SATURDAY

I wake for a second –

Out of a dream

dogs fornicating –

A young chap has

just screwed my wife

who? It’s me?

I did not recognize

my former well-built

shell of a golden boy.

 

She moans – but not

from pleasure

turned horse whisperer

snake charmer…

My body ‘s wide awake.

 

I hear complaints and

her angst she harbours

coming of age

drying up skin

like oven dried prunes.

Yet steely and tough

a boat on high seas

coping for survival.

 

I recall having discussed

necessary preps for

one’ own death

she shies away from

such musings.

 

I unscrew the filter

on the water tap

while the kettle heats up

and hot water will be

ready for tea.

 

It’s humid. I wish to be

on the Isle of Crete

where Great Gran had

once eloped from.

His name still features

on a village’s signboard

close to the university

of Heraklion’s campus.

 

At SOMA I collect some

groceries

dark bread and chocolate

but coffee – it has to be

Illy coffee –

from the supermarket

nearby.

 

It started raining continually

my head covered

and the goods in a holdall

and carrier bag.

 

Time to go and get on the

bus 241.

Nema.ameN

 

zoltanzelan

©ZJG-POetry’17.

 

 

 

 

BUILD.DLIUB

First a hug as he returns

From his shower –

Her finger runs along his

Spinal groove –

His senses suddenly wake.

 

The boiling pot of water

Interrupts her game –

Coffee…Illy coffee

She’ll stop anything for:

The tasty dark brown brew

Especially if brewed by the

Poet.

 

But then as he makes himself

Ready for taking off to A/F

She reprimands him not

Having made his bed.

 

It’s like a continuous play

Where an irate spouse

Pulls a poet down from

His own cloud of reflections.

 

She attempts not only to

Show her acidic side

But also to feel satisfied

With some revenge.

 

For her life has not

turned out the way she

had imagined it would

having acquired an

opposing position.

 

Tourists flock to buses

And trains

Trams and velotaxis.

The United Nations have

Arrived in popular Vienna

absorbing chocolates galore:

Portraits of Sisi and Mozart

Klimt and the Kaiser.

 

Perhaps next time also Freud

Zweig and Kraus

Schnitzler and Werfel.

To extend sweetened memories

And dance waltzes produced

In tarantula style?

 

It’s the least of real problems

If Klimt’s or Schiele’s

Mozart’s or Beethoven’s face

Decorate cakes or chocolates.

 

If we cannot build a nation

With selected foreigners

We ought to close and should

Not cry about our losses

Of moving freely about.

BUILD.DLIUB

 

zoltanzelan

©ZJG-POetry’17.

 

Espresso H/S

Bad vibes on a pretty day

with blue skies

like being on a Greek Isle.

 

The poet wakes into a good

mor’n

cleaned window panes

cleaned bedsitter’s floor

a great deal of dust and grime

washed off yesterday

until late evening.

 

In spite of a clouded sky

strewn diamonds aglitter

on the dew-covered red car

in front of the bedsitter’s

window.

 

The artist’s spouse in pain

asking for a pot of Illy-coffee

with a medium roast

she dearly has taken to.

 

Bus 239 filled to capacity.

High season for the tourists.

The air is thick and creamy

To be cut like a curded cake.

 

Mrs IRA at A/F already busy

with clever voluptuous Viki

while the poet sorts Mrs IRA’s

expense chits for two years

with stoic constant motions.

 

Mr T the jealous Skorpio will

send the poet for Italian

ice cream

to his fav shop around the

corner in Tuchlauben

he hates to visit personally

besides to greet the short

sympathetic blond woman

from polish origin.

 

Then as the chits are sorted

the poet takes off to deliver

two well-appointed letters

in the vicinity.

He feels like a piano player

who is told to have a second

pint of beer.

 

Thanks to Gösser Märzen

but he’ll get it only at the

cubicle of Espresso H/S

due to be 30 minutes early

for his direct bus departure.

Ice cold can.

GÖSSER.RESSÖG

 

zoltanzelan

ZJG-POetry’17.

HER FACE

Her face I knew

I had lost to mortality

but in another reality

even if I worked up

deep anger

against untimely loss

of love

it still sits inside me.

 

If I cannot find her face

in front of my mind’s eyes

my fingers reach

for a ballpoint pen

immediately:

The graphic search goes on.

It had never stopped

since the tragedy in Athens

where numerous works

of my art had been lost

due to human ignorance

and greed.

 

Outcries of my soul had

never stopped –

Orpheus in the underworld

looking for Eurydice.

 

Her face on my canvas

in my kitchen domain

my soul flies to her

false door of her tomb

every night.

 

zoltanzelan

©ZJG-POetry’17

LOTUS

Don’t lock the door

dammit! I have to go out.

Ok well how’d I know

that she’ll try that hard

to take the next bus trying

since early morning?

But she’ll communicate

aloud

curses me thru’ the wide

open window

as I walk up the gravel path –

of contention between us –

that leads to Hauptstrasse

with a sharp left toward

the bus stop

next to Leopold Figl – Haus.

Lately the missing F had been

replaced.

She reaches the bus in a huff

and prefers to sit behind the

driver upfront

while I sit at the first elevated

row next to the ticket validator

in midpart.

Just in case:

The practical side of the artist

whispers inside

preparing for a scenario of

a controller stepping inside

And validating one’s

Prepaid ticket in a jiffy is part

Of daily survival.

Life at an advanced age

has forced him to economize

the best way he can.

You can get Sushi & Maki

at a 50% reduction –

Bold green letters state on

the glazed façade

of a Eastern eatery in

Nußdorf

I notice from the bus every

time we ride past

but it’s out of my reach.

Soon we’ll be turned into

bionic men

who will grow digital

relationships with bionic

women.

Still Lotus Love will be around

forever.

Lotus.sutoL

 

zoltanzelan

ZJG-POetry’17.

 

 

 

Beginning of August

already September announced

with suddenly cooled down air

that carries the tactile

message.

 

Life’s like an expanding balloon

it’ll burst in the stratosphere

of thoughts.

Her pent-up anger nags

like a woodworm

thru’ the softwood of his

peripheral being.

No use of displaying him

a panoramic view of the

island Paros

her present delusion tours

her around.

 

He wakes into the chatter

of smartphone people

and the tiring pace of a

downtown commuter

whose mortal shell

has been sapped from

physical strength

but whose soul is enriched

by stints of soothing

environments –

Where the stubble face of

Zorba dominates the

contemp white temple

of Greek cuisine

calling back memories of

Love and Understanding

Passion and Desire

the scent of charcoal-grilled

lamb

the smack of turquoise seas

in tight oral embraces.

 

There’s never a boring ride

on the line bus

amidst a market of

unbridled chatter.

Voices of Europe

not yet united but

will they ever?

 

Balloon.noollaB

 

zoltanzelan

ZJG-POetry’17.

Kythira

What a morning

of pristine polished

crystal

Viki wears engraved

at the nape of her neck –

You touch it

it’s yours for a while.

Possessions have worked up

a new meaning

in the physical world

of an ongoing octogenarian

tinted polished

Per Sol glasses fend off

damaging rays of our

solar system.

Fragilities we feel at times

are directly related to the

endless blue

we perceive as part of

motions

of the Big Wheel

like a floating feeling in

our bellies

on a bus ride

downtown.

Young long-legged girls

in their sheer hot pants

assured stride along

to shores of joy

within our wishes.

In between all the

colourful female assembly

at Kythira

we might be lucky to find

a matching mate

stepping ashore

sand below our feet

warm dark pebbles

hugging our backs

intimately.

Nature’s sap

drop for drop

precious white blood

below our heated

tongues.

Away we fly –

a favourite isle left behind

on the coffee table’s display:

Kythira.arihtyK

 

zoltanzelan

ZJG-POetry’17.