Author: Peter Yowie

I put all my heart and soul into becoming a man who loves women, but there’s always some genius and his law of bisexuality

last night’s drug dealer on the street corner had something that would knock my socks off and the further I walked away from him the lower the price became. With the glint of foil came the spoils of the underworld. He was just another fallen angel selling danger. I’ve already been down the rabbit hole and I don’t plan on going down it again.

A poem a day keeps the doctor away, a possum on the roof keeps the neighbours awake, self compassion never goes out of fashion. Tonight someone handed me a green ghost, a one hundred dollar note and I eloped with whisky and dope. I offered him my sofa to crash on but he disappeared back to the backpackers, leaving behind a black canvas bag and pair of doc marten boots. He wants to take a look at the suits in men’s suit warehouse. Sometimes it’s brute force, sometimes it’s tender mercies.

lady gaga really ought to pour herself another glass of daddy’s girl wine in Cafe rich because guess what I found out about those whores in the candy club, if you pay them they’ll fuck you. Why don’t you just spank my sorry little ass. Resurrection at the liquor counter, it’ll give you whiskers mister, rose Turkish delight chocolate on the counter and other naughty pleasures. How long can a person stare at the brick wall of the flats next door. The intimacy of a ladies washing on the clothesline?

it’s over with Madonna, the long, hot summer when I was babysat by a radio, I wear my baseball halo

some raise the dead, others just raise bread, raise your consciousness and see where my words have led

with a movie ticket to Bowies moonage daydream, I wait in the lounge, alone with strangers. It’s a secret pleasure of mine to see a movie on my own. I watch a ballerina dance with her wine glass. So give me a dollar of your money and a minute of your time. A moonage daydream and I begin to believe in my dreams. What seemed impossible in my life no longer does. Poets don’t have thick skins, we absorb everything, from a casual conversation to a phd thesis, from a house plants photosynthesis to a child’s innocence. Observations written down in a notebook, a satellite capturing the images of unknown worlds. On the red carpet I saw the trail of blood from everyone who’s gone before and lost their lives. A long time ago David Bowie came to me in a dream and told me to call him dada, an art movement of painters and poets and an affectionate name for papa.