Poetry: Selections From George Gad Economou

Searching for the Impossible

 

chasing a dragon every night, in different

bars, seeking for something that won’t be there.

triple Four Roses neat, and some gin and tonics

for chasers. getting drunk before midnight just so

dawn can find me in the right places, passed out under

whorehouse beds or in some strip joint’s backstage room.

endless pursuit of someone who’s long gone, the booze

has no answers and the glass pipe in my jacket’s pocket

can only proffer temporary relief.

nowhere to be, yet trying to be everywhere just in case

the ghost of love resides in the bar next to the one I’m getting

hammered in. does it

matter? countless college parties attended, finding nothing but

dull gazes and empty brains; only in shooting galleries and

cheap whorehouses did I find something close to

what I lost, only in strip joints did I discover

replacements to the comforting embrace of the ghost haunting my dreams.

it’s where I keep looking, armed with a glass pipe, a flask full of Four Roses,

and the junk hope of finding what I had at nineteen and lost at twenty-one.

Missed Chances

 

“one day, you’ll find someone special and you’ll settle down,” Gina told me

as we took turns taking swigs out of a bottle of tequila.

we’d already snorted four lines of blow, each, and a bottle of Jim Beam

lay shattered on the floor, because I hurled it at the wall.

“I know. I already did. she’s dead.”

“you’ll meet someone else, someone that’ll make your heart skip a heartbeat.”

“again, I did,” I snapped and chugged the remaining well tequila.

off the bottle went, crashing against the wall, causing a momentary

waterfall of glass to shower the floor.

with a half-steady stagger I got up from the couch and grabbed a bottle of

gin from my bookcase. I cracked it open, took a swig.

“I’m not your special one,” she said, after wringing the bottle off my grip.

“I know,” I retorted and collapsed back down on the couch, next to her.

both of us naked, sweaty, and intoxicated.

“thanks,” she scoffed. “don’t miss your chance when it comes,” she added.

“I’ve already missed enough chances,” I riposted and stole the bottle

 from her grip, taking a good swig of the magnificently disgusting warm gin.

“you’ll get another,” she repeated prophetically.

we polished off the bottle, and passed out. for months that was my

life and I loved it; drinking at the strip joint she worked at, for free,

then getting more drunk with her in my apartment. it felt right.

then, she disappeared. vanished into thin air. perhaps, she

finally got her rich guy and she’s now living like a queen,

sunbathing next to a big pool while fucking the poolboy and the gardener.

maybe, she OD’ed, or drank herself to oblivion. it doesn’t

matter; not anymore.

I did get the chances she was telling me about during those

drunk, sweaty nights; always avoided them like the plague.

most nights, I drink alone; sometimes, I’ll head to the nearest whorehouse

and drink their horrid vodka while watching the parade of desperate men

coming in and out. the dens are my home, only there I feel like myself.

the drinks keep on flowing and every time a woman gives me a

warm smile that looks like Emily’s, I drink it away in the nearest dive.

A Drunk Affair

 

“don’t you ever worry about what you write?” she asked

after reading some of my poems.

“that they’re not good? all the time.”

“that some of the women you’re referring to will read them.”

“that’s the dream,” I cackled, and had a swallow of Four Roses out of the bottle.

“becoming published and famous enough that it’ll reach them.”

“you’re saying they were nothing but cold replacements. am I, too?”

“probably,” I nodded, too drunk to care about her feelings.

“fuck you,” she retorted.

“I’m right here, come and get it.”

“you’re a dick.”

“I know.”

“aren’t you tired of being in love with ghosts?”

“no,” I shook my head and chugged the remaining bottle, immediately

cracking another. “can’t help myself.”

“why?”

“because they meant the world; and because one is dead

and the other found me dead.”

“is that what I have to do, then?”

“maybe.”

“I should just walk away.”

“the door’s unlocked,” I pointed out.

“perhaps, I don’t wanna,” she said and climbed on my lap.

Ghostly Conversation

 

“never thought I’d see you get a real job,” Emily said.

I refilled my lowball with Evan Williams, chugged it; refilled.

“I know. it sucks.”

“you tell me. didn’t I used to work at a clothes store?”

“I remember. you always bitched about it.”

“and then, you helped me quit by cutting blow. why don’t you go back to that?”

“I’m done with that. booze and smoking is fine; as is the occasional

joint and, perhaps, the once in a while snort of blow. but that’s it. no more

shooting, no more smoking from glass pipes.”

“you think you’ll live longer?”

“no. I hope the abstinence will kill me.”

she laughed, and twirled her fingers around her blonde hair falling

over her slim shoulders. her green eyes glistened as she continued to laugh.

until she dissipated; once again, my conversation with the ghost of

the only one that ever mattered didn’t last long. just enough to

bring back the ache and keep me anchored to the same spot

I’ve been occupying for the past fifteen years.

it’s fucking alright. as long as there’re fifths of bourbon in the apartment,

I’ll make it.

Insane Love

 

like werewolves in remission,

when the booze ran high and the drugs were low,

we’d fight and screech at each other. my fists would go

through the closet, her kicks would move the couch.

the insults we’d come up for each other were innovative,

and hurtful. we’d blame each other

for our desperation; clenched fists, pulled hair, and

bite marks. every night the same routine; yet, in the morning,

come hangover and sickness, we sought each other’s

embrace for a semblance of warmth and affection.

when we could score something good—two 8balls of junk,

or some ounces of blow I could cut—we became

lovebirds again, smoking out of glass pipes while

watching movies and pro wrestling. then, the sickness

and the desperation would kick back in, and the walls

would get punched, windows would get smashed, and

insults would fly like bullets.

the craziest times were also the best, moments that

kept us alive and countered our suicidal efforts.

she’s been gone for almost fifteen years, I

still fight shadows just to recapture the magic lunacy

of the times Emily reminded me that life

without madness ain’t worth living.

Angel in the Ruins

 

in a dank shooting gallery love flourished; when

things looked as bleak as they could

ever be, she appeared. a glint of hope

that sliced through the everlasting mist encapsulating the world.

a sane man smoked meth, his stare glued to

the glassless window frame, yelling about the lurking evil agents.

two lunatics shared blunts, cackling at silent jokes told by their socks.

every breath could be the last, jumping off cliffs often made

more sense that kicking habits or trying to pursue a so-called normal life.

junk was in the blood, flaming meadows engulfed the soul while

a great brown dragon soared below the purple clouds, offering a

free trip to the great beyond. she arrived, emerging like an

angel through the everlasting mist.

no words exchanged, no point. tired gazes and pierced veins

more than sufficed to communicate. she sat next to me on the

cold floor; even scolded me when I tried to squash a cockroach

gallivanting about my booze and drugs.

“even cockroaches have souls,” she said. we laughed.

we shot, and the insect moved along.

maybe, I knew her for five minutes; maybe, it lasted a year.

can’t tell for certain, the meadows claimed most of my

time, and half my brain. I only remember her being

there in the meadows, for a while. chasing the dragon with

broken butterfly nets, like children that had finally found

the perfect playground.

it was her that stayed there; in the playground, in the meadows.

I had thought about the dragon trip a million times for nearly

a decade; she took the dragon up on his offer and she soared

over the purple clouds, far away from the cliffs made of brown bags

and bent needles. and even now, with some years distancing me

from that shooting gallery, I recall how her emergence felt like

a message from a distant place not meant to be reached. I drink

to the angel that made it home, leaving me behind, like so

many before her, and after her, have done.

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.