Poetry: Selections From George Gad Economou
A Vision from the Purple Sun
at
the dawn of the purple sun she
arrived,
a glistening vision of beauty emerging
out
of crystal meth waters. a body ancient
goddesses
would envy, shimmering blue eyes
that
could drill holes into one’s soul.
long
auburn hair covering her slim shoulders,
legs
for ages, and an effulgent smile that could melt glaciers.
she
found me in my lowest, after having gone cold turkey on junk
for
the second time, when bourbon was the most essential element of survival.
a
vision I didn’t expect, a muse and a strip joint angel
I
never asked for yet needed more desperately than I thought.
at
the right time, right when I was about to give up, right
when
I was ready to go back to the needle for the third and
most
likely last
time.
she
disappeared at the dusk of the purple sun, after almost
two
years.
like
the vision she was, she dissipated into thin air,
vanished
without a trace. leaving me behind with
my
bourbon and memories of tequila kisses under a bleeding moon.
Love-Murdering
Nights
simple
nights of binging wrestling shows; Christine was out
with
friends, complaining about my not liking
her
friends that got drunk after three cocktails
and
started talking nonsense. two
bottles
of Jim Beam stood on my coffee table and I had pulls out
of
the bottle while men and women broke their bodies for
my
entertainment. I’d start early, with both the wrestling and the bourbon,
working
my way through the mainstream shows first and as intoxication
encapsulated
my brain, I’d move to the hardcore indies, raising the
bottle
to those going through panes of glass or fluorescent tubes
for
less than what the welfare system paid me for being a lazy university student.
eventually,
she’d come home while I was in the midst of the ultraviolent wrestling
scene,
roll her eyes, scoff, and ask me to come to bed; especially after
seeing
the two empty bottles on the floor and the third one lying half-empty
on
my barely heaving chest.
“soon,”
I’d reply and wouldn’t even look at her getting undressed—not even
when
she did it right next to me hoping to stir something within me.
holding
the bottle like a precious kitten, I’d move my carcass to
the
desk chair and open a new Word document.
“can
you come to bed? you’re drunk,” she’d chide me.
“it’s
why I have to write,” I’d riposte. at least, it’s what I intended to say. what
did
come out of my mouth has been lost in the void of half-blackout inebriation.
I’d
fire up the poetry, taking pulls out of the bottle, smoking badly rolled
cigarettes
that burned holes through my clothes and scorched my skin, and
traveling
to distant lands and former affairs that could ignite the written word.
“can
you come to bed sober for one motherfucking night?” she’d ask
as
she lay in bed, waiting for me to jump in and cuddle her.
“tomorrow,”
I’d slur as I pounded the keyboard. the ever-elusive tomorrow
never
came. after some more drinks, and a few bad poems, I’d crawl
to
bed, reeking of booze, sweat, and death. sometimes, she’d even
kiss
me on the forehead. when I woke up, too fucking early, she’d
be
there to make some coffee, trying to get me to drink some orange
juice
or eat something. I’d add some vodka and rum in the juice
and
return to the page and the eternal chase of a stillborn dream.
“will
you ever stop?” she’d ask.
“when
I die,” I’d always reply—deciding not to add “hopefully tomorrow”.
my
lifestyle drove her mad; she probably suffered from some form of
Florence
Nightingale syndrome, because she stayed and did her best to keep
me
alive. until the day she came home to find me
dead
with the needle in my arm. she brought me
back
to life—even a decade later, I still resent her for that—and
stuck
around as I went cold turkey, for the second time.
then,
she decided she had enough. she moved to another
city,
to seek her goals and find a life that
didn’t
involve broken bottles and needles.
it
was alright. I still miss her, sometimes; especially
when I’m drunk and watch pro wrestling.
Death Denied
I
was chasing dragons in flaming meadows
ready
to leap to the other side; I saw the Bar
and
walked in. there was a beer waiting,
some
of the greatest drunkards wanted to have a drink
with
me.
I
grabbed the glass—the beer was ice-cold—ready to
have
a sip after touching glasses with my dead heroes.
never
got the chance.
she
dragged me out, violently.
her
green eyes were filled with despair and worry
as
she looked into my eyes.
“why?”
I asked her. the word hardly escaped my arid lips.
“what
did you do?” she said,
and
I heard her heart sinking.
I
was still in the Bar, in my spinning mind. I had
almost
tasted the beer that would have tasted better than ambrosia.
she
had ruined my chance at eternal happiness.
“why
George?” she asked.
“why
did you save me?” I retorted.
“because
I love you.”
the
words meant nothing at the time. cheap excuses.
my
face was wet from the ice she had tossed on me
and
my chest hurt from the Narcan shot.
I
was alive, wishing I were dead.
she
brought me a glass of water.
I
refused it.
“please,
drink it.”
“don’t
want water. bourbon.”
“no.
drink this.”
I
did. she kissed my lips.
I
just lay there, alive and dead.
away
from the Bar, disconnected from the world.
she
lay next to me, holding me tight.
“stay
with me,” she said.
“why?”
I asked.
“damn
it, George, just do it. please.”
“okay,”
I said.
I
started shivering. then came the trembling.
the
agonizing pain came within minutes.
I
bolted to the bathroom to vomit,
I
saw blood and possibly pieces of my intestines in the bowl.
had
some more water; she would not let me touch alcohol.
stayed
with me all night, refusing to move.
as
if I’d die if she stopped holding me even for a moment.
perhaps,
I would have. I wanted to.
the
veins were itching for another shot.
every
inch of my body hurt. muscles I didn’t know
existed
were twitching.
I
fell asleep in her arms.
woke
up and she was still holding me.
went
back to sleep.
the
pain kept getting worse.
the
quaking would not stop.
I
was a dead man walking and she
refused
to let go.
“just
go,” I begged.
“no.”
“why?”
she
stopped answering. she just gave me
a
kiss and stayed there.
bringing
me water and forcing me to eat.
I
convinced her to allow me to smoke some pot.
it
helped.
I
didn’t want it to help.
had
been there once before; had managed it on my own.
she
quit her job because they wouldn’t give her enough
days
off.
just
to stay with me. to make sure I survived.
“why?”
she
had answered it once; she thought it was enough.
yet,
it was my insistence to learn why she had saved me
that
ultimately drove her away.
she
stayed three weeks locked inside with me,
making
sure I didn’t do anything stupid.
taking
care of me as I walked through all rings of hell
without
a lick of hope of finding my Beatrice.
days
and nights passed, the pain began to subside.
I
was able to hold some food down.
I
was able to stand up without collapsing.
we
could sit on the couch, in silence.
I
was able to have a drink—she wouldn’t let me have a second.
eventually,
I was able to go out of the apartment without
feeling
like the sun was trying to fry my eyeballs.
she
stayed through everything.
the
tantrums, the suicidal desires, the meek threats of violence.
she
stayed, always with a smile.
until
I was clean. until I was able to rejoin the world.
then,
she left.
she
saved me, walked through hell with me, and left
right
before I set foot in purgatory.
and
while I know the answer,
the
only question that remains is
“why?”
Longing
For A Dead Past
fifteen
years later
and
I still refuse to move on.
every
drunk night I think
of
other nights, when she was
still
by my side,
when
we’d get drunk and high
together.
things
could go crazy,
even
violent,
and
I still miss those days more
than
everything that happened
after
she was gone.
she’s
waiting for me on the other side
and
every night I have to fight the urge
to
join her.
every
stiff drink I pour contains her essence
and
the memories refuse to die.
in
every bar I visit, I see
her
sitting somewhere; I almost
expect
Purple Rain to start playing.
it
doesn’t. she’s not there.
it
only happened once.
never
again.
I
get drunk,
failing
to forget.
years
go by, she’s
still
the only one I love,
the
only one I truly miss.
drinking
hasn’t helped.
smoking,
snorting, eating, and injecting drugs didn’t help.
I’ve
tried too many things,
nothing
worked.
she’s
still in my mind,
she’s
there every time I meet someone else.
it’s
all right.
I
get drunk,
her
ghost talks to me,
and
the world somehow makes sense.
The
Nights Died
the
nights died a long time ago
the
light’s been extinguished
all
that remains is a bottle of rotgut
and
memories that refuse to sink down the abyss
silent
screams into the void
ensconced
by a past that murders every possible future
an
apartment populated by whispering ghosts
refusing
to move on since nothing is waiting ahead
the
Edge is near
the
final leap becomes easier
the
nights died a long time ago
they
died the night she did
the
dragons never ceased to soar
dreams
perished
the
fire’s out and the nights have become a series of
endless
moments devoid of anything of substance
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.