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.




The Storm

It’s suddenly cold and

The rain is spluttering down

The body shakes inside

In spite of warmer clothing.


You read the signs of streets

As the bus passes down

Familiar empty streets

Once you’ve been in

Somebody’s thoughts.


Fears of a storm in the

Coming have scattered

People and their pets

Yet we don’t have

Devastating tornados

You wish to be in

somebody’s prayers.


Time to flee from an

Invasion of people

Interested solely in food

And drink. At golden age

I’ve been in somebody’s



The storm you fled from

Is a storm inside you

Just one unjust word

One odd twist of tongues

Will be the cause of flares

That cut you in half.






What I see each day

experience around me

observing people from

many nationalities

especially veiled women

who carry long black clothing

day in and day out –

the more that specific culture

is being forced upon us –

the more local people will

turn to secular humanism.

It happens progressively

yet few will fathom the flux

of changing societies.

The battle for so called

religious tolerance has

created a garden of chaos

with trees carrying strange


I notice at times statistical

reports about splitting-up

of families

separations of married


Mrs IRA said there’s a time

for everything –

With partners that means

accepting the flux physically

mentally and emotionally –

A change.

The search for the right partner

at one’s specific station in life.

We all are here for a reason

within the flux.






Just before mid-August

when the air lies still

and cooling down from

airplane spraying

won’t be effective.


The brave staff from

Forum des Arts

still, commutes downtown:

Viki in the mornings

ZZ in the afternoon.


Spouse B will not take on

Mrs. IRA’s admin work –

Good for the poet

as he would gladly help.


The artist will keep

good relations

as all already know it:

The gallery will close

in autumn.


But some work will still


especially if Mrs. IRA will

captain the family boat.

A glow in the dark –


Hope’s the last thing

to die in a country that

prides itself to be

steadfast European

at least thru’ official



Mr. T is disappointed with

world happenings

concerned about WWIII.

God forbid – he mutters.

There’s not a thing you

could do – he says.

Well – the poet answers

you could pray

we’ll all stay safe and well.


OK – he says – and you?

I will sit back and think

about LOVE

write down my thoughts

and toast my Muse.






Exhibition Night

Friday Mr T phoned to tell me

about a TV presentation at

nicole ennemoser’s exhibition

where he posed in the limelight

next to artists and a Professor

of Neurology

who talked to me about

his professional career.

I drank white wine

then joined Mr T

who introduced me to nicole

and the artist’s family.

I noticed a portrait of Liz Taylor

realistic like a photograph

and spoke to nicole about it.

I can be anybody  she said

a wild sinewy mare

swooshing about

up to the first floor and

wonderful spacious rooms

plenty of paintings:

She’d run thru’ many phases

of art styles

her artistic life mapped-out –

Pop art culture painted over

with a play of tacheism.

Some interesting paintings

touched my artistic sense

and spoke to me

echoing my own ideas:

Shark Attack

Elvis Presley.

Mr T liked some of the work

on paper. Meanwhile Elvis

was sold. Bravo.

We had more to drink.

white wine made me pickled.

Mr T had fruit juice.

The fun gathered momentum

with rising happiness of people.

Somebody brought me a glass

of rose wine. I didn’t like it.

He talked about workmen and

how he saw life.

We left on a happy note as

Nicole’s mum ushered us

to the lobby and showed us

her affection –

a great ambassador for her

daughter the artist.

Many night flies moved about

Vienna’s town squares and

finally U3 ferried us to


from where I accompanied

Mr T to his domicile.

Just five minutes later I fell

into bed at my temporary stay

at Red Tower Street.







First: She cursed me

for having tried telling her

about an economical package

that would save her 33% on

her mobile phone contract.

Besides I had to pay in

another ten Euro to help

Her out –

Paying for the failed attempt –

Then she was less insulting.

This kind of drama went on

For weeks.

Second: Finally other persons

directed her into the same

direction. Hah!

Now having found a woman

who helped her sort her

crazy problem of deceit

she praises to me her

tenacity solving it. OK.

It shows I had been scolded

innocently and suddenly

my original idea was not

bad at all

but a clerk at the shop

had not activated the new

called for package at all.

Why all this fuss?

Besides I had a great day

translating my short stories

“My Writing Tools” into


When I am listening all day

to Chick Corea – Sitting apart

doing my own thing –

We are fighting less about

our individual ways

conducting our lives.






3 Men in 1 Body

He split himself into

Varied personalities:

Z the man who desires

physical love.

ZG the artist who searches

for the perfect drawing

expressing his mood.

ZJG the poet who contributes

his journal poetry

to WordPress.

All others are shadow

sub-characters in the game

varying in importance

and weighting.

Due to the tasks –

an art assistant –

that are menial to himself

but important to the


he is serving to

he tires faster every day.

His breaks at a small round

bronze painted table

his view toward the rear

of Mr Lessing’s bronze

statue dressed in an

elongated coat

his right leg tired from its

elevated resting point.

The air of late summer

wafts thru’ the square

warming up the cold

atmosphere of paintings

depicting life at Auschwitz.

A short shower of fright

shakes the poet

just like the casual visitor

or the young students from

California  USA.

Time for closing shop

the last visitors gone and

Mr T has trouble getting

hold of himself

having told the story of

his family taken prisoners

by the Nazis for the

hundreds of time.

The poet leaves for his

offered retreat

to cleanse himself thru’

spurts of creativity

from the ghosts of the past

from the cobwebs of triviality.

Three men in 1 Body.






No use to be stirred

by her comments

about your snoring.

You know that age

had crept up and

you tire early afternoons.

Bad choice to force


she indicates rubbing up

pushing her thighs

rhythmically at your bums.

But libido has left her and

returns to you only

during the night.

Tonight you have to go

to your offered dorm

by Mrs IRA

so Mrs B could tend to

her chain making jewelry

pearl and coral.

The artist does only mind

the full light

so he takes to the road.

With a musky smelling bus

the tourist crowded subway

he steps out at Stephansplatz

into the baking heat.

The famous Square occupied

y a sea of visitors and he seeks

the shaded side streets

to head toward the A/F

on Judenplatz.

Yet tonight to Red Tower Street

where he takes a lodging

for the next five days.