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
you can’t rob the heart of a tattooed girl with a big, brown dog.
I endure a dark night of the soul, I encounter dark souls of the night. On the dance floor it’s the extinction of the dinosaurs. In the morning the rain falls and cheap conversation holds me in a lobster claw.
it’s the year of the dragon and last night I was breathing fire as I smoked a joint. In the kitchen was Andy warhol’s soup can art and in the bedroom skeletons in the closet. I closed my eyes before midnight, opened them as they lit the fireworks and watched angels on fire. This is the champagne pantomime. I’m being a poet because there is no other way to show it. Hot summer’s nights on the sweet, sticky streets that twist like licorice. The whisky drinkers in the sunset of another year, until my words fly south for the winter.
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’m a Madonna magazine writer who writes for God, and boy toy socks in the Madonna shop is just the realisation that Madonna has been playing with me. Rubbing her porky hands in glee because she’s making more money. Yet she says she believes in God and prays before every show. Feels like the glow of hypocrisy, Dorothy
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.
all the tourists with their cameras at the safari looking at the wild animals, the rich and famous and there goes a rare one, a Madonna with her clothes on, and a lady gaga after a nose job.
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.
