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 rainy night behind

The push-down weight of

A low atmospheric pressure

System fell down like an

Eiderdown blanket

The poet’s head rested on

His desk for a minute sleep

Perhaps many minutes.

There are now more limits to

One’s willingness of fighting

For a return to a creative

State of being

Commanded by an inner

Stirring for completeness

In mind and soul.

The stirrings of the body’s

Desires for a tactile embrace

Bodies on fire ever be shared

Any other way

Than be absorbed as the

Ejaculation of words on

White unruled pages of the

Poet’s journal poetry?

No wonder

Artist Zoran talks of the

Completion of a successful

Creative work as the artist’s

Most satisfactory climax.


Well. This artist & poet would


As that is an incomplete state

Of emotion

Which will only satisfy the artist

If his Muse will be a part of it.

However and in what form

A build-up of mind/ body/ and

Soul would be leading to the

Completion of a sacred triad

In physio-psychic emotions

The mind will ultimately be

Overpowered with a true and

Genuine orgasm.





The poet had taken leave

To slip into his artist friend’s

Intimate role

Feel a genuine independence

From avoiding heavy financing


Enormous pecuniary obligations

To have to pay for an exhibition

Perhaps a handful of friends

A few gallery-ravens would

Pitch-up at the opening. HM?

But then to find an apparent

Person, an artist, a good man,

As many call themselves to be

Who are indeed hard to find

Perhaps the artist trusted

Referred to by a family member

A friend of a friend

An irate Muse –

The artist had tried in his delicate

Age of advanced time

Fulfilling his journey for the

Dreamland space to hang his

Fabulous works of art –

The dreamlike cavern suited to

His art closed up due to leakage

A human catastrophe –

“Why do you punish me, God of

The arts? Have I not hung your

Image high?” He shouted.

“Has not Poseidon punished Odysseus?

But then this artist hasn’t killed any

Trojans and hasn’t plundered the city’s


Yet the artist felt the pressure of an

Enormous potential threat of utter


Not only for his art

But for all cultural inheritance.

The poet listens to the evolving

News clips, reports, lies and urban

Legends spinning around.

Huysmans/ Wilde/ Proust?

History like literature repeating itself.

The Slip –

Poet – living  as an artist for a while?



ART will evolve with the poet’s other half.


Took off at first like

A lame duck

But fortunately we still

Have fresh water supply.

Then – greatest one of

Many mornings

The poet’s spouse was in

A good mood

Having absolved her morn’

Jog around green Weidling

Does her a world of good.

The poet raised his arms

And exercised: holding his

Ink pen

At boesner’s art-café

Where he acquired a reasonably

Priced unruled notebook:

Talens from Holland in scarlet


Thanks to boesner the artist

ZG has a chance to survive

In his world he’d created

Which he opens-up to friends

And interested parties.

Like the young woman who

Was interested in his work

He had just selected decorative

Colourful photo paper for

Passe-partouts to stage an

Artistic presentation.

In the adjoining pub he finds

Hortobagyi palacsinta –

Pancakes a la Hortobagy.


He can’t resist ordering this

Dish he had tasted last time

As a visiting student to Hungary.

Sixty years ago.

May I tell you? The poet said

It tasted super

Washed down with a glass of






Dream Ritual

Ever repeating Sunday

Ritual –

At first wake and stretch

Identities exchange with

One’s Muse

Tangibly – skin to skin

The poet’s fingers waking

From numbness

Slide from his skin to hers

Down her Juno face

Upon her slender neck

Titillating slide and slide

Her warmth will enter

His chest

And his breath

Will become her breath

Upon his own body’s glow

This play of fingers

Turns into a play of lips

Sensually searching tongues

Until his body moves

Between her long embracing


Hands entwined in lustful


Soft tongue-twists on red


Petals open stance for a sweet


A poet’s flight of mind –

First Muse’s arching in the

Throes of searing touches

At a lost paradise’s door

Breath-blown aside

Strings of silken gauze.

The long ascend to the

Sacred temple on the deep

Innermost of soft cries:

The burn. The fall. The dive.





The poet’s anticipation

Just to see her again

Stirs in his body pleasant

Reactions –

Poet & Muse

Artist & Model

Writer & collocutor


It’s obvious since a long time

That he’ll seek intimacy

Even if she’s delaying this

Consenting tete-a-tete

Heightening his desire

As she had shown him at


Her own height-advanced


With her teats

Firming through her fine

Cashmere top where she

Closes subconsciously her

V-cut his eyes slip into

Touching each other eye

To eye and heart to heart

Whereby the poet explored

His own body’s sensual

Glow of reactions

A soul to soul telepathy of

Liking each other

With discreet body language

Their time arrived like a

Ripened juicy pear to share

In mutual enjoyment

Sensual pleasure at an age

Where stimulating talk will

Lead to free flight.





And while B and I have

Settled down to a peaceful


PI’s phone call wakes me up

To the world

We are plugged into

Living it

During duress of a pandemic

Adhering to rules

Set-up by the state.

“Come now”, he says

“We have to talk to the man

Whose premises we intended

To use for a presentation

Of the artist’s work.

We’ll need to know where

We’ll go from here toward

A hopeful future.”

“OK. I have to dress,” I reply.

“But I’ll be there in time.”

I murmur…will have to take

The next darned bus…and

To my spouse “help me to

Get dressed.”

“You still have to wash,” she


“Well yes, the French way…”

I respond splashing my face

With warm water.

Just in time to the close-by

Bus stop.

Thanks for small favours of

Our domicile. At times the

‘Öffis’ work just great.

Traveling time to the city has

Been cut down by fifteen

Minutes flat

With a few passengers per

Coach – all masked.





Health is fortunately with a positively orientated and integrated system here in Austria for all those who also care.


An effort the poet made

At the tender age of eighty

When fate administered him

An additional stepping stone

With a carpal T-syndrome

For a dire hindrance to his

Creation of art

But fixed up through good luck

Before his fingers cannot hold

Pen or brush any longer

Before he is condemned to

A life without sensations in

His fingertips

Before he cannot feel the

Nearby softness of his Muse

Reshape the contours of her


Re-sculpt her bodylines

Stroke the locks of her hair.

And while his fantasy takes

His hand and guides him to

The erotic land of ARIZO

He established with his Muse

Rejoicing being saved from

Physical oblivion

By the surgical skills of the

Successful Dr Leg.

An effort he made

An effort the poet made

It’s definitely worthwhile.




View original post