Poetry: Selections From George Gad Economou
Sliver of a New Beginning
with a new
beginning appearing on the horizon, the purple
sun’s
shining bright on all the old endings; memories return as
I lay in
bed after a night out in the city, thinking of other boozed up
nights
that never ended well in the long run. yet, for a few moments,
that
sometimes lasted for days and sometimes for several months, life
felt good
and the purple sun would hide. it’s hard to imagine
the new
beginning having a different ending—whenever it may come—and
I do my
best to drink myself sober just to give me a half-decent chance
at
something completely new, even if it already reeks like the old days.
Lonely
Bourbon Nights
lonely
bourbon nights, nothing to do but
get drunk
and disappear into memories; recalling
how things
used to be. the supernal, the goddamn awful,
the rare
inbetweens. drunken fights and passionate PCP-fueled fucking,
calm
nights on the blue foldout couch watching movies and tv shows,
killing
time with blunts and getting energized with blow.
memories
from a youth long gone, from a life that died
on a
burning spoon. on occasion, in my drunkenness, I do wonder if I’d
ever let
anyone else in, if I need a new pair of eyes to gaze into mine;
I don’t
know. so far, I’ve only found cold replacements.
no matter
what I do, who I meet, Emily’s ghost’s
always
around, reminding me of how things used to be.
I have
another drink, always, and her phantom touches more than suffice
to keep me
alive.
even when
someone new enters my life, offering a vague promise for
something
more, I remember; and I drink, failing to forget.
it’s
fucking alright. I’m used to be alone, yet never lonely.
as long as
I have my bourbon, my cigarettes, and my memories,
I’ll be
all right.
Always
the Same Story
the
beginnings are always the same.
quick
connection that leads to
many
promises and big dreams about the
future.
talks about outings, about
visiting
so many places, doing
oh so many
damn things.
you start
strong. you go out together, you have
fun;
“let’s do it again soon.”
and it
does happen again, and soon.
daily
talks, too, that sire more, grander, plans.
the future
suddenly becomes a “we” deal.
suddenly,
it dies down.
one
weekend, “I’m busy.”
the plans
remain but they turn blurry.
“maybe
we’ll do something next week, we’ll talk.”
slowly the
talks fade.
gradually
the connection diminishes.
last-minute
cancellations become more and more common.
all that
remains is the question of “what happened?”.
the false
promises lie shattered on the floor like broken bottles of rotgut.
the
endings are always the same.
Bright
Yesterdays
chasing
moments that’ll last forever
finding
nothing but brief thrills that only
give vague
promises of a future that’ll never dawn
moments
that make tomorrows seem meaningless
fading
memories that keep the motor running
giving the
necessary push to chase the next moment
lost
smiles that warmed the heart once
meaningful
relationships that ended too fast
fading
dreams that almost came to life
dragons
flying away while guffawing
mocking
stars land near the end of a withering rainbow
lost
smiles and dead embraces
memories
of moments that make selling
all the
dark tomorrows for a single bright yesterday worth the price
Problems
Under the Rug
“you were
a dick last night, George,” Christine
accused me
as I lay on the couch, too hungover
even to
breathe. I had my hangover-killing cocktail
but I
needed something stronger; something I couldn’t
use in
front of her.
“oh, come
on,” I mumbled under my raspy breath. the moment
I spoke, I
smelled death; apparently, while I was passed out, some
creatures
of the night crawled into my mouth and died of
alcohol
poisoning. “I wasn’t that bad.”
“you
insulted all of my friends. one by one.”
“I’m sure
they deserved it.”
“then, you
started talking loudly about something, though
“no one
could understand you.”
“all
geniuses are misunderstood.”
“you
started talking about some of your exes in front of
“my
friends, as if I wasn’t even there.”
“it was
only to show them you’re much better, love.”
“stop
having answers for everything.”
“can’t
help myself. I’m a bloody hungover genius.”
“you’re a
bloody idiot.”
“that
too.”
“why do
you have to drink so much?”
“it’s the
only way to feel properly alive. after several drinks,
“the
sparks of life ignite in one’s soul, the brain forgets
“all the
restrictions and inhibitions we carry around daily
“and
allows us to become our best selves.”
“even if
that best self is an obnoxious prick?”
“I’m the
absolute best obnoxious prick there is.”
“that, you
are,” she riposted, and finally cracked up a smile.
she sat on
the couch and started caressing my hair.
“seriously,
why do you have to be like that?”
“you saw
who I was the day you met me.”
“don’t
know what I was thinking.”
“me
neither. I’m still glad I met you.”
“me too,”
she said in resignation. “but you have to control your drinking.”
I finished
my cocktail.
“you know
that’s not gonna happen. but, I can never go out with your
“friends
again. it’ll reduce the chances of offending them to practically zero.”
“that’s
not a solution.”
“it is.
just not the solution you’d choose.”
“fine. but
you still have to stop drinking so much. you’re killing yourself.”
“Leaving
Aarhus. it’d be a good idea for a novel, but it’s
“already
been written. the movie even won an Oscar.”
“you know
that’s not what I was talking about.”
I kissed
her, and she didn’t seem to mind the taste of dead critters in my mouth.
for the
hundredth time, we buried our issues under the rug as we got
under the
covers.
it was
alright, until the day it wasn’t.
George
Gad Economou has a
Master’s degree in Philosophy of Science, currently works as a freelance
writer, and has published three novels and three poetry collections. His latest
book is Smoking Rot Gut Drinking Junk (Anxiety Press). His work has
appeared in various publications, including Spillwords Press, Ariel Chart,
Cajun Mutt Press, Fixator Press, Horror Sleaze Trash, Outcast Press, The Piker
Press, The Beatnik Cowboy, The Rye Whiskey Review, and Modern Drunkard
Magazine.