Peter Yowie Posts

in the morning the lady puts on her mascara and eye-liner, her lipstick and rouge and suddenly she’s teetering on the edge of a made up empire with just the dreams in her head. I’m looking to step underneath your umbrella, Bella. Fellow artist making sense of our suffering by offering up a poem or a song. It’s been a long road and I’ve been lonely, like the pony express of the wild west, I wrote it all down, I wrestled with the drink and furious angel’s set fire to my paperwork

in the park, the warm sun is like the hug of an old friend I haven’t seen in a long time but the bee comes to close. I’m seeing little white dogs and the answers to all life’s problems. I watch a man wash his hands and arms at the water fountain like a surgeon, then pray like a Muslim. How can my friend say all people are bad? The trees are losing their leaves and I’ve lost years.

my phd in fantasy, my neon girlfriend, my warm blooded ectasy. I helped myself to a kiss and my beating heart skipped a beat. The carnivorous beast, the twisted sheets. Hurry up and come into my life lady, and if you come this weekend I’ll cook you some lentil spaghetti . My life is a rental movie

my voice hits the walls and my words shatter into a thousand pieces, I’m in the cocoon for months and years at a time, until the paper butterflies emerge. So purge yourself poet of the unnecessary urge to be famous, fame isn’t painless.

Mirror Mirror on the wall, who’s the fairest of them all, well it’s not you is it Madonna because none of this feels fair. I think I’ll write my own fairytale

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.

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

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.