AKA People

It’s a real treat to be sitting

In the warmed up bus

At this inhospitable November


Commuting from Weidling to



Even looking forward to an

Invite to dinner with Mr K

The frequent traveler from


AKA Chicago Kurti.

Now then

It’s a challenge for Mr T

Who I will assist lending an

Arm and watching his steps.

Wir schaffen das!

Surely a special occasion

Mr T queries CK’s frequent

Visits to Vienna.

Certainly he must have a

Tolerant wife for sure.


I’m the polite lead-back guide

And always available friend

To give a helping hand.

The artist who came in from

The heat of Africa of the South.

AKA the DI/ the Burgenländer/

The survival artist/ a real artist/

The Bard.

AKA People.




Today November 12.

This cold rainy November

Finally started to prick a

Bad nerve of the poet

Who has an ongoing dialog

With his basic human shell.

This room with a dark


A wide most comfortable

Bed with a green fine

Knobbed sheet and

Sunny-yellow covers

Stirs sentimental feelings.

Now then –

‘Leaving behind

Damned cold rainy Vienna

The comfy bed of a wondrous


Will not despair my cooking

Creative being’.

‘But take the acquired energy

To finalize my poetic efforts’

The poet said and put the

Collar of his leather coat

Up high below his woolen


For the changeover to bus 401.






Er frägt sich –

He questions himself –


The moment he wakes

Steps out of bed and

Brushes his long hair:

‘Am I still alive to fulfill

A purpose on this planet?’

As an artist he has failed

To attract a greater audience

And followers

Than the core of his family

And perhaps some friends

Who commissioned him

To work to themes

That had never entered

His artistic mind

Paying a tribute to surrealism

And developing his own style

Of ‘Mystical Realism’.


As a poet he had more success

On the World Wide Web

And at times he had 33 clicks

Of readers in one day.

A new group of readers will


He thought

Who’ll treasure his journal

His journal poetry

He was writing since he had

Read more deeply into the

Work of George Seferis.

His Muse Ana was instrumental

For introducing him to the

Great poet.

Poet to Poet

Ana to ZZ.

This then is his purpose for

His existence?

Ana sending him a new Muse

She had approved for him?

PURPOSE.ESOPRUP                                            zoltanzelan ZJG-POetry’19.


Since some months this year

Changes were imminent

From one quarter to another

Some 40 minutes of

Travelling time

It feels as if the poet has been


From one Muse to another

A tired leopard changing his


The short time on the road

At times challenging to

The poet

Not due to distance or time

But due to the growing masses

Of people travelling

From a gravel yard discoloured

By the continual abuse of the

Neighbour’s cars

The black particles of fossil


Burned in nearby ovens

The smog from diesel energized

Car’s unclean exhausts

The dense fog depressed by

A low pressure system

All together not addressed

Either by the local council

Nor by the county

For all who had a face to face


With project management:

Take your jackets off and

Put up your sleeves.

Just do it. Don’t talk endlessly.





The poet’s friend

Artist of life with a joie du vivre

Storyteller of his daily dreams

He flies off into virtual lands

Gardens of desire and lust

A reflection of H. Bosch

Wondrous shaper of atmospheres

Where the poet enjoys happy hours

Of wanderings through exotic

And erotic sceneries

He so graphically could describe.

The poet’s friend

At times an innocent moniker

Projecting the images of a ball

Of people interlaced in their

Intimate embraces

A love sit-in in masses

The joys of orgasm for all.

No more wars.

Peace – the poet’s friend.

Love – the artist’s Muse.

Life at ease – the artist of life

At his best.





Hugging the ghost of a Muse

In a close embrace

Feeling a pair of hands all

Over you

The forever yearning for

Human closeness

The warmth of a liked body

Continually seeking a union

Of flesh and mind.


The artist’s world of sensuality

Will always differ from the state

Of his inner freedom

With which he’ll express his art

That’ll roll past a landscape of

His soul

In ever mutating configurations

In a state of creative intensity

The looking glass of his spirit’s


‘See now’. He’ll entices his Muse

‘And dance for me a dance of

Veils amongst the Jasmin fields

Of an exuberant sundrenched

Summer’s day’.

Frozen for an extended moment

He’ll sketches her with feverish

Strokes of his coloured pens

He takes ad hoc

From his blue polyester bag.

And soon this fever of creation

Has invaded his Muse

Who stumbles and falls into

A bed of soft grass and lilies

Upon the stretched-out body

Of the artist.





It’s not that certain

That you are invited

To a Chinese restaurant

In these times of economical


That could affect the whole

Of Europe in time.


On a Monday evening

Mr T had phoned me to join

Him in his old haunt of Kiang.

He came with another friend

Who has visited from Bavaria.

Basically a nice chap

Somewhat ruff for my taste

Telling us a series of medial


Won Tan soup tasted good

He said.

I had no capacity for soup and

Chose a vegetable wok.

Mr T was disappointed about

His fried rice and shrimps

While P didn’t enjoy his beef

Dish he usually eats. He said:

‘This is not good Chinese food’.

In the end Mr T and I shared

Some vanilla ice cream.

Rather delicious as a desert.

P had a rather pricy soft drink

While Mr T and I had a glass

Of Vienna water from the tap

An excellent spring water from

The nearby mountains:

Schneeberg and Rax.

Still intact in the hysteria of

Climate change

Which according to NASA science

Is completely exaggerated.


It’s the waste we humans create


To grow this horrid dirt

That we haven’t thought through

To deal with

In apparent visible actions.

Clean House.

Clean Cities.

Clean the Seas.

Clean the World.

And what about the wars?