Peter Yowie Poetry
An American woman on the tram talking with her friend about setting a trap for a mouse, you use chocolate not cheese. I’d just been at the Hive shopping centre, shopping for my addictions, a deal in my pocket, a six pack of beer. But they were a couple of ladies in laughter trying to live happily ever after.
The truth is I have to change, it’s like a light bulb hangs in my soul. There’s shivers on the surface of the river and I’m delivered from another night of drinking. In the thinking man’s Cafe I sink back a coffee with a copy of a book. I think the great poets have a name for it throughout history, it’s called publish or perish.
Gym bodies, working off our sins. She flashes me a smile, I catch it and ride it all the way to the shore. Sore muscles, hustle at the next machine, the sweat pours. Testosterone and desperation have led me here.
She came out of the closet like a gift from the Goddess, on hormone replacement therapy, in her high heels, taking feminine rights and peppermints. She leads men to question their masculinity and Gods to question their divinity. All roads lead to the cover of Vogue
In the Blood Orange Cafe in Auburn, where loyalty pays. Tyrannosaurus Rex of a train over the bridge, a lady takes breakfast with a Beagle
Magpies on the roof, the jazz band surrounds the singer, she’s dressed in white and everyone gets a piece of wedding cake- the song that never goes away, is there when you wake.
She’ll call you a motherfucker and you’ll tuck it between your legs and call her your queen.
A unicorn followed me home from the Bowie tribute band and after that things were never the same. Follow your heart.
Glitter eyeshadow, kissable lipstick, unmissable shows every night. Go careful with the lady she can be a real handful. We’re little ugly ducklings following the white Swan and underneath those designer clothes is a Bowie tattoo. With burning eyes, she sung songs, jazz is not for the lazy, I was a refugee, she was my statue of liberty.
