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.





In the midst of a pandemic rage

April in Vienna and Lower Austria

I’ll fetch only food for my spouse

And myself, the papers and water

Imagine our water is disgusting

Forming a tan-leathery layer on

Kettles, taps and shower roses

Difficult to scratch off – my spouse

Calls micro-plastic coating.

But this April second – I noticed

Hardly anybody around – alone

Riding in a bus

Visiting my orthopedic surgeon

Receive a mask, disinfect my hands

Makes me feel hot and moist at my

Face –oh you disinfect your Sulphur

Yellow coloured floors?

“You have Carpal Tunnel Syndrome”

The doc says immediately

Having seen my hands and applies

An injection at the lower palm of

My right hand and will transfer me

O Lord! Another operation? Not

Possible now, in spite of muscle loss

At my thumbs and a galloping progress

Of blocks to my medial nerve.

I’m glad my trusted doc is around

To help as much as he can.





If time cannot be stopped

So I can’t be

That’s irreversible.

The Mind races ahead

Willpower makes me go

But equally so – my friend

Pierre’s unwavering support

Not even a hospital stay

Would keep him away from

Helping me to get my

Art-show on the road.

He likes my art and

Cares about my artistic


Being himself a maestro

For haute-couture.

Yet at the start of my

First Viennese presentation

This spiked-pinball virus

Has terrorized us all

Turning the world upside-


So, here I stand at the

Bus stop in Weidling with

Hope to succeed eventually

Not only for myself

But all together in our

Efforts to break this

Covid-wall for good

Supporting each other

We will, I believe

Forward with our artistic






There are tensions due to atmospheric


Adding up to a pandemic Covid 19

Besides the poet is continually interrupted

By his spouse of 51 years with complaining


But fleeing into his world of Journal-poetry

And unbridled imagination.

It seems that one email sent has awakened

His Muse’s erotic presence

Responding to him

Stirs his immediate physical reactions of

Intimacy with her

With fast oncoming pleasurable feelings

From Nipple to Penis


Such an instant climax he had been given

By her as a gift to relax

And ride on the crest of his creative wave.





He lives in seclusion

As far as his novel-writing

Is concerned

Though as a poet he listens

To the world

Its political chaos and the

Inhuman conditions –

Even apartheid wasn’t so bad

Compared –

As present dealings by the

One percent on top of the

Ruling economic pyramid.

He watches London Real-

Talk-The real Brian Rose

And DR Bergman’s investigation

Into the so-called

Covid 19 pandemic – a gross

Accentuated statistical error?


All’s behind a cloak of

Conspiratory assumptions?

The world awaits the truth

But WikiLeaks has been killed.

The poet in dialogue with his

Sensual spouse

His loyal friends

Artists and Freethinkers.

He’ll be busy publishing his

Newly edited and updated books

Reflecting reality in fable

And in transfigurations.




His Words to the World

His last visit to historic Vienna’s

Town centre

With empty streets

Closed eateries and cafes

Art exhibitions closed

The buzzing atmosphere of living

Wiped out by a pandemic


Coronavirus-hysteria has gripped

Also the hamlet of Weidling

Town and country

With daily reports worldwide.

Fear of failure of one’s personal

Immunity to this spiked pin ball


Keeps people off the streets

Yet a poet is used to work in a

Solitary mode

Never bored in his creative mood

Preparing his work for publishing

In continuity-mode

His artistic calling backed by his


Thanks for electronic means of

Communicating his ideas and

Writings to the people who’ll

Distribute it to the world.