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by George Gad Economou




Gentle Winds Blow the Dust


brace, brace

the silent movement of the sea;


industrial wings take off and

glide over

empty seashells and

raised towns.


burn through the ground,

drill a hole

right through

the gnarly walls

protecting a

wooden coffin abandoned

to mold.


run, run

along the seashore,

feel the waves,

embrace the diving seagulls


roll the dice;


abandon all hope


as you climb the stairs.

follow the marble,

listen to the music from broken speakers,

hear the words,

brace the silent movement of the sea.


let the waves take you to

the island

in the middle of nowhere.


bring back the fire

a mage from a

time no one remembers



long forgotten miracles;

empty shells, bombings

on the streets.

take cover, hide,



the moon has risen,

red like wine

or blood;


hallow voices of ghosts

that wander

somewhere in the distance.


forget, fight,



the needle on the ground,

the glass-pipe buried

inside deaf, mute walls.


forgive, forgive;

darling of old,

yesteryears' grand love.

can you still hear me?

break through the ceiling,

come through

the unholy fissure.


bring back our lost daughter

from the alleys;

from somewhere far away

harsh laughter's heard.


listen, listen,

to the dead silence of the grave night.


nothing left.



and brace

the undying silence

of tomorrow’s

vast ocean.




a line, (a short blue one)



Dancing under the Singing Flowers


during one of those long glass nights, in a shooting gallery,

we felt we belonged to a different realm altogether—

surrounded by a welfare state, yet we were all left out, alone

in our desolation trying to figure shit out.


it all turned dark when night fell—a funereal veil, and we missed

the obvious signs. from the very fucking beginning—

when it was all flowers and music and dancing in the snow—

it was there, the dreadful writing on the wall.


messages written by our younger selves, when we traveled back in time

during week-long acid trips. and we paid no attention,

heeded no advice but that of our own, controlled by the spike, minds.


it felt so damn good for quite a while, being lost in the mist,

but the mist wasn’t as threatening as it was, is, and forever will be.


for a while it felt like a good friend, instead of the arch nemesis.


we danced, others mated, others slept,

and some died. even death had become

an everyday occurrence, part of the ice routine. sometimes,


what terrified us the most was what most’d call normalcy.


it was all right back then; we had each other,

wherefore thus should we have cared?


looking back at all those years in dives and shooting galleries—

trying to fulfill a death wish, and failing even at that.


her soothing voice, ever since a fateful Sunday afternoon, has been

my most faithful, and often sole, companion, even


when I lay next to beautiful naked strangers I’ve never met,


kissing foreign lips in underground strip joints—where bourbon rivers flowed

and there never was rhythm or point. only the everlasting desire for yet

another mistake, for one more sin, just to ensure admittance to

the lowest levels.


I hear tears from beautiful green eyes—

lips I once kissed, now smiling at a clueless bastard. it’s alright.


next to me, the whispering ghosts.

next to me, her. her memory and her essence, and…

the half-empty fifth of bourbon—one last swig, still alive,

still here with nothing to write but meaningless crap.


“don’t give up,” her voice breaks through hyperspace,

penetrating the infernal depths, causing the mountain of purgatory to crumble down.


even angels cease their singing to listen,

yet I hear nothing more.




a line, (a short blue one)



Bullet Holes


each hole represented

an idiot;


someone who tried to pass oregano

for weed to seasoned junkies.


pieces of windows sold

for meth; selling poor junk

for a high price.


it was all there,

I once knew every name,

every face.


not anymore—too long

since I last stepped foot

into the shooting gallery

of my former (formative) years.


too long since I saw any of the faces;

most were dead before I left,

the few left standing must now have gone to Hell

to party with the rest.


new faces, new bullet holes;

new ghosts inhabit the half-ruined walls.


circle of life,

I’m gone, temporarily;

one day, I’ll be back

to cook, sell, smoke,

and shoot.


I have my bourbon

and my increasing insanity;


all I could ever ask for.

trapped in different prison cells,

evading different demons.


nothing ever truly changes,

only momentary scenery alternations

to maintain some interest for the play.


all the same, nothing new is being told,

no original stories left in the world.

serve last year’s dinner with a different spice,

call it something fancy,

you’re good to go.


forget the darlings of the past,

they’re dead, buried, forgotten;

their ashes scattered in the wind,

like Fante’s great love.


and in the desert I too seek

what once felt real.




a line, (a short blue one)



Caught in the Storm


songs connected to faraway memories blast

through the speakers, an unlit cigarette dangles

in the lips. out of ulcer-inducing coffee, need something

to do, to drink, to smoke… staring out of the window


as the darkness falls—falls.


nowhere to run and yet

I hear a voice from somewhere too far away,


it says hold on, wait, cling on for dear life.


wherefore? I wish to ask the familiar voice

which I haven’t heard for a long while.


no answer. only the same old encouragement

to keep going, 27 Club don’t do it, not worth it.


solemn, somber contemplations of drunk suicidal nights.

the air is too heavy, the whiskey too watered down,


the cigarettes stale and those around me voiceless.


once, I drove on a highway high on acid;

now, I’m trapped with coffee and strong cigarettes.


battling the same fight, losing the same war.


night comes, the bar’s getting crowded. I still see no one.

only the bartender bringing me a sweating glass of green beer.




a line, (a short blue one)



Movie aficionado


she would watch 3-4 movies per day;

they helped her escape reality,

the prison of life.


we’d watch movies together, too,

usually those she liked;

artistic and with empowering messages

and happy endings.


she had to escape,


movies that offered

just that: an emergency exit.


I’d drink the nights away,

watching movies slightly high

in order to make the stories seem

more plausible, and bearable.


I couldn’t take in too much joy,

I was afraid of OD’ing.


she liked holding hands,

resting her head on my shoulder.


she failed to understand

movies like



Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas.


their message was beyond her,

an incomprehensible life.


I felt right at home watching

Rourke and Depp drinking

and acting crazy.


I have my wine,

my cigarettes;

I remember her glare

when I laughed during Casablanca.


how could she understand?


I popped some pills,

took some acid.


suddenly, she was

something else;

an otherworldly Audrey Hepburn.


I fell in love.

despite Breakfast at Tiffany’s.


and the morning after

was a blurry scene straight out

of some cheap horror flick.


she escaped life through movies,

I used wine and bourbon.


for a  brief while,

we managed to make something good

out of the impossible.


until we found ourselves in deep waters

and, because we were not in a movie,

it didn’t end well.


a line, (a blue one)


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