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

seller.

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

heart.

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.

 

zoltanzelan

ZJG-POEtry’16.

love and literature

XLIII

my life revolves around

those places/squares and containers

for pills and creams

for books and screams

that i’ll visit regularly

in a desperate attempt to find

some sense of a lonesome

togetherness

in the lemon slice that drops

into my tea of recuperation

from the brink of desolated roads

and empty galleries

woman bird that carries me

on wings of ardent inspirations

to the other side of lethe

the blue star

the red-hot poke of the sun

the turquoise fish

smoothing the mind

the burst of children’s noisy laughter

shrieks and swills of innocent chatter

some birds rise to a new generation

mingling lively between

the sculptures as living art –

miro who smiles –

day dreaming drive thru’ veins of

communicating roads

threads from the deeper side

of tragic laughter to the hustle of

the trader’s nets

that catch the shoppers unaware

like buzzing flies that tumble/lie

wait/struggling for their end in time

amber tea and lemon slice

white skinned yellow egg slice

dark-pink tuna shreds

that ended on the green leaves

of salad/gherkins/red tomatoes

broad potato slices/black olives

like dark eyes stare in quiet disbelieve

inner sighs/moisture-like cries

then – into the mist of thoughts

and the blue light of his dreams

he leans his head on his arm

thru’ half open eyes

the image of the fiddler’s face

that shimmers from the glass on

his table –

calls him/beckons him

with his wide warm eyes.

zoltanzelan

ZJG-POetry’21.

thirtieth song

source of our

greatest pleasures

soixente-neuf

when the time is ripe

when the air is pregnant

with the scent of

full-grown fruit.

you want to lie on me,

slowly creep up and

straddle me

with your right leg

as if you wish to caress

my chest/my nipples

that hardened up like

prickly pears you

rub your belly against

your head that lies

against my thighs

i open up for you to lie

you take my shaft

my sack of nuts and

stroke me fast into a

hardened stump

this mushroom pinkness

of its head

you feast upon

you slide your tongue

up and down and

lovingly devour its

silken base –

ahhh! you listen to my

sighs and lustful whistles.

i want to be in you

now with your lowered

bums

legs spread wide

your pussy placed upon

my mouth

my darting tongue

that cuts enticingly

into your crack

between the soft

cushioned mounds.

along this field of mounds

and fine ravines i sink

into your double orifice

i clamber in excitement

to your smoothest thighs

hold on to them as if

climbing an ‘indian pride’

your gaping fine-shaped

silken cunt slides

up and down

my thirsty mouth

my tongue that tastes

your innermost dew

my cock sucked in against

your cushion-tongue

this loving lick! oh last!

and if I die it must be now!

in this rare moment of

utmost exhilaration!

soixente-neuf of lust!

we die together in our

rubbing mouths and

heated-up tongues

dying like so many

brave lovers before us

me in your pussy –

your second lips

your second tongue

that mouth-like vulva

that absorbs my mouth

my lips/my tongue/my

nose and face

like your lips absorb

my cock/its head/shaft/

and balls

that slide and fall

into the furnace of

your throat/ohhh/

and then we die

and drown and drown

in our passion-heated

comes.

zolzanzelan

zjg-poetry’02/’20.

twentyninth song

at night he is restless and

in thought he gazes

into the silk-blue fading

afternoon

his eyes are closed and

his heart beats faster

faster when he recalls

the sweetness of their

longings and for her he

incantates:

“sit on me love

crouch intimately tight

clasp onto me your

body’s glowing night

piercing my love

into your gate of fire

liquefied and ardent

in fireworks of this

suffocating fuck

we melt into

rivers of wetness

into the stream of

lustful happiness.”

zoltanzelan

zjg-poetry’02/’20.

viva freedom thru’ art

it’s rather difficult to write

a poem on this ‚rattlesnake‘

of a bus

from weidling to the city of

saints.

just yesterday i had a pleasant

day with mon

sitting at the boesner lounge

talk about the world of art

and literature

spirits of one kind

our meetings important

to carry on with our artistic

lives

not being subjected to

a forced opinion –

there’s no fake-news in

real art –

not being coerced into

buying something one doesn’t

need

art is all-important:

it has no gender issues

nor any prohibitions

art /the only thing that

sets us free.

viva boesner

viva freedom thru’ art.

zoltanzelan

zjg-poetry’21.

twentyeighth song

always in a mode of

instant Prurience

immediate mode of

lovemaking,

contiguous preparedness

for love

lust and pain

the bittersweet

constant longing for her

body

lustfulness of a poet

for his poetess and

muse

sailing into the warm

waters of eros

redefining life.

loving her totally

any way her mind

desires and her body

arches for the touch

in pureness of fuck’s

childlike innocence,

tender togetherness

after the first act

rapacious and forceful

slip into the back of her

aaahhh! she cries and

he cries with her

seeding her

with his ejaculate

everywhere!

zoltanzelan

zjg-poetry’02/’20.

viva anti-corona

now not a good morn‘

as usual

but bearable at 5:30 am

immediately to the laptop

whose hinge had broken

but still in a workable state

load-up the formatted

manuscript as a german

translation: ‘der fabrizierer’

from its English version

“the fabricator.”

with the help of harald’s

pdf-converter

i just made my personal

deadline

albeit our many tries per

e-mail. thanks for gentle

knights and good angels.

off to town and check-out

the art-print sample for

the depiction of the total

apollo frieze

and perhaps studio ‘a’

will open its doors to my

vernissage at the beginning

of march at spittelberg.

if you wish to register for

a vaccine shot

it’ll take good nerves

there seem to be no notice

of registration yet for one’s

doctor’s rooms

nor are there any vaccines

available yet for senior folk.

probably i’ll finish another

book by then.

viva anti-corona.

zoltanzelan

zjg-poetry’21.

body and soul

his friend the observer

speaks of being locked-up

in a cage

that reminds the poet

of the woman in a gilded

cage

falling prey

to be treated by a maniac

prince of the aztec-rituals

in complete darkness

besides

thanks to the tools of comm’s

the wolf’s of depression are

stopped at one’s door.

this entrepreneur with a paid

trip

including a vaccine against

the bad covid 19 virus

is certainly a hero in humanistic

terms

but then not in every country.

so – born with privileges

has its greater personal benefit

for the top-layers of society

however

don’t condemn the

caste systems of this world

if you are just doing the same

to your contemporaries

below your fascial masks

you could even your custom

made one in tokio.

my friend the fashion designer

and photographic exceptional

disliked all hipocrysities. period.

back to one’s artistic environment

with body and soul.

zoltanzelan

zjg-poetry’21

twentysixth song

lying awake at the

crack of dawn

i felt you touching me

aroused I turned-up

touching your body

you suddenly were in

my arms,

i was holding you

squeezing my longing

into you

my body that longs to slide

its phallic excitement into

you

be in you

move in you

lustfully up and down

this sideway screw

that excites the utmost

out of you

that turns my juices into

circulation

heats up this pot of red-hot

liquid

that we want to mingle

together with your jizz

of cooling

hisses on this fire of

evaporative bursts

pushing our lustful turbine

powers into high flying

tingling

spine to brain and back

into loving thrusts

that will coincide with

this lance of pure gilded

lust.

we touch deep inside

let it rip through

our embraces in tightness

your cunt grabbing my cock

so tight/so tight

i cry with you in sweet

contractions of the

ultimate in lust

we cry together.

cry.yrc

zoltanzelan

zjg-poetry’02/’20.

twentyfith song

we found pleasure like we

found the perfect pebble

on the beach at porto r –

we touched and energy

built-up

transformed into excitement’s

liquid and amalgamated flows

our mutual stimulation had

increased a hundredfold.

the fire started in my core

roaring stronger in lustful

pleasures

wildfire turning into this one

giant flame:

my hard cock in your pussy

stirring/pounding/pouncing

prurience having taken over

in growing to this huge

mountain

pushing this pleasure into

many rising peaks

a faster and faster turning

merry-go-round sensation.

from those faint sparks at

the beginning

that flared-up into deepening

desires

forging our physical and mental

energies into this condensation

this point of a red-hot lance.

and while the cries of our souls

emerging from this pyre and

increase with intensity from

this painful lust in all its moves

they will heighten into this intense

sensation of this throbbing arrival

of a death-like coming

like the closing-in of a

summer storm

we feel it’s coming

to unload.

emerging as a hot rush across

my body and rising thru’

the spinal chord

to flow to my head and

burst-out together with

my cry

with your cries together

these sensations that are

excruciatingly sensuous

you so tenaciously seek

and at the moment of its peak

you close your eyes

make the best of moments

last

i feel my heart stop a beat

a moment of drifting suspension

in time.

the hot rush now over

in this breath-taking piercing

this closeness of a crushing

wave

dousing our bodies burns

in these waves of pleasure

we dissolve into each other

become uncontrolled in our

float

upon this sea of rolling

lust.

zoltanzelan

zjg-poetry’02/’20.

twentyfourth song

i have died many times

in love

i have with you.

i have died today again

in your arms

in the fire of your

caresses

your body stretched out

along on mine.

have I thought about

this before?

when i did in the youth

of my love

spread my body onto

yours?

found my desire harden

my phallus that so lovingly

was pounding

into the wetness of your

flesh?

i was loving you with

fervor of the

charged-up lover

that i did/i did!

and how we loved!

now in the mature stage

of our love

with our libidos

still so well intact

we love so well and

perfect

like two lovers that

are attuned to each other

that know all the ways to

turn each other on and

that project their desires

openly for the other

make him climax

make her do it so that

it makes us climax together

in this small death

that we so seek and want

to do

at all times whenever

we meet,

we do.

today I died a bit more

than usually i do

having loved you

all night

having felt your body warm

and thus so close.

your pussy that covered

my cock like a glove

your nearness that I could

enjoy languidly

and to the tilt so much

i drank you like good wine.

and then I was so drunk

of you

i am still now!

as we make love again

come together in this

glorious ride

this morning’s fuck

we do now

we do love

we love…

we fuck until we die.

zoltanzelan

zjg-poetry’02/’20.