Out of the city’s tangled grey mass

The writer sped toward the meeting

With the poet

An illustrator of his dreams.

He rushed into the hall of illustrious

Coffee drinkers in a hum of

Trivial conversations

Except of some serious contemp’s

Who kept enclosed to themselves

Notating their thoughts on digital


‘I’ve conceived the story’ the writer

Said with his blue woolen cap on.

‘I’ve sketched down first thoughts’

The poet replied and added ‘let’s hear

Your story’.

Writer E prepared his laptop.

Poet Z opened his unlined notebook.

‘I wish a glass of Viennese water’

The poet asked the rushing waiter.

‘You mean tap water’ the waiter                                                                                                  

Replied ‘otherwise it might even come

From Tyrol’.

‘So?’ the poet felt pulled by his legs.

They both began to laugh as the poet’s

Question mark blew up a balloon

And rose toward the high ceiling.

Writer E started with his blurb of

Fantasy and it took off for 90 minutes

And intermeshed at the ceiling with

The poet’s huge Question mark-balloon.

Soon the succus of it came down like

Soft ‘Salzburg-drizzle’

Wetting the poet’s hair and skin

And sank into his innerness to ferment.

As the writer E ended his talk

A colourful balloon blew up and rose

Toward the high level ceiling

Where it hovered at the kerb of the

Main street thoughts

To be picked up like a waiting child.

Back into the city’s rushing mass

Of people cars trams and cyclists

The mind’s waves escaped into the

Early night air

Like a bottle of uncorked wine

Must ventilate

To turn into a pleasant drink.




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