Author: Peter Yowie

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.

I’ve had certain memories totally obliterated from my life, and I found my capacity in my life was only for growing things, words, because according to God that’s how the world began, genesis to revelation, genius to institution

Being a poet is a real struggle and sometimes I just feel like giving up. I’m drinking everyday and it’s affecting my thinking, watching the neighbourhood turn into a battleground. I prayed to my angels for healing, that they’ll take that poison right out of my hand. I come down to the undone river and watch a rebel kayak er. I’ve seen alcohol ruin my father, yet they’re so friendly at the bottleshop when they sell it to me. I really need something good to happen in my life. There’s a bandaid over my hangover every morning and my poetry seems like a foreign language and no one understands me. A cold wind, spots of rain, a spotted dalmatian dog, 5 minutes from the city, this is eternity.