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Author: Peter Yowie

I'm a poet who thrives in the wilderness, seven year career as a Madonna magazine writer, managed to secure a certificate in professional writing, started my life as an airforce cook

Don’t judge a lover under the covers. Valentines day’s red roses and blue skies, I collect shyness by the sea shore.


A breakfast at Tiffany’s moment in the Cafe with a little girl of fashion and a smile that ignites my passion. Whether it’s crucifixion or a casual conversation we carry on. It’s another Valentine’s day for a lonely heart and there’s war between Israel and Palestine and what’s mine is yours becomes what’s yours is mine.

Glitter eyeshadow, kissable lipstick, unmissable shows every night. Go careful with lady gaga, she can be a real handful. A little ugly ducking following the white Swan and underneath those designer clothes is a Bowie tattoo. Lady gaga is rock n rolls favourite daughter.

With burning eyes, she sung songs, jazz is not for the lazy. I was a refugee, she was my statue of liberty. The serendipity of love.

Hot summer nights when the stars drip, karma of the poets, I write the marijuana sonnets. The night is young and the moon is held in Mary’s arms. Red tailights, kangaroo drunks, every word of yesterday’s poets is a boat on the river of red wine. I unwind from history, one kiss sets me free from the mystery of love.

lady gaga and I had a big fight, she came back to the mansion and all her clothes were gone to the charity shop. I know how to hurt the lady, and that’s the thing about love.

The world asks how can you be in love with someone you’ve never met, but I met her in my dreams.

you can’t rob the heart of a tattooed girl with a big, brown dog.

I endure a dark night of the soul, I encounter dark souls of the night. On the dance floor it’s the extinction of the dinosaurs. In the morning the rain falls and cheap conversation holds me in a lobster claw.

it’s the year of the dragon and last night I was breathing fire as I smoked a joint. In the kitchen was Andy warhol’s soup can art and in the bedroom skeletons in the closet. I closed my eyes before midnight, opened them as they lit the fireworks and watched angels on fire. This is the champagne pantomime. I’m being a poet because there is no other way to show it. Hot summer’s nights on the sweet, sticky streets that twist like licorice. The whisky drinkers in the sunset of another year, until my words fly south for the winter.

sober times

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.

if you want to get down to the nitty gritty of it, new York city was sold by the native Americans for probably about $16.