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.




FlatWorld 02

Meanwhile more water

Flows down the Danube River.

It’ll take another year of waiting

For an acceptable flat

In a close vicinity to Vienna’s

City centre

By public underground.

And then?

Move from Weidling to the

Capital as an intermediate


Then two years

Then perhaps things changed.

Who rushes to plan ahead

When you find yourself

In the last remaining laps

Of life?

But then authorities will force


To trip over stumbling stones

The continual fight for

A reasonable life

Most income will hit the coffers

Of realty firms.

And all this thanks to a

World-company for refusing

To pay the fee for proven

Architectural services.

A chain of unforeseen and

Tragic events

Pushed into the face of

The artist and his spouse.





FlatWorld 01

Walking the hindrance route

Of County Offices in Vienna

A local specialty

Like Wiener Schnitzel

But less tasty

Yet a superb all-sense experience

If you’ll make it thru’ all places

At prescribed times

And thru’ all properly filled-in

Application forms.

Unavoidably irritating.

Repetitive data:

The great regurgitation

Time and again.

Stumbling blocks on the way

Of reaching ones goal

Pounding the well known

Granite cobblestones!

Relaxing at a pit-stop café

Opposite the grand dome

Of St Stephan.

The clap-clap of horse hooves

A pacifying sound.

Hanging on to basic philosophical

Thoughts about life.

‘You’ll need a two year period

Of living continually in Vienna

Before you may submit an

Official form for a residence-card

And choose a county office

Administered flat

Even offered on the free

Residential market.




A Tribute to Genesis

In the midst of searching

For an app for my android

Out of

A poem: ‘Life in Art’ jumps

Onto my monitor

And echoes in my Innermost

For stirring me into life

Recalling: having made love

To Santana III music

Pulsating in my veins

A celebration of love that

Never fades in between the

Billions of mind’s network

One thing leading to another.

It’s Genesis and Phil

Who had sung all night’s

Concert in Wembley and

I have followed them to

Rome: ‘When in Rome’.


How magical the world of

Creativity works

Connecting artists all over

The planet

Sounding great through

The universe

Moving my Lamy pen with

The charcoal-tainted nib

Directed by my Muse’s guide

To life

Enjoyed in ‘ART & LOVE’

In dance and inspiring sounds:





Angsana Tree

O great Muse of sensual


How have you influenced

My world of art

The way you send me

Subliminal prompts

Every night

Be it dream or wake

In a daze of creative mood

When you provoke me

Like a seductive Circe

Transferring your sinewy

Gyrating moves

In a heated dance into

My own stirring body

That will rove with you

In unison of flesh and

White blood.

Our dream has once


Then it crashed down the

Acropolis’ abyss

And it lies below the

Acacia and angsana trees

Since 180 moons –

Courtyard of Herodes Atticus






ZZ is a poet who lives for

His art and inspired by his


Light coloured

Yellow tanned or

Silver haired

Walk in and out of the shells

That unite two heads

In one body

Just like the poet places his

Headphones on

Listening to GENESIS

When his spouse has

Crash-landed on another

Hot spot

On this turbulent earth.

Dark Muse of mine.

Dark Muse

Provoking creative work


Knitting a colourful cloth

Of contrasting visions

For the way forward.





If you think that

You’ll have all your ducks

In a row

You probably are delusional.

But are we all not delusion prone?

Is not all around us an illusion?

Are we yet fond of positive


And will the daily news media

Not successfully evading


Better to sit down with a cup

Of green tea and try to clear

Your mind.

Just like you clear all social and

Promo message heaps

On your mobile phone or on

Your laptop.

Start afresh.

Wow. It’s great to have that

Undivided control

Don’t you think?

Use it regularly

Do your own control.





Last morning‘s fresh air

Loaded with cold humidity

The mind on sweet ambience

Of love.

Whatever surrounds the poet

During this journey thru’ the day:

Looks of women with the

Experienced eyes of desire

In their days of failing


The only compensation:

A rush to the well-stocked

Dessert tray for some

Petite Four’s.

Last fickle male model

Sweating at the Bio-Sauna

With his greedy look for a

Potential prey

Of a handsome body

In the Greek tradition?


Self-assured women like


Demand a huge slice of

The sweat-boxes’ spaces.

In the thermal clover-leaf pool

The well-fed bodies lie still

Like Rhino-packs in the

Limpopo puddles.

The poet closes his eyes

His MUSE dances seductively.