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
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
Magpies on the roof, the jazz band surrounds the singer, she’s dressed in white and everyone gets a piece of wedding cake- the song that never goes away, is there when you wake.
She’ll call you a motherfucker and you’ll tuck it between your legs and call her your queen.
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, and the cops are using their muscles on the vulnerable.
