Peter Yowie Poetry
dreams, themes and schemes, that’s what the psychic told me was in my head, the unread poet. It’s another cosmopolitan day in Melbourne, Neapolitan icecream skies. There’s bait at the end of a line of poetry to catch the wishes in your heart.
like a bull rushes at a matador, a poet rushes at his metaphors, it’s between man and beast, the crimson beats of a poet, with dust at his feet. Animal instinct, talent is extinct.
I put all my heart and soul into becoming a man who loves women, but there’s always some genius and his law of bisexuality
last night’s drug dealer on the street corner had something that would knock my socks off and the further I walked away from him the lower the price became. With the glint of foil came the spoils of the underworld. He was just another fallen angel selling danger. I’ve already been down the rabbit hole and I don’t plan on going down it again.
A poem a day keeps the doctor away, a possum on the roof keeps the neighbours awake, self compassion never goes out of fashion. Tonight someone handed me a green ghost, a one hundred dollar note and I eloped with whisky and dope. I offered him my sofa to crash on but he disappeared back to the backpackers, leaving behind a black canvas bag and pair of doc marten boots. He wants to take a look at the suits in men’s suit warehouse. Sometimes it’s brute force, sometimes it’s tender mercies.
lady gaga really ought to pour herself another glass of daddy’s girl wine in Cafe rich because guess what I found out about those whores in the candy club, if you pay them they’ll fuck you. Why don’t you just spank my sorry little ass. Resurrection at the liquor counter, it’ll give you whiskers mister, rose Turkish delight chocolate on the counter and other naughty pleasures. How long can a person stare at the brick wall of the flats next door. The intimacy of a ladies washing on the clothesline?
