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.





Hugging the ghost of a Muse

In a close embrace

Feeling a pair of hands all

Over you

The forever yearning for

Human closeness

The warmth of a liked body

Continually seeking a union

Of flesh and mind.


The artist’s world of sensuality

Will always differ from the state

Of his inner freedom

With which he’ll express his art

That’ll roll past a landscape of

His soul

In ever mutating configurations

In a state of creative intensity

The looking glass of his spirit’s


‘See now’. He’ll entices his Muse

‘And dance for me a dance of

Veils amongst the Jasmin fields

Of an exuberant sundrenched

Summer’s day’.

Frozen for an extended moment

He’ll sketches her with feverish

Strokes of his coloured pens

He takes ad hoc

From his blue polyester bag.

And soon this fever of creation

Has invaded his Muse

Who stumbles and falls into

A bed of soft grass and lilies

Upon the stretched-out body

Of the artist.






It’s not that certain

That you are invited

To a Chinese restaurant

In these times of economical


That could affect the whole

Of Europe in time.


On a Monday evening

Mr T had phoned me to join

Him in his old haunt of Kiang.

He came with another friend

Who has visited from Bavaria.

Basically a nice chap

Somewhat ruff for my taste

Telling us a series of medial


Won Tan soup tasted good

He said.

I had no capacity for soup and

Chose a vegetable wok.

Mr T was disappointed about

His fried rice and shrimps

While P didn’t enjoy his beef

Dish he usually eats. He said:

‘This is not good Chinese food’.

In the end Mr T and I shared

Some vanilla ice cream.

Rather delicious as a desert.

P had a rather pricy soft drink

While Mr T and I had a glass

Of Vienna water from the tap

An excellent spring water from

The nearby mountains:

Schneeberg and Rax.

Still intact in the hysteria of

Climate change

Which according to NASA science

Is completely exaggerated.


It’s the waste we humans create


To grow this horrid dirt

That we haven’t thought through

To deal with

In apparent visible actions.

Clean House.

Clean Cities.

Clean the Seas.

Clean the World.

And what about the wars?




TRUE – (Horowitz Moscow concert)

Even in pianissimo

The tension goes on inside

One’s being

The maestro is able to transfer

To viewers and listeners.

The man on the piano

With his child-like exuberance

And the young man of subtlety.


His transfer into Chopin and

Schumann is out of this world

Feelings that come to life in


With tears in their eyes.

Poetic loftiness.

The high flight of soul and mind.

How well do the heavens triumph

In their dialogue with white and

Dark spirits.

The artist on the special tailored

Piano to his spec

Has sensitized his instrument

To the heartbeat of his being

And to the soul of his feelings.








To fend off bad stuff

Especially from people

Is not always easy.

Most times the poet

Like a hedgehog will


To spike bad vibes in

The bud of an attack.

His ‘Mystical Realism’

A protective bubble’s

Tough translucent skin

Not possible for twits

Twats or imbeciles to


But for the mentally

Agile Bohemian

The Muse with brains

And beauty

The serious interlocutor.





Even if you are on

The way as an ardent


Burning kilometers

With the ÖFFIS:


And on foot

You still miss out on

Details of the passing



And specific buildings

You still discover along

Familiar routes.

In your mind’s power cells

Thoughts about your future

Generate fear

You haven’t been left with

Time enough

In your remaining life

To finish all the work

You still have planned.




Night Watch 2nd Part

Being company to Mr T

On one side an honour

To be trusted by Mrs IRA

On the other

It’s taking care of a friend

Of many years of standing.

Besides some time at night

Or early morn’

To render the artist’s drawing

Or as a poet to prepare

A journal poem

To edit an essay

Or a poetic lore as ‘King of Ice’.

Finally the German translation


With the next step to publish

As a book and Ebook

Now render a drawing or two

Thanks to ‘Night Watch’.



Friendship & Marriage

I haven’t seen her for 45 years

Since she parted on a note of

Anger and jealousy.

I’ve found her again on the

World-wide-web and we

Started a series of narrative


Then one day we met in person

At a café of her choice

Near the Albertina

In Vienna. Simchi.

She took after her Mom –

A lifetime of happenings lied

Between us

But we couldn’t take-up our


Where we had left off.

Yet. I thought

Although she promised to

Come early summer and

We could walk together

In the Viennese Woods

As we used to as students.

I have been married for

51 years and met the love

Of a lifetime 17 years ago.

An early death of my Muse 

Had parted us and changed


My marriage turned to


True love could only be

Judged after its ending

And marriage can’t be

Taken-up again.