between masks and stanzas

lies reality and art

not transparent

any longer

all together equally carry


forced to a questionable

uniformed mass.

the stanzas flare up

while the long hair falls

to the thrashing floor of

man-forced reality –

you only have to peel

the onion

so your tear-filled eyes

will see the truth in the


forced realities in everyday

life belie the tokenism of

cultural institutions for art.

truthful art lies on a layer

of reality

the artist has fought for

all his life –

you know the biographies

of many

but not many will take the

one step to care about it –


will eventually come with

a lockdown

destruction of the human

fibre for living

art/ the modifier/ humidifier

of the soul/ last barrier for

a joie du vivre/ air to breathe.




do it

at an age of eighty and


there are not even a few

ways open

to earn a decent living

for somebody

who has the arts at his


not that he’d not be willing

to lend a hand or a few hours

of his time

to even help with menial work/

any work/ any time


most members of the society

in general

look down upon the aged

despite in good condition

and health

the only weapon the artist

or poet wields

is the sword of his brush

or the choice of his

written words. do it.

so be it. artist paint!

poet write.

do it.ti od




not yet as impossible to


not yet in a state of fear

and anxiety

though problems with

a roof over one’s head –

unbecoming dystopian –

if one wouldn’t come off

one’s comfortable seat and

act to face stark realities

in the real estate market


if that will fail

you have to fall back on

the goodwill of friends

who might be in a position

of such assistance

anybody would appreciate


could you still manage

dear poet/ artist/ fellow

human being

to work up some

joie du vivre for the

last rounds

of your life?





he had better days before

where matters of his concern

worked well like clockwork

but now in a sudden gust

of wind

thoughts were swept from

one important conversation

before taking shape

could have become an

important piece of art/

a beautiful sculpture

shaped by loving hands/

some important basis

that could bear the statue

of their dreams

poised to verify the union

of a woman and a man –

who were

once happily married

but then some traps laid

by her cunning sister

made her look guilty as hell.

trust lay broken

like a cup of fine porcelain

dropped to the tiled floor.

for years it meant sailing

in troubled waters

visits to foreign shores/

pyramids/ nefertari’s tomb/

palestine/ Israel –

bethelehem/ negev/ jericho/

akko/ artists & archeologists/

soldiers and religious folk/

antiquities and minimalist


like life’s ups and downs/

the forward/ the sideway

sways/ in midst st stephen’s

square vienna/

the horse and carriage ride

has woken to new life.

six years of compression –

this life in close vicinity to

vienna/ derision/ ignorance/

badly managed properties

for rent

will drive the tenants toward

the danube

to float down in search for

new opportunities in the

city of music

as known until recently.




poet & friend

midweek/ time flies.

mr t. isn’t always ‘en garde’

definitely today earlier up

as usual.

first motion – open up his

laptop –

there’s always a celebration

in the digital world:

lots of laughter about some

e-mail hackers

who demand thru’ fabricated


substantial money transfers

if you happen to be without


you’ll never fall for such an



for the sensual artist/

the innermost conscious poet/

who discards idiocy/

he-who lives within his stanzas

sleeps sweet dreams

in the lair of his muse

in the princely clouds of his

elevated mind

where wise humans never


but wise humans never fall

in love.

now then.

a morning’s flight above

the roofs of vienna’s core.




from muse to poet

the white refuge
clearview to virtual greens
resting upon
mozart’s sling back canvas
head rest
reads sheet music dances.
grandma’s clock has ceased
its tick-tock
its dials show thirteen to ten.
sweet morning tea matcha
berries on white bread
the mind ‘ll paint the outlines
of another human drama
the brush will dot the I’s and
cross the t’s.
no mornings are alike
especially if you travel
from a usual working bench
to the groove of muses you
have met/adored/ loved/
and appreciated on your journey
beyond the planet/ through
the stars/ the endless universe.
soft light wetted by your dreams
the needle-prick showers stir
your body
from drowsiness to half-life/ to
full life/ to quarter-life
depending on the one kiss blown
from magenta lips
to seek her matching kind.
from artist to artist
from muse to poet.



in midst of a sea of faces

one that draws your attention

a steel pin flung to a magnet

impossible to escape this attraction

and all to do with chemistry –

science tells you.

in midst of checking mail

one letter will stick out like a snap

and endeavour with mastering

of words on a daily routine

you are already trapped-in the

tender communication

the power of words will tell you.

in midst of thoughts

about art and sophisticated

aesthetical considerations

she’ll stick out in a flash

with her hazel eyes/straw hat

presented as a lady in French blue

fine-boned fingers of an artist

an elegant appearance

beguiling smile. snap.

your admiring soul

caught in the tender trap

like the paradisiacal bird

she paints on ivory wood

a part of paradise lost

sensitively caught with pencil

and brush

on an interior reflection of

her innermost responses in

her fingers.

your fired-up soul tells you.





slithers of light

thru‘ the windows  of the

subway/ danube channel’s

explosion in graffiti-art

along the city’s local beaches

chilling point for the younger


mozart’s coiffeur/ manuel and

Sonja – the team of today’s

‘hoaschneida’ art conscious –

exhibit also the artist zg.

zanoni – ice cream king

not yet allowed to let groups

of people into their famous

cellar congregation hall people

gather at lugeck-terrace for

ice cream/ coffee/ toast & tea.

zg’s art has to become ice in

the august heat

and on top being edible.

point of intellectual departure

at el gaucho where different

types of art are talked about

especially about basic desires

in people/ instant gratification/

age of delusions/ fake news/

continual sorting out of info/

suffering not only of artists

but whole economies

save for the egg-heads bright

investments glowing for the

visitors in the first rows of this

theatre of masks

perhaps that’s why dope-kings


yet good moments to get acquainted

with the players of district three

especially when living at the edge

of society multinational.





on august seven –

the poet in him said:

‘it’s now 191 months

she had died/ meaning

5841 days since her passing’.

‘who was this person?’ the man

from munich asks

and you may imagine him

quite easily converted by face

and shape of head into a clown

no wig needed

he has the perfect wreath of hair

left naturally for the task

the poet continued: ‘she was a poetess

one of a kind/ part Sappho/ part seferis/

or so she appeared to me with her work/

talented / and a great woman/

caught between her personal poetry/

her teaching/ her feminist calling/

her beauty’. he paused and rasped.

now then – the poet continued

she would have been an equal partner

for life/ and family/ if we’d met in our

late teens/ not only in virtual life.

he paused again.

‘and why ‘s august seven so important?’

the ‘clown’-man wanted to know.

‘ha!’ The poet exclaimed – ‘I had been

accepted again by greek artists

while writing my poetic journal that day’.

‘mh’ his friendly neighbour said


‘well’ the poet replied – ‘I guess she had

sent me friends and a new muse’.


‘yes. I hope to build a new artistic life

In this exciting process’.

‘good luck’ – his friend said – ‘cheers!’




shifting brains

don’t get worked-up

by either friend or spouse

associates or the brainless


shift brains –

the artist in ‘painter’s key’


it’s not new to me when in

the artist’s mood

but i became conscious

having done it all my life

whenever i draw/paint/

or compose a poem/ write

a short story/ or work as if

possessed by an angel or


from one stage to another

from one level to the next

i often wondered how many

levels there could be.

perhaps i had a pretty deep

going on a few levels

in my hey-days of 2012

but whatever level you may

come to visit

the one that possesses you


is the one you seek as a writer/

a poet/ a painter.

the moment you are shifting


there’s a journey you’ll be

fascinated with

and every time of coming out

of it

it’s like dying a bit

just like ‘petite mort’ as the

french say to a physical climax

in love/

inspired writing/poetry concepts/

drawings and paintings will be

like never before.

‘shifting brains’.