Poems
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 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.
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.
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.
