Peter Yowie Poetry
sitting in the sun, life is a shining gun aimed at the young, I feel like an orphan picked up by a family of free-wheeling dolphins. If you never read my writing, you’re not being invited into my soul. Five years on hormones and some relationships didn’t survive. You’re born into your family and every rose has its thorn, but my chosen family is non binary. Dorothy returned home but the journey had changed her
I wish I could see things objectively, but she’s the object of my desire, singing in the unrequited choir. It takes some balls to walk beside this Cinderella, the flashing lights that never mellow, a backstage pass to the masochistic arts. She sweats under all that stage make-up and the lights literally eat it from her face, to do it all again the next night. The yellow bellied jazz snaps hungrily at us. The full moon faces, the traces of a saxophone, brass birds of paradise. The jazz is like a virus gripping me in a fever. Saturday night’s last judgement, the angel and his trumpet like shadows on strings, rings on his fat fingers until the music gives him wings. It’s hot on the heels of my soul, it’s a childhood sweetheart, she’s the jazz singer, Sunday morning dawns and she’s the mass I take
