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.




More than a figure on the slideshow of his mind.

At dusk the awakening tells

That one is still alive

Colourful reflections project

Into the clouds of a rising day.

Stroll along crowd-filled streets

Visit the inner city’s Golden Mile.


The cold days had laid a foggy view

Across the eyes and icy winds

Make them cry

As if one’s sweetheart suddenly


In midst of the milling crowds.


But then a great love never fades

Either from the heart or the soul

She’s more than a figure in a

Slideshow on one’s mind.


And in the small swung place

Of L’Europe the young girl who

Writes her diary says she’s Anna.

And it was her transformation

Who promised to send me

Another love. Ana.





Sunday Morn’

She leans back in the easy chair

Commenting on the clouds

Where jet lines appear and

Disappear behind the clouds

Pulled-up on a giant stage.

While he listens to his inner


Stirred by the murmurs of

Passing crowds below

She’ll detects the play of light

And shadow on the profiled

19th century facades –

For him the play of smile and


On the faded face of his Muse

He still seeks

Having lost her fourteen years


When love and art was sweet

In his heart.

His inner projection in a

Distorted reflection

In the windows of the building

She admires next door.

You don’t live with me she says

Destroying his thoughts he

Lives by

But then it only stirs bad blood

He has to swallow

And will drown-in for the sake

Of domestic peace.

For peace’s sake

Even here in Red Tower’s

Heart of Vienna.






Morning 2

Sunday’s morning sun

Lights up the historic

Profiled facades

The view along to the

Left bend of Wollzeile

Where people and cars


Six advertising signs still

Burn against the grey

Of the old buildings

They are hung from.

The lit-up street with

New LED-stars

Of yesterday night

Has vanished to the sound

Of an oriental wonderland.

The skies turn blue with

The murmuring of curious


Torn up in the dashes of


Above the mansard roofs

Of the inner city.

Buch & Kunst nearby –

Once haunt of artists and


Visiting their sweethearts

Who sold books and records

At Heger: Eva/ Brigitte/


Still remembered.

Sweet life where art happens

At Red Tower’s temp refuge.










When the sun goes down

Behind the skyline of the city

The artist awaits the spark

Of inspiration.

His spouse contradicts him with

Her fashionable image: She’ll be

The antichrist to his purified soul.

There are no themes set

For the creation of art

The incidents of stumbling blocks

That lie on the surface of his canvas

Other than pens running out of ink

And brushes drying out on the

Lack of paint

Their bristles spreading like

Electrified hair

Words that froze to death

Killed thru’ continuous mumbling

In the frosted air

Of married indifference.

It’s never personal

But seeking the truth

In relationships will hurt in the end

One couple as deeply as it hurt

The indifferent spouse.

When the sun goes down

Behind the skyline of the city

The artist draws from the fount

Of pure innerness.







An artist as a guest

at a five star dinner

decorated food’s delight

for eyes will stir one’s appetite

and hustle life’s juices

like love.


Delicate tastes enhanced

in a Bohemian atmosphere

with animated talks of travel:

Lesbos Island to Spartan love

until death.


An artist spouse in cinematography

will spin his projections toward art

and show his cinematic collections.


The hostess returns the inert love

of the painting poet:

her physical imprint leaning over

the shoulders of the seated artist

plays sensually on his skin.


Below his dark blue garb

there’s intimacy in communication

between words whispered

called out in verse

murmured into the ruby wine

they both share.





She slept as light

As a butterfly’s flight.

Then I pleaded to her

Not yielding to her

Inner haste.

Still time for a cupper


She had been told to leave

The Red Tower at ten a.m.

By whom?

She wouldn’t listen to me

Offering her a stay till twelve.

Off she strutted to the lift

Swearing at me not helping

Her enough

Although I offered ma help

But only once I was dressed.

We still could have fresh

Ground coffee

But it shouldn’t be.

Headstrong to stubborn

Runs in her family of

Three sisters and a brother.

Dear God.doG raeD





As a young boy I still

Celebrated X-mas with

My family:


Grandma from father’s side

Uncle Miki – bro to my dad

Who married Mom for a

Joseph-styled life –

Living in celibate

Which I did not understand

In my state of ignorant


Today 62 years later

I’ve been exposed to a day

Of pain and misery

The state of a nervous suffering

Of my spouse

As she moves like quicksilver

Irritated by the slightest


Annoyed by a word during

A discussion.

Tolerance is required by both


One also needs to listen

Not to project one’s opinion

In continual opinionated talk.


After travelling the road of life

Together for 49 years

The year-end bells toll

For living apart