Poetry: Selections From George Gad Economou

Bluebird on the Sill

 

dead-end conversations as darkness falls

and another glass of gin is poured. 

 

with nowhere left to hide, while the world

spins around its axon and nothing

makes sense, 

 

she crosses her legs, her skirt hikes up, 

 

there’s nothing there.

 

staring outside the window, dead of the night,

watching the moonless polluted sky, witnessing

dreams being created and eviscerated every passing damn

second. the clock freezes,

 

silence; petrified night.

 

it’s alright; she talks, I hardly listen. 

traveling to distant shores, searching for 

something else, someone else,

 

and she knows, I think.

it doesn’t matter. 

 

always the same pointless discussions, the same old

shit,

 

and the bluebird steals a nip of gin, 

spits it out—it ain’t beer and it doesn’t approve.

Under the Blanket

 

hiding from the world

and from ourselves,

 

three days away from

the shooting gallery

(not from the shooting)

 

we hid in a tight embrace

that was soon meant

to be eternally broken;

 

could we have known?

would it have mattered?

 

the sunlight was breaking through

the shades;

broken-winged sparrows all around.

the clouds were coming,

 

vaporized dreams lost in the sea. 

 

we used to laugh every night

as we descended lower into the caves

of no yesterday. 

 

all memories are coming back,

a frigid breeze ravishes the night. 

back then, the sun was shining, and we

kissed and thought “it’ll be alright”.

it wasn’t, it’s not, it’ll never be. 

 

the only true message written on a bloodstained wall

with squirting needles.

 

forever and ever; the eternal false promise

upon which the world is built.

 

we laughed our fears away,

we indulged in an 8-hour binge

of ROH.

it felt okay; nothing was.

nothing ever will be;

the proud highway

 

took me to different places,

dark visions traverse the nights,

remembering (recalling)

all the early mornings of

nothing to do but shoot, 

laugh,

ignoring the harbingers of destruction.

 

the world took off,

the loud BANG never came, 

never seen, never felt.

 

grappling the soul,

wrestling with a deteriorating mind

and a broken liver. 

 

nothing ever made sense,

always the needle; 

the one true savior,

Messiah for the ever-doomed.

 

she’s gone, yet that

one (thousand) night(s) 

under snow blankets is (are)

forever fondly remembered

every time I hear a sparrow sing, 

every time I see a nightingale fly; 

 

tears roll down into

the half-empty glass

of rotgut.

 

sobs over a nameless grave,

coffin lowered, pages thrown, 

burned down,

razed to its foundation; 

 

the needle giveth, 

the needle taketh. 

 

the everlasting truth of all the

battles fought and lost,

of the grand war finally

coming to its inevitable end

and the surrendering terms

were never to be favorable

to the breathing dead.

Drunk Turtledoves

 

we’d have drunk till the end of days, till the sun

exploded and we’d drink until the fireworks enwreathed us

into a melting pot. 

 

the end came too fast, too soon—always the same old story, isn’t it? 

 

the students visited our haunt, wishing to take advantage of

the cheap drinks—usually, they left unscathed, unless

they made the wrong move to the wrong woman. blood on the pavement, 

and even though we hated each other, we despised strangers even more. 

 

they were intruders, we had to protect our turf; we couldn’t risk

becoming a meeting spot for soulless literature and science students

looking for a quick, cheap buzz.

 

the beers kept flowing, even the bartender would assist in kicking somebody’s

soft ass (including mine once or twice, when I still thought I had it), then, 

he’d help me back up, offer a cold beer, and the guys would buy rounds of shots.

 

taking and giving shots, and when you crack a bottle of beer on the head of 

a blond, blue-eyed student, you are viewed as a hero (a criminal by the cops, 

but they never really bothered us unless we bordered homicide).

 

Emily didn’t care for the fights, she only

drank and sometimes watched, occasionally

asking “why do you bother?” 

exhilaration, baby, I’d reply, drunk on beer and bourbon, tequila sometimes, 

 

and she’d kiss me, tell me not to do it again and I’d agree it was stupid;

then. I’d do it again the next night. 

 

it was fun for while it lasted; when she was gone, I fought to forget, 

and beat some poor student’s ass out of spite for the spike that took

her away so soon and so cruelly. they’d all cry

stop! stop! the cops will be upon us if you kill the fucking sod!

I’d only stop when the barman put a beer in my hand,

on the house.

I’d sit to drink and the student walked away all bloodied up and confused; didn’t

care even when some of them seemed to recognize me when I attended college and they avoided me at all costs in the hallways and the cafeteria, the parties and the Friday bars. 

 

it felt alright, being unwanted except for in

dens and skid row whorehouses.

 

it was fucking alright, we all belong somewhere, some

to the high places, others in the gutter; I’ve always

treaded in the in between, fitting with both crowds

and liking none. as long as there is booze,

I’m alright; I can bear anyone and anything.

if I run dry, things get nasty. 

 

you need to get your high, and

when the chemicals aren’t readily available,

you resort to physical means of increasing the adrenaline

and break the fucking drill that keeps digging up 

memories from the abyss.

 

 

 

Old Dragon Tales

 

we’d sit at the

beach, fifth of Four Roses between

us (often, a glass pipe, too), and stare at

the sea. “where would we go, if we could?”

she’d ask, after taking a pull of bourbon.

“everywhere,” I’d say. “and nowhere,” I’d add, thanks to

the puff from the glass pipe. “all we

need is a boat,” she’d remind me.

“all we need is us, and this,” I’d reply, hoisting the

bottle. “true,” she’d concur, right before wringing the

glass pipe from my clenched grip. “it’s alright, isn’t

it?” she’d ask after a good drag. “we have it good, right?”

“we do, yes,” I’d agree, then have a healthy gulp out of

the bottle and light a cigarette. we sure had it

good; for a while. then, she

died before we could even plan our

big booze- and drug-fueled trip around the world.

now, I swig bourbon out of the bottle, have an

old glass pipe as a reminder but it’s empty, and I

envision the young couple that wanted to conquer the

world; one is dead, the other’s as good as dead. I drink, coming

close to feeling alive again.

 

 

 

 

 

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.