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
music and art effects us all down to our charkras. My bed is a kind of life raft, but not before I soak in a hot bath and smoke a joint, my androgynous body, my erogenous zones, my knowledge of good and evil. There’s a girl outside my window, all catholic conscience and Italian leather shoes, all brown hair and colour eyes. She’s as sensible as the sunrise.
sitting in the sun, life is a shining gun aimed at the young, I feel like an orphan picked up by a family of free-wheeling dolphins. If you never read my writing, you’re not being invited into my soul. Five years on hormones and some relationships didn’t survive. You’re born into your family and every rose has its thorn, but my chosen family is non binary. Dorothy returned home but the journey had changed her
I wish I could see things objectively, but she’s the object of my desire, singing in the unrequited choir. It takes some balls to walk beside this Cinderella, the flashing lights that never mellow, a backstage pass to the masochistic arts. She sweats under all that stage make-up and the lights literally eat it from her face, to do it all again the next night. The yellow bellied jazz snaps hungrily at us. The full moon faces, the traces of a saxophone, brass birds of paradise. The jazz is like a virus gripping me in a fever. Saturday night’s last judgement, the angel and his trumpet like shadows on strings, rings on his fat fingers until the music gives him wings. It’s hot on the heels of my soul, it’s a childhood sweetheart, she’s the jazz singer, Sunday morning dawns and she’s the mass I take
sinead O’Connor died this week, and jesus lies in a coma, you work hard at happiness but shit happens. And all I got when I said that in the supermarket was blank stares
tattoos the colour of their shadows, they sleep in the house next door quietly dreaming like a shirt drying in the breeze, on sugarfree weekends.
hanging out in haunted houses, with old faces at the door. I was unconscious on xanax and I slept with my head on a stranger’s shoulder. They passed the pipe and exhaled the ghostly smoke. Two am I woke up, they were still passing the pipe. It was a hot night, the moon was dripping. Next morning I was with the gentle giant, but he could still swing a punch like an Australian man as we walked down the street to see if we could score, ‘that’s for ripping off bluey” he shouted and the buildings shook as we walked down the street.
in the morning the lady puts on her mascara and eye-liner, her lipstick and rouge and suddenly she’s teetering on the edge of a made up empire with just the dreams in her head. I’m looking to step underneath your umbrella, Bella. Fellow artist making sense of our suffering by offering up a poem or a song. It’s been a long road and I’ve been lonely, like the pony express of the wild west, I wrote it all down, I wrestled with the drink and furious angel’s set fire to my paperwork
in the park, the warm sun is like the hug of an old friend I haven’t seen in a long time but the bee comes to close. I’m seeing little white dogs and the answers to all life’s problems. I watch a man wash his hands and arms at the water fountain like a surgeon, then pray like a Muslim. How can my friend say all people are bad? The trees are losing their leaves and I’ve lost years.
my phd in fantasy, my neon girlfriend, my warm blooded ectasy. I helped myself to a kiss and my beating heart skipped a beat. The carnivorous beast, the twisted sheets. Hurry up and come into my life lady, and if you come this weekend I’ll cook you some lentil spaghetti . My life is a rental movie
