Peter Yowie Posts

with a movie ticket to Bowies moonage daydream, I wait in the lounge, alone with strangers. It’s a secret pleasure of mine to see a movie on my own. I watch a ballerina dance with her wine glass. So give me a dollar of your money and a minute of your time. A moonage daydream and I begin to believe in my dreams. What seemed impossible in my life no longer does. Poets don’t have thick skins, we absorb everything, from a casual conversation to a phd thesis, from a house plants photosynthesis to a child’s innocence. Observations written down in a notebook, a satellite capturing the images of unknown worlds. On the red carpet I saw the trail of blood from everyone who’s gone before and lost their lives. A long time ago David Bowie came to me in a dream and told me to call him dada, an art movement of painters and poets and an affectionate name for papa.

I’ve had certain memories totally obliterated from my life, and I found my capacity in my life was only for growing things, words, because according to God that’s how the world began, genesis to revelation, genius to institution

Being a poet is a real struggle and sometimes I just feel like giving up. I’m drinking everyday and it’s affecting my thinking, watching the neighbourhood turn into a battleground. I prayed to my angels for healing, that they’ll take that poison right out of my hand. I come down to the undone river and watch a rebel kayak er. I’ve seen alcohol ruin my father, yet they’re so friendly at the bottleshop when they sell it to me. I really need something good to happen in my life. There’s a bandaid over my hangover every morning and my poetry seems like a foreign language and no one understands me. A cold wind, spots of rain, a spotted dalmatian dog, 5 minutes from the city, this is eternity.

I talk to the cowboy swinging down the alley without his hat or gun, he asks me about the voices, there’s sawdust on the ground and my head’s in a vice, I tell him I drink too much, the city beehive of apartment blocks is around us. Wake up and smell the psychosis.

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