From: “Spleen of Love” By Z J Galos

Sahib drove us along in the off-road vehicle, with air-conditioning and a smooth suspension. Mohamed talked and we listened. Past the Pyramids of Giza in the distance, palm trees waved their light yellow-green fanned arms into a pale blue sky. The air filled with a golden mist. It smelled of dates and fresh baked bread. Mohamed asked Sahib to stop. Getting out the car, he walked over to a house, where the people greeted him. He emerged with Egyptian flat bread, wrapped in paper, a bunch of children dancing around him. The smell of anise seed and fresh dough filled the car, as he distributed the bread among us. This is where I spent some of my childhood, he commented. I always stop here to buy some bread, but they never let me pay, so I give coins to the children. I had my camera ready and snapped pictures.

   Mohamed started to talk, as soon as we had finished our bread:

“The land of Egypt has been compared to the lotus flower.” He paused. “The delta in a way depicts the outlines of the flower, while the long stalk of it is compared to the Nile valley and Fayum declared to be its bud.” He smiled, turning from his seat, observing us.

“Poetic,” I commented.

“The colours are descriptive of the changing atmosphere,” Sola said.

Mohamed nodded, “well observed, you two budding Egyptologists.” He smiled, the gap between his front teeth showing. Sola had remarked to me that it made him look like Omar Sharif, as she encountered his smile for the first time.

From: “Spleen of Love” (Discovering the Labyrinth) by Z J Galos.

I had a spouse and she, although ill, had agreed to my straying in sexual love: As long as you are discreet, she once said.

I am discreet, only Trudy knows, but does Sola know? She suspects my straying through her fine antennae of a woman writer. She can read my body language. Trudy is as expressive as I am and she may be more of an open book to Sola, than I am.

“Cheers,” I said and emptied my tea with rum, but it had cooled off.

“I will get you a hot one,” Sola said, took my cup and disappeared.

“Thank you,” I called after her and politeness replaced affection for the time being, as I wondered about her. Babette always accused me in the past of lacking affection towards her and I agreed. Life together had left us childless and parentless, most of our lovers had disappeared but friendship prevailed. Yet I still felt betrayed from her previous affairs, as much as she felt betrayed by mine. We had betrayed each other at different times during our married life and subsequent domestic fights welded us rather together than driving a wedge between us. We did not fall apart ever. Something similar must have happened with Sola and George and certainly I did experience her period of transition, I thought. She brought me a mug of tea. Her black crop of hair appeared first and then her sparkling dusky eyes and her smiling magenta lips. As she focused her dark eyes on me, I felt a pang of desire and my heart filled with love. I melted in Sola’s presence, whenever I looked deep into her eyes. She smiled as she saw my gaze and hooked onto it. Her soul and mine connected at an instant!

From: “The Informer” (Tango Man’s Rise) by Z J Galos


On her way to the city, she mused about her growing excitement, meeting him finally. The day appeared to her brighter and sunnier, holding the promise for a greater future within its general sparkle. Would these outer appearances herald a milestone in her life?

She laughed inside, but then stopped herself for a moment. She wanted to control her sudden emotional welling. As she pressed the button on the vertical chromium plated rail, requesting the driver to stop at the next station, she looked up into the dusky eyes of a stranger staring at her. She escaped the bus and the staring stranger and hurried on through the cool subway passage, to change bus-lines at Marble Arch.

The bus to Bloomsbury stopped behind two other buses. She hurried back waving her arm to the driver. As soon as she stepped onto the bus, she showed her ticket to the driver and squeezed passed passengers, taking the narrow stairs to the upper deck. The view from above offered an extended horizon, raising her expectation of the meeting ahead. The sweeping ride above the pavement and the overview across Oxford Street added sensations of flying, when the bus moved in sudden spurts. She spotted the only free seat.

“Is this seat free?” she said, slowing down the words. The Japanese woman gave her a curious look, turning to stare out the window.

“Yes,” a man behind her said, “my wife understand no English.”

Odd, she thought, he sits behind her, wonder why

Panoramic views along one of the busiest streets of London engulfed her into colourful perspectives. The bus glided on without efforts of straining, in a slow motion in midst of a grid-locked traffic. She gazed at Fraser’s, advertisements of fashion and the somber sign of a language school, until the bus accelerated, moving faster, closing gaps in the traffic: The big-eyed child looking down at her from a giant billboard, announcing endless successful performances of Les Miserables at the Palace, crowned its entrance. She daydreamed. From rags to riches, she thought. Finally the bus moved along with a reasonable speed, merging into the continuous stream of traffic.

Something hard hit her shoulder.

“Watch it! She cried-out. The foreign-looking man with a tanned face below a baseball cap rushed to an empty seat across the aisle from her, pushing the charcoal rucksack, released from his shoulders, below his seat. She turned to see him bending down, labouring with an effort. At that moment the loud voices of people outside, gathering for another political demonstration, distracted most of the passengers. She observed the face of the foreign young man with the baseball cap with the dark, frightened eyes, hurrying down the steps, looking at her. He had a cell phone in his hand that looked like hers. Taking her bag from the floor, she noted that her phone was missing. “Stop,” she cried out “you stole my phone.” She jumped from her seat, with a bad welling inside her stomach, spreading to her esophagus, choking her.

Then the terrible blast: The flash of lightning followed by a horrifying bang a split second later, debris flew into all directions, a rain of glass and shards of sharp metal. The mangled top of the double-decker bus tumbled through the air, landing on overturned cars in the center of the road, twenty meters away. People falling, ripped apart, bloodied hands and faces, and the injured thrown to safety from the skeleton of the smoldering bus, and many burnt to death. Sirens started blaring. Nobody from the upper deck of the bus survived and many bystanders and demonstrators lay in heaps on the floor. Debris and body parts lay strewn around the roads and the pavements. The litter of glass shards covered the whole area in the vicinity, mingled with pools of blood. The windows of the nearby shops sucked out by the wave of explosion, landed on the red metal heap. Immediately the scent of burned rubber filled the air and cries and moaning of the shocked and injured cut into the aftermath.

Police whistles blew, as emergency units arrived at the scene, men cordoning the area off. Fire engines arrived at the same time, demanding specific access, blasting extinguishing foam upon the fires, and the black smoke. It smelled of petrol, burned plastic and diesel. Acrid smoke choked the people gathering around the cordoned off area and the exit points of the first aid helpers, who brought the bodies into the ambulances. Everything happened fast, events rushing one on top of the other. The police pushed curious bystanders behind the established tape barriers. Then a group of forensic experts moved in speedily to secure evidence.

He waited for her in the cool paved hall of the British Museum, slick in his movements and dressed in an immaculate tight charcoal top and chinos. He looked up the glazed cupola as he heard a distant bang. Was she in time for the fated bus?

He paced up and down the circular central core. As he passed around for the seventh time, his mobile phone rang.

“Mom’s arrived back home,” the voice said with a distinct French accent. “Merci,” he said and paused. He stroked his oiled black hair at his temple and cut the connection.


From “Educating Pizzy”

“My dearest Joe,

I hardly write any letters. This one encountered a difficult birth. I have thought about it for many days and yet I could not get my trusted pen to write down the words that tumbled from my mind. They disappeared into my soul and smothered there. Covered-up they became a barrel filled with red grapes, fermenting and bubbling. Finally they blew off the lid, spewing across these pages like blood…I will die Joe…I know it sounds final for me, frightening to you. The shadows around me remind me of the tomb I have soon to enter. I looked at a painting of Eurydice in the Underworld. I listened to Mahler’s Second Symphony, you sent to me and some quietness settled in my mind. But then Joe, I see your face and its expression of a desperate search for me. I do not want you to think I have abandoned you. It is a greater power. I have taken the picture of three women, symbolizing fate, from the wall of my room. I cannot look at them any longer. I talk as if I am already dead. Sorry Joe, don’t cry. This is a shock to me as much as it will be to you. I cannot help it. I have to tell you this. Joe, it took me weeks to muster courage. You are the first to know. I am crying, I cannot hold my pen right now…I have broken the cap, smashing the top of the pen you gave me for a present. Excuse the tear drops, it’s a mess…

Forgive me Joe, I stopped again, the teardrops have dried, the ink dissolved at places like my life has.

The drops of tears are for you. I left them, starting to write anew.

Joe, my poet, my man, my writer, my lover my other husband, even, if I am fantasizing: please listen to me. Why could I not meet you twenty years ago? We matched perfectly. I feared this more than anything else. When I met you for the first time, my knees buckled-up, my body started to stir immediately when you kissed me and the flash fire of want flared-up in me as you touched me and I felt your passion enveloping me. How wild has been the passion between us, a wild horse galloping into the endlessness?

Joe, I love you more than life, but life does not love me. I know what the Three Sisters do right now: Laughing with glee in the cupboard I locked them in. Atropos, the one with the wrinkled face like an old dried plum, waiting with her scissors to cut my thread of life…

From: ‘Spleen of Love’, by Z J Galos

He never had slept with two women this way before. The one he loved, asleep on him, while the other wanted him. He became suddenly conscious of being loved by two women, who loved each other as well. He thought that Symi had exhausted him, but he felt a pleasant moist sensation. Helen extending herself to his erection, Symi held. As if she anticipated Helen’s approach, he felt his chest tightening as Symi adjusted her face on his shoulder. He felt excited by Helen’s presence, he often imagined to be with him in those weeks of his recovery. She had been close and he often wanted her. Now she did lie next to him with her fire and her moist pubis and she moved with skilful movements exciting him. This way he stepped across a taboo of loving only Symi. As much as he wished to wake her, he wanted her to sleep on and she did not wake to his fingers stroking her side. As his hand moved down close her spine, she moaned soft moans and more intensely as his fingers slid along her bum. As more Helen took possession of his cock and moved on to him, the more his fingers slid into Symi. Helen sped up her ride on him and she brought herself to a height with ah’s and more gasps, relieved rather than giving…

Summer Solistice by zoltan zelan


Summer Solstice (take 02)

The day started with music from speakers

afar, vibes that move the leaves of the

magnolia tree in the front garden

shaping an image of her young and ready

for turning into a well-heeled woman

friend and lover alternating at times

if mind, body and soul will ask.

Madmen shout and blast gas canisters

against the growing tree of people

who defy pushed into subservience

giving freedom the sap of their leaves

napoleon, hitler, assad, whatever

history shows as its grim repeat with

black, red green and yellow seeds.

This, my beloved muse great friend

one day to the next we’d be caught

in the city’s magic acropolis of riches

lying just below its marbled veneer

of palimpsest emotions gentle probes

at first soft pushes of first digging

all the way to its pulses’ throbbing.

Sister temple lights through glass

marble, concrete its core of faces

figures shaping statues in our minds

their shells becoming flesh and blood

high art that holds us close, covered

with the shields of fateful lovers

red-hot sun and cool-blue moon.

Zoltan Zelan


The Bard – Trust


Trust is like the

blue of skies

it’s  present for now

but suddenly


like a pretty day in may

and a woman

denuded in the wake

of play.

Filling in forms with a black

Pilot pen  Hi-Techpoint

V7 fine   repetitive

regurgitated data    data

he chews  it like grass

pity the bard cannot

smoke any longer.

The sun still rises above

the long dust- green hill

but opposite a white façade

a blinding mirror

light in leaps of bouncy play

burns words on pages

of another inquisition

he has to trust.

It taunts his mind

a shell for survival

like a raft without rudder.

Zoltan ZelanImage, trust by ZG-Art