Peter Yowie Poetry
She came out of the closet like a gift from the Goddess, on hormone replacement therapy, in her high heels, taking feminine rights and peppermints. She leads men to question their masculinity and Gods to question their divinity. All roads lead to the cover of Vogue
In the Blood Orange Cafe in Auburn, where loyalty pays. Tyrannosaurus Rex of a train over the bridge, a lady takes breakfast with a Beagle
What do you give the lady for her birthday that’s got everything? Flowers from the supermarket. There’s models on the catwalk and shadows on the footpath but I’m fashionably late for love. The silver lining after the storm, after the last man who left her, I pin back the wings of her kisses. Just when I gave up on love, she came. The enchanted child, healing fairy, her songs are her therapy and ours
Magpies on the roof, the jazz band surrounds the singer, she’s dressed in white and everyone gets a piece of wedding cake- the song that never goes away, is there when you wake.
You limp wristed faggot, you forget the names they called you, you queer fuck. You hitched a ride on a 20th century truck, you buried your father in the backyard where the snow capped washing hung. On the telly Kermit the frog chased Miss Piggy but you just got grief for being different.
She’ll call you a motherfucker and you’ll tuck it between your legs and call her your queen.
Forced to be a human guinea pig in medical trials all so I can make the money to publish my poetry books. Meanwhile Lady Gaga keeps all Michael Jackson’s clothes in a climate controlled room. The world must be a joke.
A quiet night in the neighbourhood, take a lover home after too many drinks and tickle the sunrise. In my old tour tshirt of Tony and the lady. That lady loves me with a love that’s slippery, with a love that rings in your ears, she loves me like a movie scene. In the morning I write about her, from her fragile hello to being held. Cellophane tape bride and groom.
