Literary Yard

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‘Dark Lines, Dark Rooms’ and other poems by George Gad Economou

By: George Gad Economou

Dark Lines, Dark Rooms

never been able to write happy-go-lucky shit,
never could produce a line that wouldn’t induce
a sense of helplessness and distraught to the reader;

“write happier lines.”
“write more well-constructed poems.”
“watch the language.” “edit.” “proofread.”
“do this and that and this and that, do it all.”

it’s what they say; all I hear?

it’s alright; I didn’t attend creative writing workshops,
I refuse to mingle with other “writers”.

alone, in the dark, draining bourbon, chain smoking,
lighting up a glass pipe and a moroccan joint.

not much’s needed to survive, to get a glimpse of happiness.

joyful mornings—back when Emily was still breathing—despite
the sickness, the endless hunt for the next fix.

now, I’ve nothing but memories. and the same old dark lines are written
in new dark rooms, whilst drinking, smoking, killing my soul
one day at a time. slow, painful death,

it’s all right.

the suicidal nights are still here; so’s the homicidal thoughts.

never acting upon the impulses. I’m just imagining a better world.
better words. new beginnings (with the same old endings).

I hear the Grimm brothers talking in my sleep; sleeping beauty was raped
by the prince, snow white still slaves away in the dwarves’ basement.

they tell me it’s all right. and I agree. then,
I see a lighthouse out in the distance, it reminds me
of serene nights of perfect insanity lost in a haze of ice and rock.

she was there to see it, until nothing made sense and she left with the midnight train
to find meaning in a world without any. beacon of change
and I let her down, let her go.

now, I just dream of the girl that read Death in the Afternoon in a bus.


Dark Dead-Ends of Hell

“do you have some change, man?” the
eternal question ringing in every crowded spot;
panhandlers, some looking for food,
others for their next fix.

I’ve more sympathy for the latter,
because I know
the dreadfulness of dying
for one last fix.

to hear the click.
to feel alright.

I lost everything to
one cold needle.

it murdered my first love,
drove away the second;
there never was a third,
nor will there ever be.

the spike; true love.
and the rest is only stories
belonging to a past
lost in the forest,
dispersed like ash in the wind.

nothing remains standing,
it’s all about death,
the withering remnants of an
army buried so long ago
no one’s left to mourn the fallen.

it all goes in circles,
new experiments take place
in old laboratories
guinea pigs are transformed into hogs
into humans into chicken into
that’s it, there’s no end in sight,
no real solution
to any problem.

the needles increase in number,
the junk is heated in the spoon;
vapor rises, inhale,
disappear, vanish,
that’s it,

never lasts.
what does?
sex doesn’t.
happiness doesn’t.
marriage doesn’t.
life doesn’t.

nor does the euphoria of junk;
it gives a second of intensity,
then you’re back on the streets:
“do you have change, man? just a nickel, mister.”


Desolate Highways

another fueled night;
acid in the brain,
booze in the soul.

soaring through the open roads,
searching for a tiny place
to call my own; the grand dream
born one cool spring afternoon
under the sun showering a peaceful lake.

she was—of course—with me that day
(and the next, and for a few months more),
when we discussed the tomorrows
that would never dawn;

heartfelt confessions girdled by
tall trees swaying with the wind
and the calm water invited us for a dip.

it’s incredible the details one can remember
from the few, precious events and moments
that shaped the mind and soul
and haunt the dreams.

I can’t remember what I did yesterday
(aside from reading Hunter and the sense
of familiarity I got)
yet I still recall how the breeze glided through the trees
that afternoon nearly 7 years ago;
I recall the way she looked at me
(although, she might have thought me to be
a grinning alligator, all things considered),
how our kisses felt on that porch
whilst the sun set on our junk-infected souls.

oh, if only I could go back to those innocent times
of narcotics and booze,
recapture the freeloving spirit of yesteryear.

all gone, erased; replaced by something bleaker,
more thoughtful. always pondering,
always with the anxiety, the dark blues,
unable to evade the black cloud hovering over my head.

it keeps on raining, even when it’s summer
and 40 degrees (Celsius) hot.

I’m used to it
—after all, you can get used to anything
after a while—
and yet, sometimes, I still think how
it could have been
had things taken a different turn.

back then, by the lake house;
or, later on in that dreaded abortion clinic.

who knows? I’ll never do—so much I know.

love of my life, are you still watching me?
from above, below, somewhere?

don’t know; I died once, (or was is just the wishful
hallucination of my nearly OD’ed mind?)
and didn’t see you. only saw the BAR.

it was alright.
didn’t need much else to keep me going
for a few years; now, I’m back on looking for
a fucking reason.

there’s nothing in the strong coffee,
nothing in the stale cigarettes;
will acid take me aback, when I try it again
after all this time?

questions, questions; eternal damnation
of a body that was cursed with a sick mind
and a dead soul.

it’s alright, I cry to the
redheaded angel from my childhood’s precious dream.

I’m coming, it’s all I can say with certainty;
there’s not much to keep me awake,
precious little to force me to draw the next breath.

the BLUES. back,
with a vengeance.
again. and again.
it never ends; unbreakable circle.

acid and booze were good for a while;
then, I turned vicious and they nearly killed me.

now, I’m ready to return
more ferocious than ever;
oh, the troubles that await.
only thinking about it gets me going!

finally, a faint light in the darkness;
something in the nowhereness.

I’m on the great highway,
high and dry but not for long.

she’s next to me, my guardian angel,
and she’s laughing her stoned ass off.


Perishing down the Abyss

3 bottles of wine was the bare minimum to
get me through

long nights of insanity during hollow months of
heartache and nothingness.

through the haziness I saw reality under
the light of brutality—it’s never a good idea, yet
I never bothered to think about those
I cursed at, those I horrified during drunk outbursts.

lost too many acquaintances and I haven’t missed them
one single bit. all those
I once knew, the lips I’ve kissed, the
“friends” I outdrank—cold hazy memories
from another lifetime, and it’s all right.

years go by and I feel the icy stare of the abyss
following my every move.

it’s all right, some would say; the first bottle’s cracked,
noon and somewhere in the world it’s night,
thus drinking time, and thus I’m good.

a toast to the wicked bluebird sitting on the sill;
another nightingale fell from the heavens, went down
singing the hoarse blues.

and somewhere in the distance stands
the cruel lighthouse, protecting
an untouched grave from
the black turtles of yesterday.

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