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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

A day in the life in Queensland

we all have a voice inside us, a heart behind velvet ropes. Sometimes life is a clash of the titans standing at the supermarket checkout. There’s a hot, record breaking sun in the sky. Seek your fortune on the Gold Coast. Twice a year I leave the metropolis and come to paradise. Last day in my cousins garden, she shouts me a bud of marijuana. Water lillies are a caterpillars dinner, red cordalites, frangipanis that were my aunt’s favourite flower, plants changing colour like a chameleon, camouflaging,. Waterfalls behind tortoiseshell sunglasses, an arm around the mountains, that’s what family is

writing poems around in circles I go. Tonight I talked to the lady chooks, there’s no one to take the drink out of my hand. I watch sunset in the jacaranda tree. There was a man on the train with a ring on his left hand, there was a woman with flowers on her lap, they were probably going home to someone, but me I’m a lonely drunk.


I’m high up, tightrope walking on a thin line of credit. All the artist’s are acting like a bunch of rich, spoilt kids. I drink a can of wild boar bourbon in the park and at home I listen to music on my beatbox, weetbix and Bowie for breakfast, daddy is a tyrannosaurus Rex. River of life, giver of breath. I walk past rose gardens on my way to the bottleshop. Cloudy skies and the human psyche.

dreams, themes and schemes, that’s what the psychic told me was in my head, the unread poet. It’s another cosmopolitan day in Melbourne, Neapolitan icecream skies. There’s bait at the end of a line of poetry to catch the wishes in your heart.

like a bull rushes at a matador, a poet rushes at his metaphors, it’s between man and beast, the crimson beats of a poet, with dust at his feet. Animal instinct, talent is extinct.

I put all my heart and soul into becoming a man who loves women, but there’s always some genius and his law of bisexuality

The drug dealer

last night’s drug dealer on the street corner had something that would knock my socks off and the further I walked away from him the lower the price became. With the glint of foil came the spoils of the underworld. He was just another fallen angel selling danger. I’ve already been down the rabbit hole and I don’t plan on going down it again.

you all know my heart doc marten shoes, they’re my dress shoes, they’re my Dorothy shoes, but I’m about to land myself a pair of shit kicking boots

A poem a day keeps the doctor away, a possum on the roof keeps the neighbours awake, self compassion never goes out of fashion. Tonight someone handed me a green ghost, a one hundred dollar note and I eloped with whisky and dope. I offered him my sofa to crash on but he disappeared back to the backpackers, leaving behind a black canvas bag and pair of doc marten boots. He wants to take a look at the suits in men’s suit warehouse. Sometimes it’s brute force, sometimes it’s tender mercies.