Author: Peter Yowie

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.

A unicorn followed me home from the Bowie tribute band and after that things were never the same. Follow your heart.

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.

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.

I’ll do it all by myself because I’m an underground artist, without the help of little miss popularity, aka Madonna. I forget all about algorithms on the internet, I come from the days of ribbons on my typewriter.