Poetry: Selections From George Gad Economou
Booze
Nights
wild
nights of razing down
abandoned dreams in flaming meadows
travesties committed within the confines of fancy lounges
unpunished federal crimes under the watchful eye of big brother
drowning love in the undulating waters of a river
throwing passion in the fireplace therein to burn even stronger
abandoned dreams in flaming meadows
travesties committed within the confines of fancy lounges
unpunished federal crimes under the watchful eye of big brother
drowning love in the undulating waters of a river
throwing passion in the fireplace therein to burn even stronger
Barstool
Blues
row of
stools occupied by
broken dreams
false promises
heartbreak
loneliness
in front of every stool green beer and strong liquor
flies drowning in vats of overproof hooch
dragged down by
words spoken
and
words unuttered
endless circle of pain
caused by
chances given undeservedly
last chances lost
missed opportunities to make amends
desperate tries to resuscitate dead horses
all that makes sense is the booze in the glass
the sweet intoxication that burns away the pain
that takes away the memories
that offers the balls to try something new
the row of stools is always occupied
by old and new alike
and it’ll never change as long as we remain human
broken dreams
false promises
heartbreak
loneliness
in front of every stool green beer and strong liquor
flies drowning in vats of overproof hooch
dragged down by
words spoken
and
words unuttered
endless circle of pain
caused by
chances given undeservedly
last chances lost
missed opportunities to make amends
desperate tries to resuscitate dead horses
all that makes sense is the booze in the glass
the sweet intoxication that burns away the pain
that takes away the memories
that offers the balls to try something new
the row of stools is always occupied
by old and new alike
and it’ll never change as long as we remain human
Phantom
Fix of Courage
an
occasional phantom kiss breaks through
during three-week benders; just
a peck on the lips out of nowhere. I keep on
drinking, feeling rejuvenated. resuscitated, as if
being reminded why I’m still pushing forth
despite the deep desire to end the charade. more
words are branded on the paper, written in
blood drawn from a bloated liver and they
have the power needed to commemorate a
love that lived and died by the spoon and the needle.
the spoon’s here now, too, whispering
enticing words. another phantom peck keeps the
lighter away from
it; more wine’s added to the glass, a kiss of approval
lands on my wrinkled forehead and the night
becomes day and the bender, and life, goes on.
during three-week benders; just
a peck on the lips out of nowhere. I keep on
drinking, feeling rejuvenated. resuscitated, as if
being reminded why I’m still pushing forth
despite the deep desire to end the charade. more
words are branded on the paper, written in
blood drawn from a bloated liver and they
have the power needed to commemorate a
love that lived and died by the spoon and the needle.
the spoon’s here now, too, whispering
enticing words. another phantom peck keeps the
lighter away from
it; more wine’s added to the glass, a kiss of approval
lands on my wrinkled forehead and the night
becomes day and the bender, and life, goes on.
Fading
Smiles
another
drunk night, the memories
remain the same; can’t drink some stuff away,
no matter how hard I try.
booze has failed me. blow failed me. junk failed me.
meth failed me. pills failed me. acid failed me.
everything’s failed me as I try to erase Emily from my
mind, in vain hopes of finally moving forward.
recently met a cute girl with a great smile, emanated the same
warmth as Christine’s smile did; it only reminded me of
the hell I put her through. I may be clean of drugs (mostly) but
I’m still me, getting drunk, eager to cause trouble, willing to
hurt those closest to me just to kindle the sparks of inspiration.
she’s just a pleasant memory, yet another what if; a story
belonging to a parallel universe that is gonna get burned by the alcohol gods.
I pour another tall drink, light another cigarette; I’m alone with the whispering ghosts,
it feels fucking all right. drunkenly cruising through life, boozing my
problems away one day at a time, and the warm smile of someone that
could have meant something
fades away.
remain the same; can’t drink some stuff away,
no matter how hard I try.
booze has failed me. blow failed me. junk failed me.
meth failed me. pills failed me. acid failed me.
everything’s failed me as I try to erase Emily from my
mind, in vain hopes of finally moving forward.
recently met a cute girl with a great smile, emanated the same
warmth as Christine’s smile did; it only reminded me of
the hell I put her through. I may be clean of drugs (mostly) but
I’m still me, getting drunk, eager to cause trouble, willing to
hurt those closest to me just to kindle the sparks of inspiration.
she’s just a pleasant memory, yet another what if; a story
belonging to a parallel universe that is gonna get burned by the alcohol gods.
I pour another tall drink, light another cigarette; I’m alone with the whispering ghosts,
it feels fucking all right. drunkenly cruising through life, boozing my
problems away one day at a time, and the warm smile of someone that
could have meant something
fades away.
Knowing
Yourself
days of
pure insanity; cocktails for breakfast, blow to
keep the mind awake during college classes and bourbon in the coffee thermos
to maintain the buzz and tolerate the army of zombies engirdling me.
then beers and Jim Beam at the dive, casual conversations with
bikers, thieves, and loan sharks. late in the evening, more booze and some
pills to calm the palpitating heart that demanded to be allowed to explode.
passing out was a bliss, since dreams don’t show up during blackout sleep.
woke up feeling like hell had moved in my body, and did it all over again.
was not ready to settle down, not willing to move on from the dead true love.
yet, Christine came into my life, and I let her reside within the lunacy.
she witnessed bottles flying at the walls, she had to hold bags of frozen peas
over my bloody knuckles too many a time, she let me rest my hungover head
on her lap as I nodded on and off consciousness. she didn’t even know about
my junk habit. she only knew about the booze and the pills.
she paid the price for my still being in love with a ghost; haunted by memories
I was trying to drown in a sea of substances, I took it all out on her. was never
there when she needed me, was never clearheaded enough to know when
she had problems she needed to discuss.
her Florence Nightingale syndrome would not allow her to leave, she
thought she could cure me; I was steadfastly following the path
of self-destruction I had carved years ago through the jungles of my whirling mind
and nothing could stop me. the day she found
me in bed,
spike stuck in my bleeding arm, was the day she was cured of her ailment.
she saw me through cold turkey, always there to provide water and comfort; until
I was healthy enough and she got the chance to follow her dream in another city.
she took the first train out of our town, and out of the insanity bubble I called life,
and never saw her again. yet, she still resides in my mind, as a blaring alarm every
time I even think of approaching a woman who is not
a junkie, a stripper, or an alcoholic (or, preferably, all three of them combined).
I’ve always known where I belong, learned with whom I belong, and that’s
fucking alright.
keep the mind awake during college classes and bourbon in the coffee thermos
to maintain the buzz and tolerate the army of zombies engirdling me.
then beers and Jim Beam at the dive, casual conversations with
bikers, thieves, and loan sharks. late in the evening, more booze and some
pills to calm the palpitating heart that demanded to be allowed to explode.
passing out was a bliss, since dreams don’t show up during blackout sleep.
woke up feeling like hell had moved in my body, and did it all over again.
was not ready to settle down, not willing to move on from the dead true love.
yet, Christine came into my life, and I let her reside within the lunacy.
she witnessed bottles flying at the walls, she had to hold bags of frozen peas
over my bloody knuckles too many a time, she let me rest my hungover head
on her lap as I nodded on and off consciousness. she didn’t even know about
my junk habit. she only knew about the booze and the pills.
she paid the price for my still being in love with a ghost; haunted by memories
I was trying to drown in a sea of substances, I took it all out on her. was never
there when she needed me, was never clearheaded enough to know when
she had problems she needed to discuss.
her Florence Nightingale syndrome would not allow her to leave, she
thought she could cure me; I was steadfastly following the path
of self-destruction I had carved years ago through the jungles of my whirling mind
and nothing could stop me. the day she found
me in bed,
spike stuck in my bleeding arm, was the day she was cured of her ailment.
she saw me through cold turkey, always there to provide water and comfort; until
I was healthy enough and she got the chance to follow her dream in another city.
she took the first train out of our town, and out of the insanity bubble I called life,
and never saw her again. yet, she still resides in my mind, as a blaring alarm every
time I even think of approaching a woman who is not
a junkie, a stripper, or an alcoholic (or, preferably, all three of them combined).
I’ve always known where I belong, learned with whom I belong, and that’s
fucking alright.
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.