Peter Yowie Poetry
I don’t care anymore about lady gaga picking up another grammy, or visiting her granny, just put me at a table full of trannies and I’ll be alright. Handshake or hand sanny, I was always quite handy with my right hand. A bunch of free bananas from the supermarket last night and pipes of marijuana and walking in the rain that gets you wet. I write poetry because it entertains me . I’m not another nitwit on tik tok with a song that will be forgotten by tomorrow.
I have sat smoking pipes in a transgender woman’s apartment at the beginning of her transition and it has felt like prison, I have written stories called Lucy in the sky with hormones, and it was those ladies, and those babies born with a dick who actually showed me, born without one. All the wars started over a giant dick, all the laws broken, everything unspoken at the family table.
I watched some wretched woman getting pills off her dealer, but it just is what it is, people being people and it’s what moves the city. My angels tell me all the time, if life is messing with your head, try counting your blessings.
is the post menopausal Madonna making headlines again posing in the nude? These are marsupials with kids in their pouch, and we were just fucking on the couch.
Madonna/mikala, I really don’t care what the fuck your name is love, you’re just another queer chick, as long as you’re paying by credit card in good times restaurant .
as that transgender woman mikala, Madonna is always getting the same thing, that she’s a bit of a bloke
it’s just like the vampires of new York, only it’s a table full of trannies in Melbourne and if we suck a little saliva, we suck a little come, what difference does it make if we suck your blood, God fearing one
written on the tram shelter wall is stand for Ukraine and a giant dick. What does this mean, the war was created by a giant dick
Here comes a trio of little boys all in blue coats, sure I have neon dreams about new York, here comes that Leo in Lycra, here comes the hero of his own life story
A last joint by the river, by the brown water, the city gossip. I woke up feeling like a failure, but I steal a moment of serenity, a stranger’s footsteps, I drink my Tennessee whiskey. At home all day and night I hear the planes, and the sound of their engines is like tunes in my ears. Sometimes there’s not a soul to be had in Flockhart reserve. I do get lonely and poetry keeps me company. A white concrete tower in the distance, a ten minute walk to the Terminus Hotel. That’s how I like my marijuana, on the go. At MK media office, I’m just looking at the picture, two guys in suits and a dog.
God loves a cheerful giver, don’t damage your liver. I went down to the hair salon and got my lip pierced. Among the rockstar strong hold hair fudge, a sharp pain followed by a stud through the lip, so spit it out poet because words don’t have to be pretty. The body piercer wore doc marten boots and when she put her needle through my lip her face was so close to mine we could have kissed. In a modern day shopping centre, Roman Saxons in an ancient city.
