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.





How often have i seen her face?

I wished to draw from memory

Yet/ although we were poet

And muse/ artist and model

Love and lover/ collocutor and


We’ve spent not enough time


Due to economic constraints:

Here the poet/ there the lover

Wife and mother/ exceptional

Person/ talented and pretty

Good looking and sensual

Everything just perfect for

Being aesthetes/ perfect?

There’s never perfection but

A hard/ rocky ground to land upon

Once realty gushes dreamlands

Aside/ crying wolf/ shedding tears

Jumping off the ‘Sacred Rock’

Desperation ruled for a while

Yet/ the poet survived

By the skin of his teeth

With his last poem of his muse:

‘a tear for zol’.



zjg poetry’21.

wet spot

he has dreamed of a paradisiacal setting

in the early hoursof the night

waking to a shot of pain/ like a bolt/ the pain

of torture in his upper arms/ unbearable

take a tablet – he thought – then the

interrupted sleep in a two-hourly rhythm

gave him a high for autoeroticism

that put him immediately to sleep.

he hadn’t noticed how high his libidinal

pressure was/ only on a higher part of

the bedcovers/ he didn’t know that he

still could shoot that for/ almost a great

relief in this mode of pastinnoculation

to fight covid 19.

amazing circumstancesof attacks to his

delicate health: covid 19 innoculation

and pain in his joints/ upper arms

a reflux of arthritis?

enough to make a grown man cry.


at the weidling train station he saw

an advert flag

with a symbolical depiction of a

ten-leafed plant.


zjg poetry’21.


he has drawn for a long time:

from primary school to his birthday

at 81/ more than 75 years.

but then before covid 3 lockdown

his production increased/ like young

d’artagnon/ who wished to become

a king’s musketeer/ the artist worked

to become well-known in the

european lands

hving made his mark as an architect

in afrique du sud/ swaziland/ and the

cape peninsula.

his friend would come to his vernissage

at Zanoni’s

and so would ten admireres

nor worrysome catching a bug.

then ino would draw her calligraphic

circles and sponsor him for paper

and pen/ give him pointers/ free up

his imagination for a cycle

of black and white drawings to his

poetry he called: “Art & Love/ L & A

a new book in the making perhaps?

now then/ get going zz/ zjg/ zg

there’s still a treasure chest of ideas

to be realised

for all to see and read.



zjg poetry’ 21.

side effects

‘you shouldn’t blow up

your hands/ they are not

supposed to function as balloons’

said a concerned neighbour

who often takes the brunt

of scolding

about running the heating vessel’s

adjustments for the four tennant’s


in these four living units

transformed from cattle sheds

by an economizing county man.

the poet would defend him

glad that his neighbour cares about

reasonably tempered living conditions

as the poet/ unused to this climate

dwelled most of his life in the warm

climate of the southern hemisphere.

now then / this morn’ the huge dark

SUV of the owner appeared/ then

a pause/ his face eappeared/ he took off

in a hurry/ suddenly the warmth from

the centrally heated radiators vanished

quite evidently the owner had switched

the heating off. period.

perhaps tomorrow’s holiday sparked off

his autocratic deed. now then/ a dialogue

happened that never took place.

additionally pandemic innoculations

have a series of sideeffects that’ll affect

us all. sideeffects.stceffeedis


zjg poetry’21.

you need love

you need love –

the strokes of tenderness

a finger prying around

the foreskin of your soul

proding into your secrets

like a glove pulling over

your fingers you stretch out

and shape into spiky palm-leaves

works of art/ you freeze

at a sudden climax –

frozen crystal drops which fall

over ears and torso

mirrors of intimacies

reflecting thousandfold

one pleasure

of one moment

once when the soul has slipped

from the juicy folds of your

spread-out body’s

cinnamon dusted composition

an alluring and magnetic

all-encompassing feast of senses

of the seven muses

who play your timid presence

like a buoy floating on the sea

of greater lust

your wide open mouth a cry

that’s soundless

like a never-ending sigh –

you need love.


zjg poetry’10/’21

her one arm

every day/ early in the morn’

i push my feet against an

unseen rock

covered up to my thighs

in the mud of heavy thought

i struggle free with you my soul

and other half

that gives me hope in a few hours

when the intimate wrestling will

turn into touches

that become physical caresses

with the wine-press of the body

upon the the grapes of love we have

collected patiently day in day out.

no other love seemed to walk

on barren land of clay

my feet moulded into the unseen

woman i fell upon

and she came alive/ her breast would

cushion my fall

nipples as hard as doorknobs

i placed my lips upon

my glove of foreskin that opened

the door of her innermost

a sea of lust that swpt me away

what wonderful games/ like children

we played hide and seek

with hearts pounding like crescendos

never before

and her caress a tight squeeze

her one arm that held me tight.


zjg poetry’10/ ’21

NAM (New Acropolis Museum)

along areopagitou to amble between

casual musicians/ sellers of sweets

and corncobs/ smell of seducing

foodprep in the warm air

like women’s sweet perfume.

the NAM like a bright gem of crystal

embraces the great temple’s art

that stands lit-up by the moon

on top of the rock

while our eyes feast upon the

Acropolis Marbles

assembled in shards/ bust-up/

with dark gaps of missing pieces

like knocked-out teeth in the frieze.

in spite/ we celebrate in groups/

in two’s/ alone –

the poet recalls the good times

of love/ the pain of a passing

excited heart/ a shadow attached

to her happy laughs.

squeezed out into the lukewarm

night/ the quick demise by rail

by tram

the times of short intensity in love

like true love

lie above the reflective globe

pushed back and fro

along the endless roads

and vanishes into the suburbs

driven over by never tiring traffic

mauled to pieces by their wheels

hammering/ embossing proposed

changes/ to complete the missing

pieces that became victims

victims of art theft.

New Acropolis Museum.



zjg poetry’10/ ’21.

at the pediatrician

not altogether chirpy like the starling

pains in the arms have limited sleeping time

to a few hours.

since the second jab of innoculation

for covid 19/ the old sports injuries have

come-up to haunt me/ as if i just have

extended myself yeaterday.

fortunately a pediatrician who has rooms

i could reach with a short trip by bus

would take me if i was prepared to wait

until the patients with fixed appointments

had been fisnished.

let’s see what’s in store for me?

at the point in my life’s advanced age

perspectives have steadily changed.

as this bard also draws and paints

his present muse encourages him

with a sponsored venue for an exhibition

something/ he had looked forward to

for some time

especially as all signs looked positiv

but now/ covid 19 lockdowns changed

the game considerably

no green light yet for cultural happenings

opening of galleries/ until there are huge

places for distancing of visitors

it’s impossible to conduct a vernissage

in smaller galleries and ateliers

the artist will carry on

creating works of art.



zjg poetry’21.

the island

you’ve locked her up ‘il conte’

for many years

in a slave’s existence

not trusting her

vever loving her for the sake

of just love/ not due to conjugal

rights/ not for the sacrifice of

a warior who set sail for capturing

elusive treasures –

by killing her emotions

trampling on her soul.

you’ve not succeeded with

imprisoning her

and while you snoozeed

she’s escaped to be with her lover

a pet/ a man on a mystical mission

a stranger/ yet someone with

a secret trail

that soothes her wounds

that heals her soul

and touching her she’ll join him

flying to the clouds

the island

he’ll always recall

as if touching the button on his

laptop and calling-up the scene

that befits their love

and fosters deep lust

within them both.


zjg poetry’10/ ’21.


how would you describe happiness

or a most-desired wellbeing in the

world of man and woman

of every living being with a well

functioning brain/ the composer

asked the poet.

the bard would think for a moment

look-up his collection of lyrical poems

about Art&Love –

art/ as an expression of sexual happiness

wherein good luck/ proper time given

for preparation/ the build-up of

steady tensions/ desires of the beloved

partner/ adventure in the choice of

meeting places

would accellerate the foreplay of

touchings/ lead to petting/ togetherness

of two instruments tuned well to create

a wondrous scene when she quoted

from the ‘Song of Songs’:

“for mighty like death is love

the neverland its fervour”.

then/ just then/ the poet had realized

that they both were well underway

on the ‘obelisk’ he had depicted

his art had turned into a rocket

his reflections chiselled into

its sleek surface

they both travelled on.



zjg poetry’21.