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.




Artist’s Runaround

The artist posted his work


A website for art appreciation

A gallery in Paris/ France.

One painting from his exhibition

Was an interesting rendering

Of an integration of faces with

A female body

Mother earth who let the spirit

Of the poet fly.

An interested art lover sent mail

To purchase the painting

Why not thru’ the gallery?

The artist wished to know.

Mr PT was silent while the artist

Searched his files to find that

Piece of art: Integrated Portrait 03

But it was nowhere to be found.


The artist’s spouse asked him

To paint another one like the

Image depicted on his virtual


But she was not satisfied:

It’s too aggressive

More muted colours! She said.

The artist set out the image to

Watercolour paper and created

Another painting

And this time he thought he had

It right.

But his critical spouse disagreed

Again. Fuck that! He murmured

While she added he should apply

A white softening highlight to

Dampen especially the red tones.

The artist tried but gave up soon

As the white pencil did not would

Not cover all the colours

She felt were too strong.

You know he wishes to acquire

A soft-toned drawing

Just as you have online.

His spouse replied to his deep

Murmuring protest.

Meanwhile the artist had found

A website where the potential

Buyer Mr PF had been declared

To be a PayPal cheater.

Well now

The artist mused

I’ll test my painting on my friends.

Showing his recent painting to

Mrs IRA who thought it’s a great

Addition in his typical ZG-style.

Mr T agreed to be good art

As expected from his befriended


Now then

The artist sniggered

Whoever wishes to buy it

Will find it on my virtual gallery.

An artist’s runaround.






In a state of daydreams

The fine porcelain plate slipped

From the poet’s fingers

Plagued by sudden lameness

And fell to the tiled kitchen


Shattering into a pattern

That showed distorted faces

In an inner turmoil fight.

Not moving the plate

Until he made a sketch of

The shards

He sat down at his nearby

Desk and made a drawing

His mind with flashbacks

Of bygone creative peaks.

The dream of loving another

Human being

Like a sculptural density of


Who’ll never understand

Each other

But create unusual art

By controversial frottage.

The poet’s inner world broken

With exception of his Muse

Who glued together all the

Pieces with her love

Made life between these

Contrasting spouses

Bearable again for some

Extended time.

Don Pullen’s solo piano

Sounded on a ship that

Sailed the deep ravines

Of hurt

In a miniature odyssey

Reflecting on great poetry.

Soft cold rain fell and rendered

The split up portions of land

In its colourful conglomeration

Which once formed one

Great continent

Shattered by Zeus’ bolt

Out of a perfectly blue sky.





Out of the city’s tangled grey mass

The writer sped toward the meeting

With the poet

An illustrator of his dreams.

He rushed into the hall of illustrious

Coffee drinkers in a hum of

Trivial conversations

Except of some serious contemp’s

Who kept enclosed to themselves

Notating their thoughts on digital


‘I’ve conceived the story’ the writer

Said with his blue woolen cap on.

‘I’ve sketched down first thoughts’

The poet replied and added ‘let’s hear

Your story’.

Writer E prepared his laptop.

Poet Z opened his unlined notebook.

‘I wish a glass of Viennese water’

The poet asked the rushing waiter.

‘You mean tap water’ the waiter                                                                                                  

Replied ‘otherwise it might even come

From Tyrol’.

‘So?’ the poet felt pulled by his legs.

They both began to laugh as the poet’s

Question mark blew up a balloon

And rose toward the high ceiling.

Writer E started with his blurb of

Fantasy and it took off for 90 minutes

And intermeshed at the ceiling with

The poet’s huge Question mark-balloon.

Soon the succus of it came down like

Soft ‘Salzburg-drizzle’

Wetting the poet’s hair and skin

And sank into his innerness to ferment.

As the writer E ended his talk

A colourful balloon blew up and rose

Toward the high level ceiling

Where it hovered at the kerb of the

Main street thoughts

To be picked up like a waiting child.

Back into the city’s rushing mass

Of people cars trams and cyclists

The mind’s waves escaped into the

Early night air

Like a bottle of uncorked wine

Must ventilate

To turn into a pleasant drink.




Day’s End

Not all days run at a general ease

But some are jinxed indeed.

The bank card not found

Has to be claimed lost.

Well then there’s need to chill

At a typical Viennese Café.

Yet as some Furies are on the


Direct powers of a great Muse

Had not been switched on this

Peculiar day.

An order of espresso macchiato

Is not served everywhere as


So hunt for the near ideal

Italian taste

Your palate still recalls.

The poet meets a writer friend

In Café Prückel

A place bustling with a hub.

The waiter lacks Viennese humour

But even he’s from a neighbouring

Country one thought that this city

Has still a ‘Golden Age’- tradition

For central Europe’s melting pot.

The poet tight on funds has to

Fork-out the total bill

The writer offers one of his pens

A kind of tradeoff between pals

Who’ll engage in common dreams?

The poet recalls all his grand losses

Of a topsy-turvy past with an

Innermost sigh.

Only the day before the poet has

Annotated Art-Repro’s for Mr T.

Until the artist of survival sank into

His comfy couch and fell asleep.

The poet had left behind his black

Journal poetry book as he left

The roof apartment on silent feet.

It’s hard today to find Vittel water

But lots of other stuff loaded with

Minerals and gases one doesn’t

Really need.

At least a spark of a thought that leads

The tired poet to his knapsack

Stored below his writing desk

Where he retrieves his glasses buried

Below his walking gear.

Some mint tea! A good night’s sleep

Is all he’ll need as a final offing?

Music by Satie from his headphones

Cuts out the word rushing bye upfront

On Main Street Weidling at the feet

Of the Viennese Woods.

Day’s End.



Soul at Ease

Imagine an early morning

With Mr T. and the poet

Exhausted from yesterday

Evening’s talk of a good looking

Female candidate

For the upcoming presidential


Wishing her good luck.

Mr T. spoke about her strive

For successful fulfilment

Of her ambitious program

The poet applauded her

Handing her his own designed

Calling card

As usual token by creative


After an extensive evening with

Great characters like Ivan.

Ferro. Paul and other friendly


The poet gets on well with

The local Jewish community

Talking Hungarian

Not having yet managed to learn

Basic Slovakian.

Besides dining at Jasmin’s

It’s amazing to listen to the

Chinese owner. Linda. Speaking

Slovakian to Mr T.

While English to the poet.

The renovated Chinese restaurant

Has a gilded aura and cooking

That compliments body and soul.

It’s all music not alone to the poet

As well as Mr T.’s soul will be

At ease.





He’s going on with age

Lost out on some physical


But never his humorous self.

Man – the banter man

Aged 84.

Perhaps his short term memory

Works a bit slower at times

And don’t confuse him with

A barrage of fast delivered facts

You’ll hear: ‘Pomali’ instantly.

Being hard of hearing

He should resort to his aid

He keeps hidden in his trunk

He asks you to carry around

Like photographs of loved ones

And friends

His laptop and some cellular


He’ll make you tired with some

Repetitions like: ‘Can’t hear you’

And laughing with you over

Known jokes loosening his mood

Besides he follows often up

Near hopeless causes

With sheer iron stubbornness.

As a friend he’s fine and mellow

As a man looked after by helpers

Besides by his wandering spouse

He’ll be relentless with instant

Orders and stern demands –

Be careful with your replies

Or he might have your ass.

That means you have to anticipate

Be globally alert and always on

Your toes.

However – Busybody and surviving

Artist –

After a day of towing and throwing

And many instant chores

You’ll need to cool down with

A large local draft

Although that astonishes him

The gregarious Mr T

He’ll invite you with some

Additional banter.





He walks on a seashore

Criss-crossing boulders

Rocks and stone

Standing naked –

A Classic Greek warrior

Facing the island of his

Final destination?

The huge rock face ahead

Out of an emerald sea –

A pointed head with a loose

Dark coat around his wide body

Shedding a giant drop of crystal


Like in a burst of a female egg

That hovers in a state of


In front of the hero’s thighs.

Most god-like creatures

Especially man

Have been sculpted by the

Smack of the sea

Bronze heroes rescued from

The depths of the Med

Venerated by Romans

Carrying on with great art

Once Greek sculpture was

Cursed as idolatry

As Saulus turned Paulus

Saul to Paul.




(Reflections to a painting by

Odysseus Elytis on the cover

Of ‘Eros, Eros, Eros’. Poems).