Peter Yowie Poetry
summer storms, sober times, the cool change in me has swept through. All the days of drinking stretched out like a relentless desert and all the people who deserted me. It hurt me. I flirted with danger, I went home with strangers. Toxic intoxication. Alcoholic fathers and absent mothers. Drinking the days away, pawning the devil’s pinky ring. But this Christmas I unwrap the present moment and all of me is there.
I won’t get frightened by the Madonna under the bed, the stiletto in the back, flashback to a childhood memory, the ballerina I busted on my sister’s jewellery box.
The toothpick crowds of new York in the pinstripe hours are slim pickings for a poet. I’m either at the bottom of the Hudson river in concrete boots or reflected in a mirrored ceiling after love has it’s way with me.
I’m a Madonna magazine writer who writes for God, and boy toy socks in the Madonna shop is just the realisation that she’s been playing with me. Madonna prays before every show but it feels like the glow of hypocrisy, Dorothy.
