Peter Yowie Poetry
You follow someone, and they end up leaving you hollow. The people you thought would be supportive end up being abortive, The New York bar where it all started for Lady Gaga are like the bars I frequent in Melbourne, notebook in hand. Fuck the facade, fuck the fear
You don’t have to dress up for Halloween Madonna, one look at you and I’m scared.
I’m not welcome in Trump’s America
Look at me, I’ve got a warm bed every night, then look at the homeless man living on the edge of the city. The salute I learnt in the Airforce is longest way up, shortest way down. I spent the weekend taking the homeless man for drinks in the park. I’m not physically able to solve his problems, and he can’t solve mine. Instead we sat at a picnic table by the river. Oh, the riddles of life.
During the day he sits on the street between the pub and the supermarket, a fallen life waiting for falling coins. I buy him a sandwich sometimes and I feel like a king then, doing the lord’s work. But giving money all the time to the homeless beggar just begs the question who’s helping me. The ex boxer turned butcher walks past and says God bless, lives in excess are in the windows of the hotel drinking pints of liquid gold. The homeless man smokes butts he picks up off the street. Cut throat citizens walk past and give him nothing.
Do what’s in your heart, said my neighbour, kindness is not a curse. He labours all day, sitting on the street like the suffering Buddha in a hoodie
We were like a couple of suckling puppies. My hand was on his crotch that was hard, I was on a mission to Mars.
Lounge lizards in heaven are watching the news unfold, a world racing towards annihilation, but I’m a poet in the centre of a lotus flower, in isolation.
Happy hour still happens even for a sober man. I was struck by lightning, inspired to write, addiction makes a great story. Through adversity, seeing angels. I saw jesus, I saw Jack kerouacs Doctor Sax.
There’s no stopping time, there’s no going back, the poem marches forward towards it’s reward, memorised by a schoolgirl, read at a funeral.
The house from hell on the corner, decorated with gargoyles and skulls, by the crossing where the lollipop man shepherds me across. I take my opiate, a dose of blue sunny skies, with an insatiable appetite for poetry, I find myself at the Cafe with coffee, toastie and open notebook. Maybe the devil will offer me a deal, maybe with God it’s not a level playing field.
Is Lady gaga the energizer bunny, soft, pink flesh and sunglasses or is she a fairy who leads me out of the forest, singing with her honest songs because we’re all a little lost?
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.
