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
Dont judge a lover under the covers, valentines day red roses and blue skies. 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 the lady she can be a real handful. We’re little ugly ducklings following the white Swan and underneath those designer clothes is a Bowie tattoo. With burning eyes, she sung songs, jazz is not for the lazy, I was a refugee, she was my statue of liberty.
You can’t rob the heart of a tattooed girl with a big, brown dog. The world asks how can you be in love with someone you’ve never met, but I met her in my dreams.
summer storms, sober times, the cool change in me has swept through. All the days of drinking stretched out like a relentless desert and all the people who deserted me. It hurt me. I flirted with danger, I went home with strangers. Toxic intoxication. Alcoholic fathers and absent mothers. Drinking the days away, pawning the devil’s pinky ring. But this Christmas I unwrap the present moment and all of me is there.
if you want to get down to the nitty gritty of it, new York city was sold by the native Americans for probably about $16.
I won’t get frightened by the Madonna under the bed, the stiletto in the back, flashback to a childhood memory, the ballerina I busted on my sister’s jewellery box.
The toothpick crowds of new York in the pinstripe hours are slim pickings for a poet. I’m either at the bottom of the Hudson river in concrete boots or reflected in a mirrored ceiling after love has it’s way with me.
I’m a Madonna magazine writer who writes for God, and boy toy socks in the Madonna shop is just the realisation that she’s been playing with me. Madonna prays before every show but it feels like the glow of hypocrisy, Dorothy.
a schooner in the corner hotel, sooner or later my luck will change. Upstairs in a windows seat, the heat rises from the street. Well it was always about the poetry and never the sobriety. I see green men walking across the street. It’s lunch hour in the rush hour and I fall in lust with barmaids and jazz singers. I don’t believe in love, I’m a hopeless romantic on board the titanic, but I believe in electric guitar riffs and sniffs in the bathroom.
there’s a black man walking with his two black Labradors, he’s not blind but blindness can be a blessing. White kids on their bicycles on the way to highschool, they’re still young and youth can be a blessing, messy as it is. The neighbourhood, last night’s tail of a blazing comet, I walk the trail of the honest, workers with their loyal dog in the back of a truck, trams on a two track recorder. The rooming house poet doesn’t rock the boat.
Madonna is a complicated woman but she’s a shapeshifter. She calls a good man an oxymoron which surprises me since she believes in jesus and reads James Baldwin.
she leaves me badmouthing the city with my beatbox, she leaves me begging for my big break, that’s exactly what Madonna does. Maybe I’ll get some finger lickng chicken from the colonel and some more beers. Upon Madonna’s death a voice will be heard saying, well she made a lot of tacky choices in her life, but she gave us all a sticky kind of love.
