On a Weidling Spring-like Day in November.

There’s no other

way out from being

pinned against

a verbal wall

than silence.

Much to the dismay

of an irate spouse

with desire to stay

all day on a sunlit


arriving on a one-way


contemplating to fall

victim of being

stabbed by a poisonous


while you

lifelong friend and protector


of sun-soaked paintings

on white-washed walls

preferred artist’s life


A Weidling spring day

in mid-November.




eternity of love

The POet

i watched you all my life

lost and found you between

my written lines

a red and yellow rose

your face

took on my poems in white

ink tattoos

on you amber skin

my first love poem to you

inscribed in miniature writing

upon your dusky eyes

and while I wrote you love letters

i thought were lost

your low cut top I came across

read with fascination my story

of the triad children sliding down

and year after year you let me

read at your birthday

another love letter

a poem I had put together for


but for my birthday you let me

embrace all your body and in love

i would read my first novel about

love called fervor

you kept all these years

embroidered on your amber skin

with every stroke its pages turned

and with loving you gave me

a palpable exhilaration

this the eternity of love.




Demoiselles de Vienne – Nica

I’ve painted her face many times

have reveled in her dusky eyes

those glowing coals of her soul.

I’ve dreamed of her child-woman


entirely covered in body-art

her elfin gait and speedy flight

shooting arrow-feelings

burning from her softest touches.

I’m one of many who fall in love

with her listening to her talk

The sensual sound of her voice

envelopes everybody

she decided worth to be liked.

But most of all Nica wishes to be


showered with attention

seeking a mate on par standing:


critical mind with a deep sense

for aesthetic values.

Through strength she oozes great

willpower and against the noon

light she looks as if Jacopetti had

modeled her as his favourite

like ZG’s number one model

he’s drawn many times.

Arranging a huge canvas with four

of her sister-friends –

Mona  Vivienne  Luba  Ella…

ZG’s homage to Picasso.




Diminuendo in Blue 渐弱蓝色 (II)

Once emerging from loneliness

the poet has taken the hand

offered by a contemp artist

human being and fighting spirit for

all suppressed human beings

on the verge of extinction.

Dulled are times before and even

of past Muses conceding to the

poet’s gait of moving forward into

the land of extreme differences.

An interpretation that’ll split up his

inner world of extreme solitude

where he found reflections of his

true feelings

but also counteractions of a devil’s


When artistic intuitions recline and

fade into the milky atmosphere

of a known rapid passing landscape

he’ll take memo-shots with his mind’s

instant digicam

for later rework of the images from

a trip to new frontiers of feelings.

Like dough kneaded by his body’s

resistance for anything different

compared to sacred images of Anne

Muse of one in a lifetime love.

Is this a concluding protest of the straw

that rises up man high

before the flames of an all-consuming

flash-fire take it down and

in spite its rising white smoke density

it slowly diminishes

between coats of blue lacquer

upon the broad canvas of the skies?





Bluebird of happiness

Closing down the old year

some files on art and poetry

thinking about Muses

friends and bad encounters

flashpoints in front of

my mind’s eyes.

Most important is freedom

of mind and soul

love that happens

at an instant.

Sensing human vibes

the artist choses his

appropriate canvas.

The poet extracts his words

from the midst of paint and


while his tear turns into

a precious stone

the bluebird of happiness

that grew out of this

woman’s wavy hair

holds in its open beak.

Is she a foreboding spirit

of his next Muse?




At 7am Monday morn’

Even if my birdsong-alarm

pulls me gently from my sleep

I praise myself lucky

that signs of my body’s

disintegration have faded

over night.

I may sense again a workable

body pleasant enough

to face libido-charged Alma –

She entices my own libido

or whatever is left.

At 7 am Monday morn’

a short walk in fog and

darkness – it pays to be

early at Dr. W’s practice

never mind all moans from

an irritated spouse

and I wish to leave as fast as

I possibly can

longing for my personal


I’ve left behind on an island

in the Ionian Sea.





A mirror he polishes

Do we matter to the

Rest of the world?

Do we matter to our friends?

Do we matter to the art world

As artists without funds?

Do we matter to any

Publishers other than RG?

Thank God for those friends

Who believe in us

The critical rationalists

The god – fearing believers

The good in men

The soul in women.

What did his muse promise?

To send him a woman

Who’ll care!

He found one

Then had to leave her

To find another who’ll care

But won’t love him

The way he desired.

There’ll be no more love

But reflection

A mirror he’ll polishes

From now on.




Three Sons

3 Sons                                                                 ( To the documentary movie by Birgit Karin Weber)

You offload your tempest

with the tips of your fingers

to support the pleas against

inhumane decisions

continued attempts to rub-out

facts of proven history.


Besides an online voting system

besides a ‘like’ for community

contributions worldwide.


You have to fight for your freedom

to contribute your artistic efforts

in video verse and prose

depict your inner rebel’s storm

onto digital media of art:

Paper  canvas  walls and ceilings.


You have traveled to northern lands

along rivers  meadows  changing woods

trees in bright electric yellow along

streamlined white metallic city shells

that nobody noticed but admired

on their electronic screens.


You stood knee-deep in awe

venerated this age of artistic comm’s

messages of tempest


desperation and sparks of hope.


Barbed wire

black railway lines that led to the

iconic arched entrance of the

most infamous extermination camp

with promise of sure death.

Incineration. White smoke.


Hope –

Yes hope still lives on in sons

of the next generation enhanced by an

artistic docu – 3 Sons – living proof

the Holocaust mastered but never forgotten.

Evol. Epoh. Rever0f.





Listen to Cannonball

in Frisco and Japan

swing and blues with

bebop in his jiving style.

The atmosphere’s just right

earphones cut the daily nag

around my sole domain.

Drifting into a groove of

artistic intuitions

take sketchbook crayons

ballpoint pen and paints

let loose the inner happy


For it’s a celebration of

eroticism and as such the

viewpoint of each individual

responding to the vision of

an artist and his poet.

From Plato to Bateille

From Leonardo to Dali

From Schiele to ZG

Viva le arti.