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
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
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