Peter Yowie Poetry
writing poems around in circles I go. Tonight I talked to the lady chooks, there’s no one to take the drink out of my hand. I watch sunset in the jacaranda tree. There was a man on the train with a ring on his left hand, there was a woman with flowers on her lap, they were probably going home to someone, but me I’m a lonely drunk.
I’m high up, tightrope walking on a thin line of credit. All the artist’s are acting like a bunch of rich, spoilt kids. I drink a can of wild boar bourbon in the park and at home I listen to music on my beatbox, weetbix and Bowie for breakfast, daddy is a tyrannosaurus Rex. River of life, giver of breath. I walk past rose gardens on my way to the bottleshop. Cloudy skies and the human psyche.
