Poetry: Selections from George Gad Economou

Wine in the Vein

as long as there’s some
wine in
the bottle, and a fresh bottle in
the fridge, the night can
remain young and frolicking, visions
dance on the
walls and words emerge out of the
fire like nuclear missiles. a tsunami of
wine fuels the crepuscular days
of winter and of depression as it
elevates the misery and allows for a
proper pace to be reclaimed.

Nights of Ghosts

as the booze river
flows, turns into a torrent, new
thoughts are born and old
whispering ghosts come for
a visit. they remind me of
old sins, of blackout mistakes, of broken
promises. and I drink, drowning them like I
did when they were there, physically, next to
me and I drank and wrote and they wanted something
else, something more, something I could never
give them. I flow down the booze torrent, letting the
waves take me away, to faraway lands, a time-traveling
river that takes me back, so back that I can’t even
recognize the young man guzzling beer,
shooting junk, and scribbling sci-fi novels. I wish to
scream words of
warning but I
can’t, my tongue’s been cut, I have
no voice. if only I could find a way
to write a message on
the wall; use my own
blood, yes. damn it, they’re the undecipherable
messages that stained my
walls when I was high on junk. that was
me and fuck
it there’s no way out of this, I’ll just drink,
in the past, in the now, and in the future.

Fighting Ghoul Whales

staring at
the lake, the ghoul
whale sprouting infernal flames; we raised our
waterglasses, swigged down the
bourbon in honor of
the monster that wanted us
dead. then, we refilled our
glasses, killing the second fifth
of Jim Beam. seven more
fifths to
go, along with several bottles of
gin, tequila, and a dozen
cases of beer. just enough for a
good weekend. plus the coke, and the acid.
the whale always lurked, and the alien cops got
wasted and high. we drank, snorted, and popped pills; we
made it
home, with nothing but empty
bottles and cold sweats.

Treacherous Sea

broken bottles formed a
treacherous sea every
morning, shards of glass all
around, slicing my
socks and piercing my skin as I
bolted to
the bathroom to throw up. every morning
the same bloody
scene, at times I could barely
walk from the wounds on the soles of
my feet and I always
forgot to clean the mess up once I
poured the second drink of
the morning. more bottles always
were added, none removed. for several months I
drank several distilleries into good fortune, did my
part in helping working people earn a
living while my liver took a beating it still
recalls with terror.

George Gad Economou resides in Greece and holds a Master’s degree in Philosophy of Science and supports his writing by doing freelance jobs whenever he can get them. He has published a novella, Letters to S. (Storylandia) and a poetry collection, Bourbon Bottles and Broken Beds (Adelaide Books) and his drunken words have also appeared in various literary magazines and outlets, such as Spillwords Press, Ariel Chart, Fixator Press, Piker’s Press, A Thin Slice of Anxiety, The Edge of Humanity Magazine, The Rye Whiskey Review, and Modern Drunkard Magazine.