In the Garden of the Asylum
I have watched from my window the foliage
wither then leisurely fall from these trees,
often sat beneath gazing up through
their emaciated limbs imagining God had
thrown me a ladder.
In the garden of the asylum, leaves are
left to decay, growing stiff with dreams of
being swept away; only the watchful remain,
cursing the wind, pleading for stillness.
Say the word and I shall become
phosphorescence in the black water
of your memory,
Café Hummel, Vienna
She insists on paying separately,
although she has just dined alone;
the unoccupied seat across from her
poker-faced to her verbal onslaught.
He regards me with my computer,
mutters something disapprovingly in
Wienerisch. I try to explain that it's
because I can't read the newspapers.
He explains he doesn't understand.
Perhaps better off talking to a chair.
All rights reserved.
3 shorts poems from the archives, out to stretch their legs prior to any editing. The first goes out to my man Vinny Van G. The second goes out to any couple who has broken up while out on a night paddle in their kayaks, and the the third to any ex pats in Vienna's 8th district who have been frowned upon for using a laptop in a cafe when clearly 'Kronen Zeitung' is more acceptable.