the mind grows lighter, the body heavier
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by George Gad Economou




That millionth drunk text


read it in a semi-sober condition and was

impressed with the impeccable grammar and syntax,

as well as the quite concise and condense content -

far superior to any dry writing.


she replied, like many often do, with a simple

“I’m just gonna let you read it when you sober up,

before I even say a word”…


as if I actually give a damn about your words;

the text was the product of a hazed mind

under the influence of music, beer, bourbon,

and an accidental glimpse of your photograph.


the mails I once sent you are to be published,

our story for the world to see, my name on a fucking book—

I won’t make a penny out of it, but that’s another story,

for another time.


I recall all the drunk texts I’ve sent—to former love affairs,

to strangers, to friends; almost everyone in my life

has at least one drunk text from me to show.


you’re not special; not by far.


you bothered respond; I chuckled,

wrote this lowly poem to get the whole thing out of my system.


I’m going back to drinking.


with the reply out of the way, I can focus on real writing.


it’d be fun to know how you felt when you read it

for a future short story,


but it’d mean contacting you again on a serious note.

that’d be bothersome

to my drinking and new love affairs.




a line, (a short blue one)



Moonlight Drinking


still searching for the heavyweights

sitting in a bar all night long,

throwing back whiskey and beer not to get


and get a life,

but to forget the misery surrounding them.


do you remember,


when we did all that,

and so much more?


four months drunk, not a single moment sober;

even though you worked

and I had to attend language courses.


last night,

in a bar with a vast collection

of whisk(e)y.

five glasses of bourbon later:

“I'm hungry, let's go eat,”

the plea of one friend.

“I'm driving, can't drink more,”

the excuse of another.



they had some,

they gave up.


where are real heavyweights

that never quit,

but wait for their liver to quit on them?


I'm still looking.



and I drink alone.


being patient with my friends,

choking down beers and bourbons fast

hoping to rediscover what I lost

when I saw you sitting dead

next to me on a stained blue couch

that is now resting at some

garbage center,

friendless and empty,

with all the memories still

imbued in the fabric

stained by melting junk and dripping ice.


you're gone, forever;

I still miss your smile,

your touch,





the bars are empty.

the bottles full.

only one glass.



we drank one case of beer daily,

drained gin bottles,

vodka bottles,




four months drunk.

six months high.

nine months in love.

one afternoon was enough

to lose




since then, I’m

searching for someone like you.

there's none.

all alone.

in the dark,












a line, (a short blue one)



Drowned in the sea of Bourbon


search teams failed, they went missing;

there’s nothing out there.


(bars filled with light drinkers,

where have all the heavyweights gone?)


ukuleles played in the distance,

a lighthouse somewhere damn afar!

(begone! leave me the fuck alone!!)


a drink, a boat,

something; to escape.




nothingness; into which she’s gone,

swimming peacefully amid the monstrous sharks of

erased yesteryears.


(expensive bourbon; the sweet poison of youth,

all the memories. the times. the moments.)


where to go next?

is there a destination?


NO the shout of every ghost.


(all forever erased. permanently.

nothing to strive for,

no dreams remain standing)


it’s all we ever had,

a passionate love and a lethal vice.


(we kissed for the first time in that lowly dive

we both loved so much; I nearly stopped visiting

after her funeral.)


we’re all gone;

it’s just that some

are further down in the tunnel

than the rest.




a line, (a short blue one)



Tears of Brutal Nights


too many tears had stained

the blue couch heartlessly

thrown away six months ago;

are they still imbued in the fabric,

regardless of what happened to the couch

in the recycling center?


can’t help but recall

all the tears caused by false promises,

by substances and booze,

of broken love,

of dead-end pursuits for romance.


all the shadows I saw

back then, when I sat at my desk to write

and through bourbon and meth vision

saw them seated as a jury,

eager to drop the (sledge)hammer.


it’s all gone;

alas, the ghosts remain somewhere near,

always lurking,

and new ones are to be created

on a new couch, new bed,

in a new apartment;

hopefully sometime soon,

but who knows in this doomed country I call home?


the young and the hopeless,

a generation born dead

and their collective spirit is already traveling through

other universes,

toward undiscovered destinations to start



I don’t have tears left

for past flings;

only for the one that died

and the one that had enough with my destroying the body to keep the soul alive.


the rest of the ghosts remain further away,

patiently waiting for their chance to creep back into my mind and life.


nothing to do

but to drink and erase old memories

and form new ones that

will eventually be forgotten.


endless circle,

like a dog chasing its tail,

yet, I’m having fun

so why stop?


the bourbon river flows,

the mind grows lighter,

the body heavier;

elevated soul, new vision,

same old view.


back and forth,

jumping to and fro

past and future homes, embraces, promises;

one desire, the single constant in

a rollercoaster continuously renovated.




a line, (a short blue one)



Nothing’s working anymore


long gone are the days

of the dive bars,

the watering holes of

rundown neighborhoods;


no more weekends spent watching

pro-wrestling and

averaging 30 bottles of beer per day.


the ungodly sunrise mornings

of intense cooking are

hazy memories of a past lifetime.


can’t go back to the days I’ve known so well,

an apartment tainted with heartbreak and spike memories

has a new tenant; I’m gone,

not even a flash memory for the deaf walls.


drowning sorrows with poisoned whiskey in fancy nightclubs,

looking for meaning in waitresses that smile suggestively

for the tip and perchance a brief kiss.


the rest are gone;

the rundown motels,

escaping strange apartments in the middle of the night

while high on hash and drunk on gin.


hollow mornings of no substance,

empty walls with no tales to tell;


darlings of old

forgotten, erased,

thrown in the crackling bonfire.


nothing’s left standing,

only ruins surround me;


chasing ancient spirits,

ignoring modern muses and angels.


still haunted by one;

in my dreams I often see her

praying for another kiss

that will never come.


only temporary escapes;

permanent midnight—

it never went away.


and not even gin and bourbon

can help the lighthouse break through

the misty night

for a brief second of sanity.



a line, (a blue one)


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