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.





On the road down towards

The village church

The traffic roars thru’ the

Cobbled road

A mere ten minutes’ drive from

The capital.

The poet has fortunately

Recovered reasonably

To walk down the narrow


Light-headed though

But his unsteady gait tested

By instable atmospheric

Pressures of month May

That reminds of April rather

Many blame on the worldwide

Climatic changes.


The colourful team at the


Close to the village church

Is booming with hectic business

Three. Four. Five. Six pizzas

The gregarious chief produces

While the poet waits for his

Turn to collect his order.


Sliced pancake soup

Pepsi Cola.






Not the best of Fridays

With cold winds and a weak


Whose strength has been

Blown away somewhere South.

She’s in no good mood

Disliking her sneeze

Battling with a fever

That eats her up.

The poet feels like a gentle


Doused with a bucket

Of icy water.

Yet he brings good humour

To a scene of her Armageddon

That recurs more often

During the birth of spring.

Yet the poet will still let

His flow of words bubble

From his soul

Like an awakening spring

And flood his notebook

And cool his physical wounds.

Most good things come in threes

But so do the bad ones too.





What is it why I write?

Is it all our striving to leave behind

Something for future generations?

Is it then – as I have no kids –

The longing to be discovered

As a true artist

Who left behind creations of:




And a new way of addressing

A novel?



Besides adventure stories


And memoires

I’ll push on to challenge thoughts

Of contemporaries

That the traditional book is deceased.

Once already it had been stated:

Poetry is dead!

And I challenged it by writing more

And so do my colleagues

And fellow artists.

Long live the BOOK

Long live the art of writing.





Don’t be intoxicated

By the day of the week

In hearsay

Like Monday is blue

It all depends on you

Not the message from

The herd of men.

People claim anything

You should listen to


And sit down for a while

Reflect your innerness.

Think of life as your

Greatest gift

You have to look after

Every day from anew.

Nobody has to tell you

How you should live

Your life.

It’s a great day to look


To share the fruit of

Your talents

With somebody.




Check Up 2

Get up early.


Bus to H/S and ÖBB train

To KOR. Korneuburg.

Slow walk from the station

To the LKH-KOR. The hospital.


Coffee and ‘Apfelstrudel’.

Just as I finished – my call –

Room 8. Ambulant patients.

Dr S. smiles albeit she’s

Flat out busy.

Next the clamps from my

Knee wound removed.

I count 21.

Mü-Gu a descendant of

A family with a poet does

A sterling job.

Next to the x-ray dept.

Cabin 5.

Two quick snaps and back

Again to room 8

Where Dr S. notates my next

Appointment June fourth.

She is not happy that my

Physiotherapy only starts in

Two weeks’ time.

But then it’s out of our hands.

Yet I assure her I’ll come

To terms with my recovery

Step by step and week by week

Playing the motor rail’s

Movement machine.


Polar winds outside the hospital

Have cooled down the air


I phoned the landlord to keep

A bit of heating going

He’d switched off suddenly

During the night.

As sorry I feel about my spouse’s


I’m not able to do more about it

Than to support her as good as


Within my own physical restraints.

Takes recovery time to become

A fully fledged walker again.

A pub on the way.

I need some hot soup before

I face the polar air again.

Another morning at the LKH-KOR-





Verbal Violence

The poet woke from his world

Of creation

To the heavy murmuring of

His spouse

Who performs lately in constant


About her fate late in life

She calls undeserved.

Indeed the poet agrees

But little he can do other

Than support her toward

Her expenses

Battle with rising inflation

Having fallen on hard times.

The poet still describes his


His spouse considers useless

But then he takes her antics

With a generous pinch of


Yet verbal anger

Has driven his spouse

To subscribe mentally

To violence

Enjoying movies about

Al Capone.

Her behaviour escalates

Toward a serious split

Also in reality

She stated on many occasions.

And what about tomorrow?

Verbal violence to spiral?



Good News

Usually the saying goes:

No news is good news.


In the poet’s case that’s

Not relevant

As news is all around him

On the world stage of

Everyday life.

At times too many phone calls

Chase the poet

And thus he becomes irritated:

Friends he still accepts

But adverts and sales clerks –


In the stillness of cellular phones

And without the turbulent doing

Of kids

He may at least finish his latest

Stories about walking the periphery

Of Vienna’s fields and woods.

Good News.