by Christos Polydorou

It is that time of the night again. Close to
midnight…The spirits
are beginning
to stir. Are they
the dead, seeking redemption? The
spirits of artists who died mid
creation? The ones
who teetered off
the banisters
but broke their necks? It is

energy regrouping, artists feel unusual
but familiar urges, feel compelled
to write, to paint. In Ancient Greece
philosophers believed that muses
whispered poetry
into the ears of the poets
who stayed faithful
to the poetry. The poets

who wasted their gifts
found themselves
wasted in the beds
of the most hideous men
who fed on their blood
and on their liver. You


your halo. It
will kill you.