on this twentieth of march

the poet slept like a log

once he had taken medication

for his shoulder joint pains

no wonder/ as it had snowed

at night

the morning’s air fresh/ but

off to the social shop

fill his trvel bag with good

selected foodstuff:

ratatouille from the deep freeze

bakeries and whole wheat rolls

vanilla cescents/ bitter chocolate

carrot juice/chicken with rice

and some curry sauce/ uncle ben’s

rice with quinola/ three oranges

from spain.

all good enough for a week and

more/ until a monthly minimal

pension arrives

were it not for my muse mmm

i wouldn’t have tasted delicious


filled with superb apricot jam

from her favourite pastry shop.

from the five piece box

the poet ate three immediately

delightful. fluffy. irresistible.

his evening meal.




zjg poetry’21.


what happened to voluptuous bodies

as rubens#heritage dissolved for

a century in the myriad of modelled

bodies/ designed for the minimal use

of cloth/ just as a juxtaposition to the

ionic fashion of the hellenistic era?

the creation of a new body trend

that promised a brilliant career for

the new woman/ he-she gender –

a new gender creation/ a far cry from

thefeminine ideal of the hellenes.

take your pick.

what is really important/ once you’ve

tasted love/ lived desire/ good sex

adventures in eros?

it’s the person/ not the body alone

neither boby nor too voluptuous

certainly a bonus for the lucky artist

the happy-go-lucky bon vivant.

from symbols of beauty – venus:

willendorf to aphrodite of knidos

aphrodite by praxiteles – all resemble

beauty as summary of mind/ body

and soul

beauty isn’t only in the face and body

but the spark inside.

spark and body.





if you met by chance a woman –

you have met before/ at a time when

she was inhibited with learning about

various cultures – especially classocal

egyptian/ hellenistic greece/ modern

chinese –

you are surprised that she suddenly

will not solely remembered you

but also enjoys your talent as an

artist/ supporting you with a letter

some ink and a pen/ watercolor paper

a walnut-pasrty/ an invite for lunch

goat cheese in a capped pyramid box

showing you artistic fotographs of a

sensible soul

you’ll be thinking of painting her

one day. indeed.

as a muse has always followed you

all your artistic life/ the cycle of muse

and artist follows you:

at the age of 80 plus 11 months

may this year of (9) not be a year

feared by all artists concerned about

the number nine

but become a revolutionary year

for mutual success.

as her engagement for humanity

and your obsession with your art

may fuse to an even atomic event

thru’ drawing/ painting/ and thru’

philosophical writing

forging the base for a new novel

with atistic value/ perhaps.

follow your artistic life/ artist!





he moves about in a dream

time frames pass without recognition

by his mind – a blank canvas where

he paints her portrait/ a nude with

a soft feel all around/ without accurate

body shapes/ perhaps an idea

picasso inspired him with. whatever.

he only has to ask her for a session

of some sensuous fotographs

but that wouldn’t be the same

as doing a life sitting –

perhaps why she suggested in the

first place to do a portrait of him

using the fotographic method

so to avoid the nearness

desires to come up?

well/ he had only one muse

to watch and feel him in an act

of autoeroticism/ closely embraced

in a niche at a portal of a historical

byzanthine church

with a century old wooden door

to lean against in pure ecstasy

she called: lovemaking.




there it was: the day for visiting

mon the artist

her flat so close to the station

what a great position to be off

in a jiffy and back .wow.

good spaces/living to bedroom


a good way to conduct life

as an artist.

besides we are two artists at

a similar wavelength

there’s no hinderness to the life

of two kindred spirits

life to be lived independantly.

she’ll draw like an athlete runs

wishing she’d be priviledged

for producing more art.

think of the athlete – the poet

says to her – but he is gentle

as she sponsors his next book

edition: cantos libidos.

thank you dear mon/ mona lisa

the poet is full of praise for his

friend and sponsor.

who would now in this age of masks

not be incarcerated in her heart?




portrait m1

downtown to the city of saints

on a saturday early afternoon

sunny but without more strength

to warm the air being pleasant

pallid blue the skies/ cotton wool

floating clouds

the artist forgot his gloves –

the air is quite nippy

a far cry from the warmth of

afrique du sud’s pleasant climate


one got used to very quickly.

but not to the northern polar

claws of the wind

that grabs your neck and balls.

fortunately meetings of artists

with like minds

or has his illusion of being thus


clouded his stirred-up


red wine from eastern vineyards

blaufränkisch-cultivar a tradition

for any ageing artist from hinzel

though he still may hold his own

matters in love.

drawing a portrait: a point of departure

extensions to erotic studies may

now again open up

her world of voluptuous overflow

bums to be studied

faces and nudes/ two portraits






if you are not an instant sleeper when

you go to bed/ before midnight

you’ll be in for white nights at times.

some folks seem to be working at night

bright lighting will be the most

disturbing factor from a 30 feet close


across a yard

surfaced with stone-split

working itself into the ground by cars

that zip-in and out from boisterous

teneants/ and all pedestrians walk close

passed the poet’s window

preferring the concrete apron

to the rain-sodden ground

its split sticking to the soles of modern

shoes of mass production.

this rainy morn’ fresh air ozon saturated

but breathing so much easier

at least air pollution somewhat cleaned

even a walk from the bus station kierling

along stadtplatz to the HNO-praxis of

dr brand isn’t that unpleasant

albeit brolli/ shoulder bag/ FFP2 mask

and padded raincoat : and all for just

having my blocked nose blown out.

whatsa the matter? the doch asks rushing


i lost my smell/ my spouse said

i cannot even smell the indication of food

burning on the electrical stove

but only when it’s too late to save it

becoming charcoal.





already hermann hesse wrote

about the strange experience

to walk along in the fog

everything seems to be alone

one cannot see the next object

quite so today.

the fog of this corona-time

has masked the people

who stay separated and alone

stare into their cellular phones

and isolate themselves

thru’ virtual communication

in a virtual life

where reality and dream are fused

for the better or for the worst

and the poet wonders

if he could experience

still the love he has in himself

to share with a corresponding


a person who loves to touch.




noel + muses

have you ever drawn up asummary

of your muses

who have inspired your writing –

the dwarf/ who knocked at the huge

kitchen window/ asked the poet.

no/ not yet/ but i certainly should

do so and also write it down

before i will forget it/ he sniggered

and his friend pygmie noel

staggered to his racing car/ sped off.

the poet still could hear his hyena-laugh

a cacphonic sound lingering in the air

noel the raing driver/ hahaha!

the poet checked out his emotional state

thinking of a flare-hipped woman

with an angelical smile on her fine-lined

lips that appeared like an opening wound

pink-red and moist.

i need to write about my muses/ indeed

mon would inspire this part already well

a woman with an expressive

gluteus maximus.

the poet would write between the extremes

of appearances in women:

the emaciated women from the holocaust

the richly endowed near barock-appearance

of his muse in art/ he certainly will depict

them both for his huge canvas

he had only thought thru’ until now.

it could be for an exhibition of his

muses-series – MUSES 2/ muses continued

from an exhibition that has yet to

materialize at spittelberg’s atelier ‘A’.






‘er irrt herum im bedsitter’

his wake-up in a mess of


his body moves to a life of its own

he concentrates/ switches on his

silver laptop on loan

for a check-up on the status of

his books on BoD –

where he forgot to activate payment

and agreement for a one-year contract.

he has sold 35 books since he started

two years ago –

but even if writing cannot support

his living/ it’s all he has left

to express himself with text and

with drawings.

the woman sitting opposite in the

rattling post-war bus/ on a higher

seat to his/ above a wheelcover

legs crossed – a free model to look at

legs crossed over/ the left kneecap

showing thru’ her charcoal tights

her anatomy appears visible to the

artist who denudes her of her brown

overcoat/ her light-beige jersey

with only a dove-grey woolen shawl

left abover her charcoal stockings

a strong-boned figure

fallen asleep

the rattling bus shaking her legs open

showing her muscular thighs –

would she sit model for him?