love below the sea III

throw yourself into the

cretan sea

the med’s inky blue

use your imagination


from those muses

will pose for the artist –

black granite snakehead

emerald eyed bejewelled

golden frog

lots of kisses

but no standard prince

appeared –

teddy bear sleeps in the

shade of a sycamore tree

the artist in a blue dive

his muse a cousin of the

evasive nereids

blows him full of air

like efflorescent balloons

they float in love

below a sea of dreams

now and then

a/c issues a piece of herself

striptease of her artist’s

precious being

some days they meet in

the med’s magical blue


symposium of grand art.



nature will look after itself

years back he had reason

to smile

with his black beret

pinned on memories in tin

he lived on

then he met the owners of

a gallery

where his help was of


life embedded in the taste

of nourishing pickings

until his friend disappeared

to lands in the north

and shops were locked-up

loss of income all around

joie du vivre dimmed its


darkness pushed its angels

of attack

aggression turned its other


nobody saw before

but even in the harshest


a flower would grow

between rocky outcrops

inspiring the poet for hope

nature will look after itself

and man?






every artist will eventually

be recognized with praise

of being genuine

or condemned by the ignorant

the hoi-polloi of a lesser mind.

as mark rothko/painter/writes:

“a picture lives by


expanding and quickening

in the eyes of the sensitive


it dies by the same token.

It is therefore risky

to send it out into the world.

how often it must be impaired

by the eyes of the unfeeling

and the cruelty of the


the artist lives by his/her muse

in whose garden

he or she grows images of

his or her design.

all great art’s fount is thus

thru’ the spirit of a muse:

here the priestess of a temple

there the ritual of

sacred creation

fusion –

a tremendous earth-shattering

inner-most explosion –

thus the birth of great art.





the world around the artist‘s


has quietened down


businesses closed

some food shops remain

partly opened

the hum of everyday life

has faded

like the wintry skies

new state regulations

recall the curfew of 1944

somebody remarked

only artists keep comm’s


support each other like


thrive with great works

of art

any lockdown of public life

could never lock down

neither artists creativity

nor their fruitful and lively

communication –

all is in flux.

artists create in solitude

but we’ll never be overcome

or being conquered

by any curfew

however toned-down

words of so-called leaders

will gloss-over these presently

unfortunate times

with wash-over speeches

to nullify critical voices of

human beings –


your ideas.




friday 13 –

for too many a taboo

of engaging in any outdoor

activities/even stay inside

but to some even in their bed

all day

consider it a safe heaven.

as one observer of this day 13

that fell on a friday

riddled by his phobia of

superstition: bad things will

happen on such a day/ he said

not for the artist

who was born in his grandpa’s

house/at number 13.

which he had built himself and

he was not superstitious

while some hotels don’t feature

a floor thirteen.

however/the poet had a dialog

of interest with the artist

who cleaned-up the highly

polished polyurethane surfaces

of the panelled wall decorations

where his paintings were

attached by double-tape

for nine months –

imagine as long as a pregnancy

would normally take –

but for an exhibition a record

especially for a not yet well-known

artist to the viennese society.

on friday 13th the last procedure

of removing all exhibited pieces

of paintings

was a fine solo finnisage.





the saturday before the second

lockdown – people queue in shops

for gardening items/hobby builders/

gourmets have a last taste of their

favourite dish in their preferred

ambient setting.

a/ my neighbour walks with me

to the obi-supermarket

while i’ll better get my documents

to mrs c

obtain a red cross pass for low-income

groups/artists/the elderly/the jobless

crowds/the hungry/

while on the other hand

supermarkets throw away tons of food.

here/at the social-market

are only a few items of food displayed:

long lasting low fat milk/tin foods/

carnival-donuts filled with apricot

marmalade/ricotta/chocolate ginger


well/we’ll survive the second lockdown

for how long it’ll last nobody knows

but let’s focus on creative work

and forget the exit ban.

the poet and the artist don’t mind

the stricter general regulations

that much

don’t they work in a state of recluse

most of their times?





heute am zweiten tag –

today on the second day

of taking down my art from

the souterrain walls at zanoni

i finished at 14:00

my three larger canvasses –

part of the apollo frieze –

packed into a bubble-foil sheet

and rolled together safely

now then: mon phoned back

to report being in good health

and even ready to help me.

however: due to good logistics –

i/ who had waited for eighty

years to do this –

according to the pugilist/designer/

successful photographer/

have been determined to do it

all by my own

save for transporting 21 frames

of the smaller artworks

the demountable wooden frames

for the larger canvases/however/

it’ll be probably done by friday

the thirteenth day of november.

there’s no hurry now

neither has it been for 8 and ½


nor for disassembling or a finnissage/


i had my own finnisage – solo unico.





her head

the artist will grow

his muses’ images into

her painted head

seen thru’ all his personal


felt thru’ the tiniest touches

of his fingertips

touching the points on his


where her fingers once

had touched.

she talked of palimpsest


the artist had once encountered

in the south of africa

viewing rock-art of the san


out of the smoke and twilight

of an evening

setting her image took shape

to the flickers of a log fire

since then this image will

haunt the artist.



the archeologist

his head in the distance of


diminishing like in Giacometti


his arms stretching/stretching

out a long way into the past

where he digs to find the truth

about the existence of man/


his body has morphed into a

rock he digs about/around

dusting off the sand of ages

he tires out and snoozes

but gets alive

having come across a great

find – the sculpture of a green

woman/half blue

dunked into the surrounding

mineral juices

a bronze aphrodite

beauty symbol of ancient times

he carries in his arms

as if her feminine power

had instantly denuded him

catapulting him into the

half-blood prince

who fell in love with her

in spite of all intrigues and

fights for her favours

it was him

who had won the fight

in the end

with tenacity and patience.

the archeologist.



calcified remembrances

the ocean of human history

washed-out the pebbles of


heads once proud and perfectly

moulded to be models for the

classical sculptor

the great artist of Hellenistic art

forerunners of western cultures

now one in calcification and

colour with the seven seas.

from stone to dust

from dust to stone

the eternal to and fro goes on

with ebb and tide

an eternal circle of creation and


life and death

green floats of ghost-like

creatures/half plant/half man

and woman

fish-woman anna/creative/beauty

thru’ art

shark-man zz/fighting for art

art of the bigger creation of the


bird-man and deer-woman have

inspired the poet

the flow of his journal poetry

like her hair’s float/sea-delisk