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.





The second time the poet

Had been offered:

Soup/ Goat cheese/ and

Buttered bread/

Animated conversation/

A soft bed in a pleasant

Apartment’s surroundings.

He was enticed again to her

Welcome’s gentle mind

That touches his soul

Rouses him like cashmere

On bare skin

And liquefies his feelings.

Sipping green tea

His Muse had lit up the

Poet as an artist:

Selected Kinship

An impromptu composition

Of his innermost.

The antique clock chimes

Ticking away one’s life:

8 am. Time to dress well

In full physical tune

After an invigorating






The retreat lit up softly

Tired limbs

Creamed and stroked


By a fine spraying shower

The poet will relax in such

A short while

Viewed from his past Muse

A ghosting reflection

Behind a sheet of foldable


As if he’s perform his

Cleansing ritual for beloved

Ana –

Hooked on aesthetically pleasing

Body movements

Even with the sharp massaging

Spray’s masochistic enjoyment

Shower of needles

Hitting on accumulated intakes

Of chocolate and sweet bakeries.

Well – not that bad for all

Stimulations that’ll add up to


The poet excerpts from his

Personal devourer of all senses.





I’m falling like Icarus

From heavenly fields

With soul-constricting sensations

But this breathless flight would


Instantly caught in silken bed folds

Of an innermost-salvage

Giving the feeling of the lightness

Of an artist’s being

Only his caring Muse would so


At most times of soul-nagging


Life’s erring about

In its dark and hellfire labyrinth

Of its deepest innerness

All poets worth their creative


Could instantly relate to.





Heiner – Meeting of the geriatric

Friends for life: Like Kurti & Elisabeth

Or Liesl – remembrances as kids in

Camp Theresienstadt – incredible

Lives and becoming successful

The poet thought of Mischi & Jolli

When nobody could pronounce

His name – so the nickname.

Talking about a szüz girlfriend –

Times when we were in love and

Being their first paramour- we still

Treasure them

Never forgotten but the poet sore

About Mischi, who promised to be

Back last summer for our walk

In the Viennese Woods

As we used to as young lovers…

I waited – he told Mr T

She didn’t even send me Email

As she usually did.

Now then…I couldn’t find out

How she would have enjoyed sex

With me

After so many years – 49 years!

Would I not have looked forward

To this experience?

I’m sure we both would have.

What happened?

As she doesn’t answer her Email

I must assume she had given up

On intimacy

Or her digital world has taken

A beating. Pity. I don’t know

Anybody in Cologne who could

Act as a courier.





In this grey morning

Patience runs amok between

The players.

Mr T phones ÖBB

Departing Vienna 14:10 to


Then local train to Auschwitz

About 40 minutes

Total 4h/33minutes –

So called Sparschiene E 42,50

To book on the 22.01.2020 in

The morning. There and back?

All talked in German.

“Have you been?” Mr T asks the

Poet. “No,” he says, but I’ve seen

A few documentaries and the

Feature movies about that huge

Camp and killing machine

Besides the newest reports on

German TV.

B – The poet’s spouse phoned him

At 5 am to laud him

About his effort to bring her

Fresh sweet fruit and her favourite

Manzo arosto alla inglese.

Just to phone him again a few hours


And scold him about her present

Living conditions

As if it would be entirely his fault.

Well – the poet has sponsors

Who keep him going

At times he lives with them

Working at his art

In peace and quiet

B dislikes.

This’ the way at present.





It’s morning in Room 12

Where the poet is now

Lodging for nine days

Writing his journal of

Day to day happenings

To his feelings

Dropped into the room

Of his Muse.

She’ll accommodate him

Who knows what the

Peaceful retreat still has

In store for him.

But what will happen

When Fate decides

It’s time for a changin’?

The poet will carry on


And hopes for an ongoing

Friendship with his Muse.

For now the scenes he

Describes stand clear

Against the crystal-blue

Viennese air

With a red band of longing

Wafting joyfully ahead.




The aura of a writer‘s


A poet’s protective bubble

Has been given as a peek

Into a paradisiacal setting

Soul to soul

Eye to eye

Sensuality to sensuality

Kindred minds are blessed

With the creation of a

Magical spirit.

Has the poet’s euphoric past

Created a flashback of feelings?

Have alignments of universal


Touched the flow and boil

Of our blood?

A weighted New Year’s event

Of a myriad of past events

Where the triad of one’s being

Has not been only challenged

But gently brought to life

With this infusion

Into the artist’s universal vein.