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.
Peter Yowie Poetry
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
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.
God gave me a big boost of estrogen, eggs for breakfast, and a lady. She smells like a perfume shop, walking down the street they stop to look twice,loves gift of warm, sweet eyes. This is a lady and I want to be the words to her songs.
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
my voice hits the walls and my words shatter into a thousand pieces, I’m in the cocoon for months and years at a time, until the paper butterflies emerge. So purge yourself poet of the unnecessary urge to be famous, fame isn’t painless.
from St James Church last Sunday to coffee at a thousand blessings Cafe, it’s like the angels are showering me with blessings and I’d be a fool if I didn’t see it in my life, but I’m not a fool, I’m wise
everyday I read my poems I’m witness to them falling out the window and just smashing onto the ground into pieces, just like oneday I will. David bowies brother had schizophrenia and also fell out a window and smashed into pieces so who says it can’t happen to me
