Archive for the ‘Vienna Calling’ Category


Remembering Wien.

The saddest-happiest I’ve ever been.

Haunted by memories,

infinite bad dreams,

I walk by the river…

Cold winds

suppress my scream.








“Merd-iterranean!” I repeated, fawning.

“Oh, Mozart, you’re so witty!”

I shivered as he slid his hand up my leg, indecently probing my nether regions, groping, squeezing.

I simpered, obsequious.

… How could I say no to the genius?




I found a vacant cubicle.

Wiped the seat, et al,

with toilet paper appropriately.


And shat.

And contemplated.

The old farts’ raison d’être still lingering.


I had none

and it was unlikely that I ever would.


It’s not that I would be a bad parent, far from it:

I’d be a great mother.

I blame men, family, society…

My loss,

their loss…)

Toilet flush.





I found an empty seat and sat down…

To sleep,

perchance to dream.

Alas, no,

too much noise and commotion.

I groaned audibly and fidgeted.

The man next to me took my discomfort

as an invitation to introduce himself

and talk.

And talk.

And talk…

About himself,

his children,

his grandchildren.

The whole sordid lot.

Apparently never to shut up,


He didn’t seem to require any reply

or encouragement from me,

he just kept talking,

droning on interminably.



Yes, shit!

I needed to shit.

I said exactly so

and excused myself bluntly.

He gaped after me,

silenced at last.




That yesterday,


is a story for another day…

Sometime in the future past,

when the time is right.




In Budapest, I was lucky,

my sadness was overcome by tiredness

and I slipped into a form of nothingness.

For a while,





The clocks are all wrong

and no one understands your song.

Does it really matter,

when we all have to sleep?




I tried to listen to Falco

but the battery ran out

and external distractions


my will to replace,


time and place…

so tired,

so tired,

so tired,

need rest…


Before Vienna

was Budapest…




Sure, Falco songs are often as banal as the next

half-forgotten Austrian

pop musician,

but there’s something more…


memories surrounding the home-made cassette

Uncle Kolya brought

from Magdeburg.

And the fact that Falco died before I realized I

too was dead.


… Perversely,

vague happiness,

and proxy signs of life.




In the chaos and pain…

External sensory bombardment…

I put my earphones back in and tried to listen to Falco.



I tried to get into the appropriate mood.