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.





Since four years

My spouse and I have build-up

A good relationship with a local


A the pizza maker is flat out

Working at twin ovens

Kneading the dough and tossing

The flattened sheet

Up into the hot humid air

As part of his great ritual.

E the luxuriant kitchen chef

Is well known for her fine soups

Pasta dishes

And her ‘al forno’ – cooking.

My spouse would walk a mile

For her dishes

If she would not be weakened

By a nasty nervous disease.


I don’t mind being a messenger

And wait patiently

Until the mad rush at the delivery


It’s always great to talk to people

With a sense of humour

And a zest for living in these

Challenging times.






I forgot to take my towel

Along as required by the

Institute of physical medicine

But then the physiotherapist

From Georgia

Accommodates me with

Fetching a huge paper towel

Like used on examination beds.

I like to talk to her about

Whatever comes to my mind.

Her gentle hands massage

Life back into my leg

For a faster healing and recovery.

At times I move my head and

Look up

Gaze into her large dusky eyes

Revealing dedication for her

Mission to heal her patients

And not just to have a job.

The big eyed Georgian woman

With her gentle touches.




At Ease

While my friend 

The man with a religious calling

Plays the show of Armageddon

On his laptop

Relating natural catastrophes

Wars between countries

To the prophecies of the

‘Apocalypse of John’

The poet enjoys the first

Sunny day of summer

Where nature seems to be

Settled into a balance of its

Inert powers

At least here:

Near the Viennese Woods

Close to the Danube River

Enjoying a morning’s walk

Up the inclined Agnes Street

At his ease.





Swing into a Sunday morn‘

With Mozart’s Rondo a la Turk

With great panache and

Passionate intonation by

Yuja Wang

Sexy dresser

Mind Body & Soul in line.

Black coffee beans ground

Boiling hot water

French Press

Wonderfully aligned for art

The poet has turned to


Blue Rondo a la Turk

To enjoy his road to King Noro’s

Ice World

Queen Nora’s diamond tears.

There’s the ever recurring story

Of love and death

Greatest emotions in everybody’s


For now Swing.





Just as the poet thought about          

Ringing Mr T

His own phone rang.

It was Mr T.

His voice still a bit crackled

Words slowed down somewhat

But yet with clearer diction.

He’s in no shape today to attend

To visitors. OK.

Still he’s astonished about the

Severity of his attack on his


But he intends to pull through

His worst ordeal since years.

He’ll do it.

He’ll be up again in a few day’s


No doubt.

As always he’s adamant about it.

But this time some doubt taints

His determination.

Yet he still shows a great spirit.

Now then.

The poet is still in time for the

401 bus to Weidling station

Where he’ll shop for groceries

At a Spar-outlet.

His mind reflects on his

Dwindling cash resources.

Well then

It’s only salads today.





Strange dream with a spouse’s voice

And then again the pale face of my

Past Muse

Whose expression of parting with

Frightened wide-pen dusky eyes –

Like mirrors reflected a lover’s scene

Lying nude on a huge boulder

Close together upside down

Her cupped hand covering his penis.

A voice shouted:

You should have a shower

You smell.

In the waking and dozing-off phases

The voice sounded regularly

Like the lament f a woman

Who has angry issues with ageing.

Then it struck the artist

And he recalled his Muse Ana

Sending him this erotic photograph

For the artist always dreamt of

An island in the Aegean Sea

Where he could live freely

Unbridled of convention

Experiencing life as he wished

To live it.




Dog Days in June

The sudden heat expanded

Like the plaque

Yet enveloped people and cats

Dogs and mice

With a moist blanket of humid


Made us to take iced Magnum

Ice cream sticks

Ice down lips mouth and gullet

With the lingering aftertaste of

Vanilla and chocolate.

Just like the change of atmospheric

Air pressure

Pushes one to the kitchen floor

Of a working domain

The poet senses something might

Have happened to his friend

And indeed

Mrs IRA confirms his fall out of

Bed and his hospitalization.

Let’s just hope he’ll make it

And have another round of

Arranging exhibitions.