Peter Yowie Poetry
A relevant question to ask lady gaga is how many brain cells did she kill writing the song stupid love, I think it was a lot, a toast to the piano gods. There’s a space to fill on the top ten. Tonight it’s just me and heaven’s janitor. A pocket whisky in the park. The courage to ask a pretty girl out, illuminate her dark side. Sooner or later love comes and patience may be a virtue and pride may be a sin but if it hurts you it’s probably love
This drunk has turned into a monk. I’m sitting in the park on a hot summer day under the shade of a friendly tree. The homeless man is rugged up in a thick coat because to him the city is cold. Australia has the highest rates of drinking after Russia. The Buddha suffered to achieve his enlightenment. Whether the glass be half full or half empty or god’s wine is the lord’s blood, alcohol has served it’s purpose from the moment I ran away to join the circus. Holding hands with a jack Daniels Or a Johnnie walker, soon comes twilight, an inch of whisky in the sky.
poetry is death at pompeii or the buried pottery of an ancient civilisation, all roads lead to poems. I walk the river track, with a sign saying beware of snakes, I’m surrounded by white butterflies, embers from a hot sun, I’m surrounded by love, some of the creatures are hiding, my features are smiling, some of the trees are older than my grandparents.
The clouds are like shallow breaths and the sun rises in the east, I stayed up all night listening to jazz on the radio. I won’t go chasing history. On take-off and landing, leaving Queensland, I sat in between two men reading like I was the story and they were my bookends, some people make the most of long weekends. Onto the baked streets of the city in summer and the sand on the feet of beach fairys, I cool off in a melting ice popsicle tram. In a tin hat and corrugated iron skirt the city flirted
we all have a voice inside us, a heart behind velvet ropes. Sometimes life is a clash of the titans standing at the supermarket checkout. There’s a hot, record breaking sun in the sky. Seek your fortune on the Gold Coast. Twice a year I leave the metropolis and come to paradise. Last day in my cousins garden, she shouts me a bud of marijuana. Water lillies are a caterpillars dinner, red cordalites, frangipanis that were my aunt’s favourite flower, plants changing colour like a chameleon, camouflaging,. Waterfalls behind tortoiseshell sunglasses, an arm around the mountains, that’s what family is
writing poems around in circles I go. Tonight I talked to the lady chooks, there’s no one to take the drink out of my hand. I watch sunset in the jacaranda tree. There was a man on the train with a ring on his left hand, there was a woman with flowers on her lap, they were probably going home to someone, but me I’m a lonely drunk.
I’m high up, tightrope walking on a thin line of credit. All the artist’s are acting like a bunch of rich, spoilt kids. I drink a can of wild boar bourbon in the park and at home I listen to music on my beatbox, weetbix and Bowie for breakfast, daddy is a tyrannosaurus Rex. River of life, giver of breath. I walk past rose gardens on my way to the bottleshop. Cloudy skies and the human psyche.
dreams, themes and schemes, that’s what the psychic told me was in my head, the unread poet. It’s another cosmopolitan day in Melbourne, Neapolitan icecream skies. There’s bait at the end of a line of poetry to catch the wishes in your heart.
like a bull rushes at a matador, a poet rushes at his metaphors, it’s between man and beast, the crimson beats of a poet, with dust at his feet. Animal instinct, talent is extinct.
