Two Days at the A/F

Lack of sleep makes her

kick about

it also hails the poet

with arrows of scorn

albeit his efforts

to assist with good deeds.

But early morn’

queuing up at Dr.W’s rooms

to have a head start

for being looked after.

B – for her cystitis

Z – for problems in his ears.

The estranged spouse

sleeping at times with open

windows

is not becoming the poet

while Mrs B thrives.

Does she really?

The mineral water from

Jamnica

has fired up her senses

as she loves the product

but is annoyed with the

attitude of the

Medical doc’s secretary.

Now why wanted she get

me involved in her matters

in the first place?

Unfortunately she’s sick

in her soul

can’t get enough attention

and fulfilled favours yesterday

All forgotten today.

The poet writes away.

Downtown the temperatures

are more fair.

Viki talks self-assured

taking queues from famous

Parliamentarians.

But more so what’s amiss?

Mr T buys a croissant for

Mrs B

he takes another cheese bun

to change his 100 Euro note.

Then hands me 35.

Well I stopped querying the

amounts

In the end Mrs IRA will be

called upon to act as

Deus ex machina.

It’s difficult writing on the bus

but my thoughts are pushing me

to do so.

A black man enters bus 239.

World wide people push for

social justice.

I wonder

having received

human rights herein.

Austria – will Mr Black man

Integrate?

Whose tolerance levels have

not yet been tested?

The poet had lived for three

decades on lands of the

African South –

Afrique du Sud –

collecting good knowledge

on land and people

Apartheid and freedom

race and religion.

A plea by president Mandela

for a common spirit in belief

of the ‘Rainbow Nation’.

Unfortunately his party

did not respect him enough

to give him the chance

for a second term lead.

Today Thursday.

The poet needs to finally

get his olive oil from Crete

as agreed beforehand at

the Naschmarkt – Vienna’s

big marketplace.

However Mr T insisted on

writing the last batch of

sponsor letters as priority.

There would be time though

for the poet to walk to the

Spice Corner afterwards.

Viki seemed more agile

annoyed about this silly adding

and removing text and DVD’s

from the readied mail.

Where is your list? Mr T wanted

to know.

The poet packs and unpacks

hHis pages upon pages of lists

of potential sponsors with

addresses, just to check if he’d

missed some.

It’s all in there the poet announced.

Let me see! Mr T demands a copy

of the list

but he can’t read it

looking for days for his reading

glasses.

Oh fine. He says handing back

the lists to the poet

who dreams of a racy woman

looking at her mind as much as

at her body.

A couple appears. A Swede with

a Spanish woman.

The poet becomes stressed with

Mr T’s demands to hand him some

artefacts from the time during

WWII

explaining the paintings of his Dad.

The friendly couple pays for the

purchase of DVD and catalogue

and they leave with Mr T to

visit Café Hawelka

while the poet waits with a cup

of coffee he made himself.

He gives up on the idea going

to the Gewürz-Eck today.

At ten past six pm he steps into

the U1 at Stephansplatz.

Changing to the U4 train at

Schwedenplatz

he arrives in good time at

Heiligenstadt

to take the 241 bus to Weidling.

At provisional home Top 5

B talks of her day continuously.

He listens preparing his supper:

Sandwiches – cheese and onion

Green tea.

Slowly he relaxes.

Spouse B goes to bed early

while the poet works on until

11:30 pm.

Then he hits the sack.

Tomorrow he’ll go for his

Cretan olive oil and a bag

of Chinese Goji berries.

OLIVE OIL.LIO EVILO

zoltanzelan

©ZJG-POetry’17.

Mood,dooM

The mice completed their

nocturnal rounds

the warm gentle morning

roughed-up as she pushed

my feet suddenly

declaring I violated her

private space.

I have to keep calm

her anger pushes her brain

to spiral into a realm

where she rules as

Wonder Woman –

NO TV.

NO papers save for the

Sunday one.

She hates the small flat

she agreed to take.

Somebody has placed a bug

into her system

she began to hate me for

my work downtown

this morn’ thru’ a second

threat of killing a spouse

she said indirectly.

This is an invert to her father

threatening to kill her Mom.

Or so she told me once as

she witnessed their domestic

quarrels.

Bus 241 is cooled

a fridge reminding me of

a bad night’s rest

when she rejoices sleeping

with an open window

just like her aunty did and

her estranged sister does.

The mosquitos have left

Weidling

perhaps Chemtrails do their

exterminating job.

Income small insects.

Fruitflies.

Bees and wasps

tics multiplying fast.

Climate changes will be obvious

even to the many ignoring it.

Stay cool dude.

Mood.dooM

 

zoltanzelan

©ZJG-POetry’17

 

Celebrating a Good-Bye

Yesterday’s trip to

Minoritenplatz 8.

The man from Teheran drives

the Velo taxi erroneously

to the Bundeskanzleramt

where he’s redirected by

a friendly cop to return and

drive left to the European

Council of Austrian Affairs

where the sitting ambassador

of Slovakia will be bidden

formally good-bye.

Mr T would distribute his

A/F pamphlets and meet

some friends

ambassadors retired from

their duties

an elegant lady ambassador –

even retired her aura of

diplomatic efforts lives on

in her demeanor.

Mr J seems to be sad of

having to leave Vienna and

the entertaining side of

his diplomatic services

conducted in his domicile

in the Art Deco villa in

Hietzing

where we all enjoyed great

receptions on State holidays

of the Slowak Republic.

This morn’ after the reception

for his leaving

red wine and snacks and

petite fours

Mr T took us to famous

Café Demel at Kohlmarkt

where we met by some fate

Jacqui the Englishwoman

who enjoyed Vienna for

the first time.

Mr T showing her the white

commemorative plaque

at the house near

Café Hawelka

where Mr T family lived

when they emigrated to

Vienna from Bratislava.

Today B had run out of

The flat

to visit Dr W’s rooms

in Weidling.

Last day before his leave

I’ll need a transfer form

to a specialist of ENT.

This yo-yo climate is not

becoming either to the

artist

nor his spouse or friends

who lived for a long time

in the South of Africa.

Africa.acirfA

 

zoltanzelan

©ZJG-POetry’17.

Viva Creativity

Her health deteriorates

she blames today on lack

of sunshine.

Humidity carries bacteria

we are not used to.

She suffers infections

itching anus

bladder fevers

interrupted sleep.

I’ll get her medication

traveling by bus

it’s quite a lot

besides she landed with

a dysfunctional mobile

phone that stresses her.

Fortunately at present

I could run around for her.

Phobia developed in the

Bus Ride Air

stale and laden with smells

that compare to a rotten

cherry on top of the

country style cake.

Time to get well and enjoy

a holiday downtown

away from the madding

crowds

from a world wide assembly.

The poet has the best times

of his life

when he enjoys inner peace

within his recluse

of his artist’s corner

in this temporary home.

Viva creativity.

CREATIVITY.YTIVITAERC

 

zoltanzelan

©ZJG-POetry’17.

 

Slightly Sunken Ground Floor Flat

We live in  a ground floor flat

of 34 m2 in Weidling

facing a courtyard with gravel

split stone that holds the dust.

Besides this Saturday when B

is out

it’s my turn of cleaning the

flat’s floor

from all the dirt caused by

neighbour’s cars and visitors

a conundrum of traffic

on top of the black mechanic

doing work on the side.

But who cares?

One dwelling party pushes

responsibilities and duties

to the other.

There needs to be a strategy

dealing with this.

I’m thinking about it.

Funds are needed.

So I save up.

Meanwhile B complains

about her own issues of

being an equal partner.

Unfortunately with her

present mindset it looks

to her so much different

as to when I had to take

decisions on my own

for both our benefits

she does not acknowledge

at all.

 

zoltanzelan

©ZJG-POetry’17.

 

Spouses

Has an artist never to be

at ease?

The stirring done by his

spouse is enough

to bring about creative

sparks?

The spouse continually

dissatisfied

be it autoerotic habits

or the sense for fun.

Does an artist withstand

derogation

fuck-ups

accusations

continuous tirades from

his spouse?

It’s recoded in his flow

of Journal poems

away to express his creativity

and staying sane at the

same time.

What is that he has to deal

with?

The oscillation

of potential lovers and

irate spouses at hand?

SPOUSES.SESUOPS

 

zoltanzelan

©ZJG-POetry’17.

 

APART.TRAPA

First: She cursed me

for having tried telling her

about an economical package

that would save her 33% on

her mobile phone contract.

Besides I had to pay in

another ten Euro to help

Her out –

Paying for the failed attempt –

Then she was less insulting.

This kind of drama went on

For weeks.

Second: Finally other persons

directed her into the same

direction. Hah!

Now having found a woman

who helped her sort her

crazy problem of deceit

she praises to me her

tenacity solving it. OK.

It shows I had been scolded

innocently and suddenly

my original idea was not

bad at all

but a clerk at the shop

had not activated the new

called for package at all.

Why all this fuss?

Besides I had a great day

translating my short stories

“My Writing Tools” into

German.

When I am listening all day

to Chick Corea – Sitting apart

doing my own thing –

We are fighting less about

our individual ways

conducting our lives.

APART:TRAPA

 

Zoltanzelan

©ZJG-POetry’17.