Happy hour still happens even for a sober man. I was struck by lightning, inspired to write, addiction makes a great story. Through adversity, seeing angels. I saw jesus, I saw Jack kerouacs Doctor Sax.
Peter Yowie Poetry
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
Happy hour still happens even for a sober man. I was struck by lightning, inspired to write, addiction makes a great story. Through adversity, seeing angels. I saw jesus, I saw Jack kerouacs Doctor Sax.
There’s no stopping time, there’s no going back, the poem marches forward towards it’s reward, memorised by a schoolgirl, read at a funeral.
The house from hell on the corner, decorated with gargoyles and skulls, by the crossing where the lollipop man shepherds me across. I take my opiate, a dose of blue sunny skies, with an insatiable appetite for poetry, I find myself at the Cafe with coffee, toastie and open notebook. Maybe the devil will offer me a deal, maybe with God it’s not a level playing field.
Is Lady gaga the energizer bunny, soft, pink flesh and sunglasses or is she a fairy who leads me out of the forest, singing with her honest songs because we’re all a little lost?
An American woman on the tram talking with her friend about setting a trap for a mouse, you use chocolate not cheese. I’d just been at the Hive shopping centre, shopping for my addictions, a deal in my pocket, a six pack of beer. But they were a couple of ladies in laughter trying to live happily ever after.
The truth is I have to change, it’s like a light bulb hangs in my soul. There’s shivers on the surface of the river and I’m delivered from another night of drinking. In the thinking man’s Cafe I sink back a coffee with a copy of a book. I think the great poets have a name for it throughout history, it’s called publish or perish.
Gym bodies, working off our sins. She flashes me a smile, I catch it and ride it all the way to the shore. Sore muscles, hustle at the next machine, the sweat pours. Testosterone and desperation have led me here.
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