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.
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
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.
A unicorn followed me home from the Bowie tribute band and after that things were never the same. Follow your heart.
Potholes and tramstops, I’m waiting for God, empty shops, barley and hops are brewing, hip hop is in the blood, Asian ladies in flip flops with a yummy smile like a ham and cheese toastie, a Victorian writer drinks a pint in the Charles Dickens tavern, everyone looks for a safe haven. Weaned from the breast, the full moon, empty nest, Indian chief at the bar, his children are the stars in the sky, the homeless are hustling fir a little loose change on the dusty road outside, the cops are using their muscles on the vulnerable. cigars at the birth of my bastard fiction because no one recognises a poet with his notebook.
A drinking culture, new York kind of reaches out and grabs you like an eagle over the abyss, a goodnight kiss of a bourbon and cola and sold out youth. Madonna and her pointy bra but I come from a family where tits kill.
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.