tattoos the colour of their shadows, they sleep in the house next door quietly dreaming like a shirt drying in the breeze, on sugarfree weekends.
Peter Yowie Poetry
Peter Yowie Poetry
tattoos the colour of their shadows, they sleep in the house next door quietly dreaming like a shirt drying in the breeze, on sugarfree weekends.
hanging out in haunted houses, with old faces at the door. I was unconscious on xanax and I slept with my head on a stranger’s shoulder. They passed the pipe and exhaled the ghostly smoke. Two am I woke up, they were still passing the pipe. It was a hot night, the moon was dripping. Next morning I was with the gentle giant, but he could still swing a punch like an Australian man as we walked down the street to see if we could score, ‘that’s for ripping off bluey” he shouted and the buildings shook as we walked down the street.