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.





Have all archangels left

The heavens

To storm down on an

Unruly world?

It must have then started with

All the mindless killings

Disappearing of people

The sacrifice of children

To a culture of rape and

Submission to strangers.


A split-off group of power hungry

Tried to rule the world

Acting out of shadows like

Sneaky roaches scurrying out

Of the light

Avoiding all who opposed them


Infecting them with poison

But not succeeding with those

Who worked and prayed

Facing the fanatically stirred-up

Lots and growing lots

Swarming off from huge ships

Like stirred-up rats

Facing a sea of crosses held

Against them

A return to the Dark Ages?

When swords smashed into

Gilded shields

As even gods had their infight

For ruling the universe.



Facebook friends

Poets and Artists

Spread the truth

But only those with eyes

To see

And not with eyes wide shut!

And only few could read between

The lines

Avoiding lies

Fake news

Stood alert!

A split-up world it seems

Is our only legacy.


Living with bad habits

Rotting to the bone

And a will like a sponge

Will not help at all

Even having conducted

A decent life

Also honorary work will come

To pass.

Afraid you stare at the box

News from a variety of countries

You still rush to do charitable



You’ll never stem the tide of

Utter lawlessness on this ship

Called Western Culture

To be saved from sinking –

Yes it could be saved

If you act with a strong belief

To defend it.

Had it not stood the test of heavy

Tides for over 1000 years.

Someone shouted:

Good old Europe –

You have to be cruel

To be kind.






He wears his Dad’s black hat

on his salt and pepper hair

cascading to his shoulders

and manages to survive

persistent in his efforts

for his father’s name be known

in the expansive world of art –



He loves colourful garb

contrasting with strong

coloured scarves

a Toucan bird of the Americas

he travelled once extensively.

Thru’ rimless glasses he observes

the world around him

inviting the Young and Elder to

his well-known Art-Shop

the name he still prefers.


Gregarious  critical  persistent

in achieving to be known

administering an incredible

treasure of over 250 oil paintings –

Forceful mementos of the Holocaust

with over 1000 drawings –

but also portraits and scenes

from Coffee house societies.


He lived for promoting his father’s

art pivoting around the Holocaust

whose infernal state still leaps

in blazing flames from his canvas:

The inferno that gripped his heart

all his remaining life.

A living memorial in midst the

cobbled Square of Judenplatz –

Place du Juif.


His repetitive traveling to Bratislava

beloved city to him like to his father

who painted its distant views

with the four-towering castle

the Jewish Quarter

the Inner City

Venturska Street.


As funds cease to keep the


friends and honorable helpers

assemble to say

good-bye but also filed with

hope that recent press appeals

to Cultural politics of the city

and the land

will bear fruit to loan the

unique collection for

sponsored shows rather

than allow it to be tossed

into an archive’s existence.

Good luck Tommy and Inge.







virtual thoughts

Finally good sleep into

a Sunday morn‘:

More leisure-like breaky

and not much doing lately.

Keep discussions with B

on a low low fire

feel the sunny day rise

your desire…

But then – your loved one

long  long  gone –

No other way but

autoerotica –

the sweet one.

Bla. Blah.


Well without tensions

go and vote for a better

deal on pensions

while most folk around here

go for a candidates

facial presence.

Warm pleasant autumn day

great walk in the offing.

Pity one’s spouse

can’t entertain the play

of virtual thoughts.





facebook friends


A facebook friend and I

have learned that we had

twenty friends each –

Send me this quote:

To live is to fight with


in the vaults of the soul.

To write is to sit in

judgement  with oneself.


Let the sleeping jester lie.




So, I lived a hum-drum life

beside my profession, to design

and to build an environment.

Home to sleep and eat

at times to care for my spouse

who became seriously ill.

Instead of correcting my life

I ran forward.

Met A

who ran forward too

and we flew into each other’s


To love someone next to

your spouse

will hurt your spouse and

you’ll have pangs of guilt.

I didn’t have.

Or so I felt at the time.

Only later I realized

the pain of losing a lover

whereby losing myself.

The pain would certainly

have killed me if it wasn’t

for Joe and facebook friends

but it wasn’t for B.

The good-bye from A

rolled tears down her cheek

along the skin of my

inner bodyline –

Love is like death –

She said.

Belated I should cry.



On Wednesday eve

when B prepares her fruit

she bought at SAM

while I listen to Wynton Marsalis

she hands me the SAM-pass

she had renewed.

I see that I have been denoted

to take second place on the

back page.

Just like once a mean colleague

in an architect’s firm

tried to take my place for a

new job he desired

but the owner had appointed

me to run it. WOW!

Never mind –

I had a notion why she –

in her delicate physically

condition would go out

when it rained cats and dogs –

to take common matters

into her own hands?

Not that important to me

but for poetry & art

she couldn’t replace me.







ZJG – About Writing Poetry

Wynton Marsalis:

Music should be played like Louis Armstrong plays –

Not in style, but in that spirit!



Poetry should be written like that too –

Without fear of spelling mistakes, relaxed, shoulders down,

Head over your notebook, or the one you carry around in

Your pocket.

At times you should smile and echo your inner smile!



A first day at 77 –

One in a lifetime –

Never thought making it

this far

when I set-out on an

adventure to S.A.


From start to a new


with a few disappointments

and tough years ahead

even once used to a new


It has to be accepted.


Birthday present : a year’s

access to two museums

from Nica –

San Andrea’s fault of my

delicate being –

Tender sit-in with Nica

within the gallery’s spaces.


Spiked with cacti plants

are word cacophonies

of Mrs B

TIXE will still be far away

in spite of love for

A  B  and C.

Time for remembrances.

Tristan Tzara’s Dada:

Mass extinctions for minds.





A Tear For Zol – She Wrote

Searching for a name lost

endless row of diaries

came across: What Is This Thing

Called Love?

Well…yeah…perhaps it all began

like this famous song

but then grew into a hot affair

of Star Crossed Lovers

finally to fall from the skies

and die in a Greek tragedy’s



171 months now I saw noted

that would mean fourteen years

had passed.

Impossible one’s heart sighs

but the figures do not lie.

Life did and cheated on all

what’s left over from facts –

No promises –

she used to say

as if it was just yesterday.


Best of all worlds

the artist thrived.

Love like the Grecian sun

melted down the gel of desires

into the depth of our hearts.


A tear for Zol

she wrote

How could I finally cope?

Moments of deepest joy

can never be forgotten.