Peter Yowie Poetry
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
Queen Betty, bless me with a bit of money and maybe I’ll have you hanging over my bed. In the masonic hall when I cast my vote, there was Queen Betty. I’ve always taken a responsible view with my vote, because there’s plenty of countries denied a democratic vote, with a little pencil, a cardboard booth, uncovering the rocks until the truth comes out with the lizard politicians.
I come down to the shopping centre to write poems, there’s poems in the prize machine. I can hear the shopkeepers counting their money, girls in the hair salon and I’ve got the talent to look good. I’m hoodwinked. There’s buzz cuts in the salon, bastards at the bank. I see frankie, just another citizen of the lucky country taking a touchdown with his bags of shopping. I spill my guts to him, I’ve got plans to go to America and eat record hot dogs, and be a hot shot or a greedy guts. Elvis was kind of before my time, but seeing the Elvis movie yesterday, geez it really makes you feel like you want to go to graceland.
I’M lonely and I don’t know if there is a cure. From behind velvet ropes in my mother’s womb to my marble tomb. Saturday morning cartoons and popular tunes. I drink the loneliness into submission and when my mother talks to me I remember the young woman she was.
My friend is back in town, I wait for him in the cafe. He’s a year into teaching, poetry is reaching out to him
When my friend and I sit outside, the air is cold, and there are flecks of grey in his hair
My friend and I engage in tall talk over small lattes, his with almond milk. My friend is wearing a very Melbourne coat, he’s got new glasses, he’s marking young minds-
Sunrise
Horizons
The thing about my friend is he always gave me hope, from Jesuit mass together in the Madonna office to the time he was in the cafe with an American poetry book, handing it to me hook, line and sinker
My friend is a thinker
He’ s a follower of Jesus, that lizard in the desert, of spine tingling Saints in the Cathedral
Nora stops to say hello, she’s like underwater coral in the reef with her new hairdo, schools of fish, the school holidays have brought my friend back to me.
I just bought the natural blonde and not the pure blonde beers at aldis where it was half the price, because I don’t want to be ripped off by these blondes anymore. If anyone else flashed their titties and sung bad karoke in a new York bar we wouldn’t be lining up for it, but it’s Madonna where a bit of honey helps me swallow the bad medicine
Night time, bedside fan on even in winter, I’ve sucked plenty of mouths, a lot of my girlfriends flew south, I buy myself flowers.
Being a poet like I am, sometimes it feels like a cruel joke. I wake up to a late breakfast with the Gods and the yolk of the sun and the folks going about their lives. Neighbours who smoke their drugs and sweep their problems under the rug. You all treat John Lennon like a God, not like the man he was. You all call him a man of peace, yet in his younger days he was actually quite aggressive. You wouldn’t want to be at the end of john Lennon’s wit because it was like a knife blade. You wouldn’t want to be in John Lennon’s bad books. If you find a guru, you wake up to being human.
