Testosterone and desperation have led me here.

She came out of the closet like a gift from the Goddess, on hormone replacement therapy, in her high heels, taking feminine rights and peppermints. She leads men to question their masculinity and Gods to question their divinity. All roads lead to the cover of Vogue

In the Blood Orange Cafe in Auburn, where loyalty pays. Tyrannosaurus Rex of a train over the bridge, a lady takes breakfast with a Beagle

For Lady Gaga

What do you give the lady for her birthday that’s got everything? Flowers from the supermarket. There’s models on the catwalk and shadows on the footpath but I’m fashionably late for love. The silver lining after the storm, after the last man who left her, I pin back the wings of her kisses. Just when I gave up on love, she came. The enchanted child, healing fairy, her songs are her therapy and ours

Magpies on the roof, the jazz band surrounds the singer, she’s dressed in white and everyone gets a piece of wedding cake- the song that never goes away, is there when you wake.