nothing else makes you

feel waiting longer in time

than waiting for a bus to arrive

nothing makes a poet feel more

rejected than a chosen woman

who won’t react

to all his love poems

and having spent time between

sheets of cotton-clouds and

a wholesale store of words –

suddenly an unfortunate slip

on a porcelain floor

emerging naked from the

shadows of a temple’s inner


a priestess of aphrodite’s

cloud-cushioned bed

held up by seven muscular


nothing makes you feel more


than her sexual attentions

when just as much time had

been allotted for waiting

but it feels like cut in half.





fleeing forward – a rapid

movement invades my feet

and it even amazes my

spouse of endless years

that i gained such mobility

such strength in my legs

with twice her model-weight

“incredible” – she whispers

carrying on a monologue

i’ll hear still fourty feet passed

our open entrance door.

she’s hungry for fresh air and

opens windows wide

a sounding board for the


just as we hear them

otherwise communicating

with braised voices

even over a greater distance

today – my friend the dancer

said: i’ve shaved from top to


following a zen philosophy

but then

this sweetheart left me at a

sudden impulse

pretending an oncoming

headache – wow! just now!

he cried-out disappointed

when we were ready for love

with all signals on go?

damned! so he commenced

autoerotically. ah!

suddenly she returned again

all stirred-up…

“sorry” he sighed – it’s now

all done!”





“you have a blue eye”

she said

“oh i thought they both were

green/ brown specks

he replied

“seriously/ somebody hit you?”

“no – i would recall such an


“here is a mirror/ look.”

“i can’t see a thing. you must see

colours galore.”

“no/ i think you deny it/ keep

secrets from me…

is it over a woman?”

ha! ha! what is your imagination

doing to you?” he’s surprised.

“now put your new glasses on

and have another look.” she points

to the right eye of the poet

who cannot see anything blue

on his face or his skin.

he makes fun of her.

“ho! ho” – she imitates his laugh


“you wish to put me on and it

annoys me “ she repeats.

“ridiculous – he replies…

you make a scene for nothing.”

“you are aggressive and a denier

of facts.” she says aloud.

“indeed? i’m also no streetfighter!”

“go – and leave me now

i do not wish to travel home with

an aggressive man.”

“sure – good-bye.” he rises/ pays

the bill for a milk-shake and

ice cream

and leaves for the subway in a

disturbed mood.

no wonder his friend recommended

that she’d see a neurologist.




busride 400

in the upholstered seat

of a 400-bus

that pulls the landscape

left and right

by its long hair

with changing speed

it’ll stir the poet’s thoughts

that percolate like fresh

ground coffee beans

hit by steaming water –

a wondrous day

a spray-painted sky

in pale-blue

at a bus stop the artist

sent-off as a postcard

wake-up dear poet

see the onion-shaped

turret of the hamlet’s

solely church?

it’s high time to prepare

for the exit next.

in a few seconds uphill

the acceleration flat-out

the poet will fall thru’ the

bi-parting doors

and passed two-lane

moving cars of weekenders

from the city

who are used to unusual

events at forgotten hamlets

they’ll stir-up to new life.

the poet has succeeded

to enter his writing pad

and settles down to some


and whole-wheat bites.





sitting daily on buses and


commuting from village to


existing thru’ movement

keep the humour for a friend

the smile that left from our

temporary shelter

appears on the face of a muse

who listens to the whispers

of a breeze

above industrial roofscapes

extending a helping hand

slender fingers that curl around

a virtual image

like pearls around the curves

of her well-shaped neck

and thoughts about a

romantic tete-a-tete


in the dense foliage of tall

smooth-trunked beech trees

close by at geometrical rows

of vineyards

show piece of the vintner

school. prost.




between lives

end of summer and

roadworks aren’t finished

in general –

people commute to work

rush to shop

look sheepishly at one

young people laugh

share cynical remarks

talk shop

play games on their mobile

phones –

life in the city has become

a hoarder of masked persons

less individual expressions

of style/ less affordable garb/

less visitors/shops close early/

healthy food is rare/

fatty and sugary stuff in huge

abundance/ open friendliness

is scarce/ a visible rise in

selfish behaviour.

roadworks everywhere.

the bus station at the node

of the City of Saints

had been moved further

adding awkward crossing

of roads and more distance

between connecting lines

narrow pavements can’t cope

with a two-way people stream

passed waiting passengers.

summer’s end/cool air invades/

between stations/ numbers/

between lives.




he settles down to his

restaurant-styled desk

and he tries sorting his

staple of calling cards

thinking of visitors for his


that lies in a static state

since april and frozen

since the start of corona.

but then he types some

intimate thoughts

as if he’d do a striptease

for his muse

just like anne did for him


and if eroticism and faked

climax mix

diluting borders of true


so it all happens in public

life and in politics.

he settles down to his

writing desk

editing poems he wrote

at a bus stop/ the subway/

waiting between fast food


the waft of spices colours

his words

wynton marsalis with his

refined orchestral breeze

lets the words dance along

for a grand ballet/ colours

blotched upon a giant canvas

of imagination

for great happiness.





returning again for

a walk/ not directly/

searching for some

lost time/

at this grey cloud-covered

day/ when few will travel/

train/ bus/ subway/

except for the eco-tourist

who takes the gap

between lockdown and

the easing of pandemic


the fire’s gone –

an interesting experience

with gender turned women

perhaps the poet has more


sensitive to some layers

of bisexually oriented girls

and women.

the gobi-friend said:

see zeni. my mate –

they are often playing with

men they like

or are attracted to/ but then

having excited their

potential mate/ lay off

as rapidly as possible.

i know/ the poet replied

being sensual doesn’t mean

to be categorized

as a pure he or she

but at times/ just like anne/

they are afraid of commitment

to a man/ and flee for sex

with another woman.

indeed – gobi replied.

my girlfriend hated her

longing for another woman

she had to bear

as she had fallen completely

for a new distinguished man

in her later life

having abstained from sex

with her hubby for 17 years.

ohhm – the poet said

i guess i’ll soon near that

moment myself.

gobi laughed.

na! no way/ you are

a full-bloodied male.




where i live – the poet

said to his friend –

looking out the window

will not always tell you

the weather condition

around this area of hamlets

strewn about

along the murmuring brook

called Weidlingbach.

the bus that takes you to the

north – not always a pleasant


suddenly a landscape you’ll

hardly recognize

dunked into the eerie look

of condensed fog

at this early September

touching a sad nerve

on the memory of yesterday

when we still younger

filled with fire of adventure

rushing to find out the


of one’s expectation

striving for a life in continued

creative mood

ready for a seductive dance

testing limits of physical


from initial surprises of a game

excitement that harboured

not always good sex

but often a fight

of having missed out in life’s

fruit of holistic happiness

creating a continuation of

one’s life for a next generation.

she cried – the poet said

hot tears of love

rivulets along his chest


i still feel the trickle at times.





looking out of my window

at my writing desk

once i’ve recovered of

getting-up to conscious


but still with cobwebs of


determines to a great deal

the mood i’m entering the

new day in my later life.

quiet sunday morn’s are

not adverse to a poet’s

striving for reporting about

his state of longing

as yet – 

he constantly longs for a


he once felt being close

to his heart/ both/

aesthetically and mentally

related in the choice of

elective affinity/

it’s a natural gift of conscious


finding a potential soulmate

isn’t it?