Peter Yowie Poetry
she leaves me badmouthing the city with my beatbox, she leaves me begging for my big break, that’s exactly what Madonna does. Maybe I’ll get some finger lickng chicken from the colonel and some more beers. Upon Madonna’s death a voice will be heard saying, well she made a lot of tacky choices in her life, but she gave us all a sticky kind of love.
I’ll do it all by myself because I’m an underground artist, without the help of little miss popularity, aka Madonna. I forget all about algorithms on the internet, I come from the days of ribbons on my typewriter.
lady gaga, goddess of love, take me to your vagina, there’s a silver lining behind every cloud, there’s love to be found, you really stand out in a crowd, lady of luxury and necessity.
A magpie sells me some summer shade, I sit with him for some minutes and the children play. Everytime I write I create world’s. I’m as much of a failure as walt Whitman.
mental illness, then the stillness, tears on the windowsill and angels in disguise. I sit in the park reading a book, I bait the sun on a hook. I make no money from my poetry. I don’t fit into society. My poetry is not selling, you watch me turn to a life of crime.
music and art effects us all down to our charkras. My bed is a kind of life raft, but not before I soak in a hot bath and smoke a joint, my androgynous body, my erogenous zones, my knowledge of good and evil. There’s a girl outside my window, all catholic conscience and Italian leather shoes, all brown hair and colour eyes. She’s as sensible as the sunrise.
sitting in the sun, life is a shining gun aimed at the young, I feel like an orphan picked up by a family of free-wheeling dolphins. If you never read my writing, you’re not being invited into my soul. Five years on hormones and some relationships didn’t survive. You’re born into your family and every rose has its thorn, but my chosen family is non binary. Dorothy returned home but the journey had changed her
I wish I could see things objectively, but she’s the object of my desire, singing in the unrequited choir. It takes some balls to walk beside this Cinderella, the flashing lights that never mellow, a backstage pass to the masochistic arts. She sweats under all that stage make-up and the lights literally eat it from her face, to do it all again the next night. The yellow bellied jazz snaps hungrily at us. The full moon faces, the traces of a saxophone, brass birds of paradise. The jazz is like a virus gripping me in a fever. Saturday night’s last judgement, the angel and his trumpet like shadows on strings, rings on his fat fingers until the music gives him wings. It’s hot on the heels of my soul, it’s a childhood sweetheart, she’s the jazz singer, Sunday morning dawns and she’s the mass I take
sinead O’Connor died this week, and jesus lies in a coma, you work hard at happiness but shit happens. And all I got when I said that in the supermarket was blank stares
