In the 239-bus

a ride for holding on

by the seat of one’s pants.

The smell of cabbage soup

kiosk type wrapped food

of rancid body odours.

Hopping along in a rhythmic

Hancock-bounce over grey

cobblestones of a Viennese

road design tradition.

At Holy City’s stop the wale of

the sickened bus spews out

its entire content.

People rush like a shoal of fish

gape-mouthed into the open

past casual news stands

the familiar homeless paper


The sound of knocking shoes

murmuring conversation

singing of a female refugee

echoes through the access

tunnel connecting to the trains.

Catching the next U4 train to

the city’s core many will rush

Time: Two minutes to take-off.

At last jockeying past the slow

walkers has ended

finding a red seat in traveling

direction of this train

noting down poetic ideas into

the red moleskine notebook.

For a Saturday lunchtime enough

passengers travel

while the poet misses his usual

yoghurt treat from Nica

more so to study new angles

for her portrait

she’d asked for cautiously.

Today’s a solo visit at boesner’s

artist requisite supermarket

where one finds everything

needed to express one’s own art

but let the postman deliver the

yearly comprehensive catalogue

as Mona has encouraged the

artist who lives close to the poet’s


A fortnight ago she left the party

too early and the artist found

himself as a lost soul drowning

in the red cabernet-sea of loneliness

where he’d lost his conscious to

reality and painted with his soul.

He fell from the heavens of solitude

like a stone –

That’s how Icarus must have felt –

Falling onto a sea made of

tempered glass.




my first hymn

the line of horizon flashed

so visible/ so dense and


a dream of her spiky hair

on a face of sculpted marble

my first hymn.jpgsmooth to the touch

changing from an inner

fluorescent glow

her lips opened for

a tongue tip slide all over

my face/ seeking my lips

in return

penetrating the forecourts

of my soul

dancing about this obelisk

tattooed with symbols of

our lives we peeled off to

bring them all to life:

faces so real/ yet crystallized

fingers splayed and probing

yet so moderately cool

legs folding and clasping

yet so close to real skin –

I believed her want and

passion filled my loins

in spite/ i could have been

fooled/ i pressed back onto

her and at my height of joy

and pleasure dived into her

opening soul that swallowed

me up.

This my first hymn.




i’m fascinated by faces

facial expressions

i watch them undetected

for the real self

that is slowly emerging

if one is patient

sense the happy one/the

radiant/the disappointed/

the long face/the angry/

the sweet italian girl’s face

serving with a genuine


in her tone of voice.

she wouldn’t serve me a


being over-nuked in the


so one would burn one’s

lips and tongue

like the hateful woman

with a freezing vibe

so i’m looking forward to

be served by my favourite


always serving me great

well-prepped food

besides. besides.

the young woman

holistically pleasant with

good looks

inclusive good manners

will win the contest of all

serving lasses for me

not the bolshie

pushing for attention.


today mon came and she

made my day

i had once a painting

dedicated for her

but now after a few years

i wasn’t able to find it.

search. search for mon’s

superb painting.




the dark muse

sister of the muse of


prismatic spectral play

of pleasant dreams

in her land’s ivory tower

where her dark sister has

been fended off

from entering her domain

her light as strong

even shadows will flee

their spine stripped

to their calcified lies

with continual pain –

she flees with the winged

help of insects

who’ll grow colourful

leafy spots around

her lithe body

while her other life

extends a delicate finely

spun web

of a balancing act

in the trapeze of well-

known spheres –

light-lady will draw

from her dark-sister

all goods she had to


for pirate forces:

clothing/furnished home/

creative work/ but most


her luminescent body of

crystalline shine

will blend out all tragic


of human life.



love below the sea III

throw yourself into the

cretan sea

the med’s inky blue

use your imagination


from those muses

will pose for the artist –

black granite snakehead

emerald eyed bejewelled

golden frog

lots of kisses

but no standard prince

appeared –

teddy bear sleeps in the

shade of a sycamore tree

the artist in a blue dive

his muse a cousin of the

evasive nereids

blows him full of air

like efflorescent balloons

they float in love

below a sea of dreams

now and then

a/c issues a piece of herself

striptease of her artist’s

precious being

some days they meet in

the med’s magical blue


symposium of grand art.



nature will look after itself

years back he had reason

to smile

with his black beret

pinned on memories in tin

he lived on

then he met the owners of

a gallery

where his help was of


life embedded in the taste

of nourishing pickings

until his friend disappeared

to lands in the north

and shops were locked-up

loss of income all around

joie du vivre dimmed its


darkness pushed its angels

of attack

aggression turned its other


nobody saw before

but even in the harshest


a flower would grow

between rocky outcrops

inspiring the poet for hope

nature will look after itself

and man?






every artist will eventually

be recognized with praise

of being genuine

or condemned by the ignorant

the hoi-polloi of a lesser mind.

as mark rothko/painter/writes:

“a picture lives by


expanding and quickening

in the eyes of the sensitive


it dies by the same token.

It is therefore risky

to send it out into the world.

how often it must be impaired

by the eyes of the unfeeling

and the cruelty of the


the artist lives by his/her muse

in whose garden

he or she grows images of

his or her design.

all great art’s fount is thus

thru’ the spirit of a muse:

here the priestess of a temple

there the ritual of

sacred creation

fusion –

a tremendous earth-shattering

inner-most explosion –

thus the birth of great art.





the world around the artist‘s


has quietened down


businesses closed

some food shops remain

partly opened

the hum of everyday life

has faded

like the wintry skies

new state regulations

recall the curfew of 1944

somebody remarked

only artists keep comm’s


support each other like


thrive with great works

of art

any lockdown of public life

could never lock down

neither artists creativity

nor their fruitful and lively

communication –

all is in flux.

artists create in solitude

but we’ll never be overcome

or being conquered

by any curfew

however toned-down

words of so-called leaders

will gloss-over these presently

unfortunate times

with wash-over speeches

to nullify critical voices of

human beings –


your ideas.




friday 13 –

for too many a taboo

of engaging in any outdoor

activities/even stay inside

but to some even in their bed

all day

consider it a safe heaven.

as one observer of this day 13

that fell on a friday

riddled by his phobia of

superstition: bad things will

happen on such a day/ he said

not for the artist

who was born in his grandpa’s

house/at number 13.

which he had built himself and

he was not superstitious

while some hotels don’t feature

a floor thirteen.

however/the poet had a dialog

of interest with the artist

who cleaned-up the highly

polished polyurethane surfaces

of the panelled wall decorations

where his paintings were

attached by double-tape

for nine months –

imagine as long as a pregnancy

would normally take –

but for an exhibition a record

especially for a not yet well-known

artist to the viennese society.

on friday 13th the last procedure

of removing all exhibited pieces

of paintings

was a fine solo finnisage.





the saturday before the second

lockdown – people queue in shops

for gardening items/hobby builders/

gourmets have a last taste of their

favourite dish in their preferred

ambient setting.

a/ my neighbour walks with me

to the obi-supermarket

while i’ll better get my documents

to mrs c

obtain a red cross pass for low-income

groups/artists/the elderly/the jobless

crowds/the hungry/

while on the other hand

supermarkets throw away tons of food.

here/at the social-market

are only a few items of food displayed:

long lasting low fat milk/tin foods/

carnival-donuts filled with apricot

marmalade/ricotta/chocolate ginger


well/we’ll survive the second lockdown

for how long it’ll last nobody knows

but let’s focus on creative work

and forget the exit ban.

the poet and the artist don’t mind

the stricter general regulations

that much

don’t they work in a state of recluse

most of their times?





heute am zweiten tag –

today on the second day

of taking down my art from

the souterrain walls at zanoni

i finished at 14:00

my three larger canvasses –

part of the apollo frieze –

packed into a bubble-foil sheet

and rolled together safely

now then: mon phoned back

to report being in good health

and even ready to help me.

however: due to good logistics –

i/ who had waited for eighty

years to do this –

according to the pugilist/designer/

successful photographer/

have been determined to do it

all by my own

save for transporting 21 frames

of the smaller artworks

the demountable wooden frames

for the larger canvases/however/

it’ll be probably done by friday

the thirteenth day of november.

there’s no hurry now

neither has it been for 8 and ½


nor for disassembling or a finnissage/


i had my own finnisage – solo unico.