Homeless messiah who gets so high he thinks he’s in heaven, on the hard streets, under a soft sky, the bruised clouds, the empty hours. Take shelter under a random smile. It’s gold rush city and history spits in the streets. The homeless, the suffering artists, the shat on statues, the coins in a hat. The system is broken, wisdom is just a token offering. Someone yells, take a shower brother or I’ll throw you in the river Yarra.
Peter Yowie Poetry
