by George Gad Economou



dawn comes with a blizzard


dawn comes with a blizzard

under the window lie blankets of snow,

lone souls trudge up and down without a purpose

cruel nightingales whistle false songs of love

ethereal mist drowns shadows the lines won’t flow

as they ought to, coffee’s never been

proper fuel, too long without bourbon,

the soul wizens.




a black line


a cold drink by your side


with a cold drink by your side, you can conquer the

whole damn world; the tall glass’s

sweating in your hand, even rainbows seem more lambent,

you reminisce frigid embraces, the nights seem warmer and you’re ready

to conquer the next beauty in a sundress that

waltzes in the bar.




a black line



Longing Nights


a box of wine next to me,

a line of rolled-up cigarettes like eager soldiers;


outside, the nightingale and the sparrow fight

for the coveted sole seat on the windowsill.


downing warm white wine, the sun is sweltering,

wildfires spread, screams of horror resound across the empty city.


within there’s nothing but momentary peace,

the phantoms are all here on the couch,


staring at me pounding the wine and the keyboard,

like I did all those years ago.



a black line



Homesick Blues


staring the foreign sky that I once chased,

seeing no blue dragons—only in vicious dreams of yesterland—


while hollow men approach, eager to offer packaged happiness

that won’t do shit. after years of nirvana-chasing,

empty promises and cold embraces have nothing to offer.


once upon a time,

I sought it all, created the one monster that truly mattered.


facing my creation, confronted by the madness,


once more rolling down the lifeless hills,


forevermore to seek that pair of eyes I’ll never replace.


fruitless moments, gawping at a grey sky that

induces no majestic feelings—the nightingales are all

lying in unrest in algid, shallow graves,


someone from afar is typing madly to create the

new unread masterpiece of the era.

it’s alright—someone strolls down the street,


I recall the dark mornings of yesterday, the joggers in

their hot pants,

searching in the melting snow for the spike.


pointlessness—the one steady of my existence and

rummaging through the page

is the sole thing I’ve ever known.



a black line


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