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.
Peter Yowie Poetry
Peter Yowie Poetry
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.
You can’t rob the heart of a tattooed girl with a big, brown dog. The world asks how can you be in love with someone you’ve never met, but I met her in my dreams.
summer storms, sober times, the cool change in me has swept through. All the days of drinking stretched out like a relentless desert and all the people who deserted me. It hurt me. I flirted with danger, I went home with strangers. Toxic intoxication. Alcoholic fathers and absent mothers. Drinking the days away, pawning the devil’s pinky ring. But this Christmas I unwrap the present moment and all of me is there.
I won’t get frightened by the Madonna under the bed, the stiletto in the back, flashback to a childhood memory, the ballerina I busted on my sister’s jewellery box.
The toothpick crowds of new York in the pinstripe hours are slim pickings for a poet. I’m either at the bottom of the Hudson river in concrete boots or reflected in a mirrored ceiling after love has it’s way with me.
I’m a Madonna magazine writer who writes for God, and boy toy socks in the Madonna shop is just the realisation that she’s been playing with me. Madonna prays before every show but it feels like the glow of hypocrisy, Dorothy.