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Five Poems
by George Gad Economou




Wandering in the Mist


diving in the lake of time,

desperately trying to reach the shipwrecks

of yesteryears.

the guardian monsters too ferocious

and vigilant.

stranded on the tiny island,

middle of nowhere.

old habits return,

bottles cover the beach,

the sand a burial place for armies of cigarette butts.

mementos of gone years,

wasted in a soulless country

looking for meaning in cold, unfriendly embraces.

betrayed all beliefs,

the drink the one thing that kept me partly sane

and I betrayed the bottle, too, for the sake of wasteful nights

in embraces I never cared for.

the warm embrace of death,

coffin’s solitude;

Emily, I'm coming.

the vast sea girdles me,

I see the wrecks, can't reach out and open the treasure boxes

withholding the few precious memories that evaporated

like the vapor of melting junk.

call me out from wherever you are,

give me a sign! I plea with the sky,

no response; only the strong wind ripping apart trees,

the surf crushing on the shore

washing away the bottles, taking them deep into the ocean

to faraway lands I was never destined to explore.

it's alright; another bottle opened,

middle of the night, getting drunk for the 60th day in a row

after a weekend break that seems so distant,

the stars are nowhere to be found, no moon,

only the clouds and the warm wind.

and I feel fucking alright, despite the dense mist




a line, (a short blue one)



Another Forgotten Angel


when she walked in

the whole room was set on fire.

the lights went on, the spotlight illumined

her long, blonde hair.

all air was sucked out of the barroom,

even the lukewarm green beers were momentarily forgotten.

she sat down, across of me;

I drank, she nipped her cocktail.

no words were ever exchanged;

two different worlds

not allowed to collide.

silent staring, soul-chatting,

thoughts transferred from one mind to another.

it ended the way it began,

with a bang, a flash of lights,

the fires died out.

we returned to our respective worlds,

to where we belonged.

years ago, another memory that haunts the dreams on occasion

and brings forth a momentary faint smile

on the stained by years of substance abuse lips.

the beard reeks of meth,

the veins have reached their breaking point,

yet, there was a moment I sat across from an angel

and she gave me a meaningful smile.

a fire ravages my heart, again,

and there's not enough wine in the world to quench it.



a line, (a short blue one)



stepping into the Familiar Unknown


into the emptiness

of the void once more I stare,

remembering the immortal words of Nietzsche,

wondering where in the hell did I go wrong,

when did I take the wrong turn.

so many empty bottles,

each of them with the potential to be the fatal one.

words echo in the dark,

the walls have retained every soft whisper of the night,

every enraged outburst,

every false promise.

the moments, the smoke, the vapor,

all imprinted on the mind, though

every bottle helps in erasing the painful tears of separation.

moments, forever gone; never to be repeated.

seeking for answers,

only questions arise;

every empty bottle an attempt to put an end to the charade.

no luck with this one, I've got more in the refrigerator,

thus the world still makes some sense.

the neighbor downstairs is getting laid,

occasional screams break the air;

I still miss the old one that would bring me free blow.

happier times, simpler years.

the age takes a toll,

closer to the finish line than the starting one,

it's alright; inevitable endings,

and there are no happy ones in the real world.

broken down heroes of centuries past,

molested ghosts in the dusk,

dreams created during acid trips of a younger mind,

moments thrown into a burning dumpster;

more kisses tasted in the glass-pipe,

time to move forth,

even if there's nothing there but chaos.



a line, (a short blue one)



The Laughing Dragon in the Meadow


often dreaming

of the moment I'll land

back on the street of childhood dreams.

back to where I grew up,

the too familiar streets;

uncertainty in the air and I drink to forget

I still haven't buried my dead promises.

she's there too, the one that stole my heart

too many years ago, and now is at risk

to become yet another addition to a long list

of broken souls.

another sip, I stare at the same old view,

drinking despite having to wake up early in the morning,

once more not giving a fuck about responsibilities and what not.

drinking—to forget, to remember, to slow down, to

isolate specific thoughts and stop wandering about

aimlessly in the forest of countless memories hiding within the dense mist.

lips as of yet unkissed,

embraces as of yet not experienced,

and it's alright; another beginning, back into the familiar territories,

and it doesn't feel like it did back when I first left the streets of childhood behind.

it's never meant to last; soon, under a bridge I'll fall asleep,

shooting cheap junk, napping under blankets made of snow,

kissing meth-stained lips only once; and that's alright,

'cause it's what I know.

one more fix, to remember the nirvana,

chasing the ever-laughing dragon through the burning meadow,

and like the child I never was I laugh,

as the memories I never created come forth

reminding me of an age I missed.



a line, (a short blue one)



momentary Sanity lost in Blue Smoke


I'm thinking about tomorrow

I drink and the world stops making sense;

I inject, forget the purpose, the meaning.

travelling through a rainbow of colors;

I want to invite someone over,

cook for them

and do I want to?

the ideal feminine picture, like Joyce’s,

and would the master appreciate my art?

I have to drink to suppress the constant thinking,

the never-ending contemplation.

friday's coming, a day to drink, to celebrate—to shoot, even though

I'm shooting every day, every hour.

will she say yes? I wonder, and I have another sip,

and suddenly, I don't give a  fuck.

trying to roll a cigarette, unable to see through the blurriness

of a world that is too bleak and monotonous.

one more class to attend, hangover,

fighting to sit up straight while the world

is spinning around its axon way too fast

and without meaning. the beer runs through my veins,

my mind lost in constant haze,

I try to breathe, can't draw air in.

only the blue cloud of smoke, a product of a glass-pipe

stained by other lips, foreign kisses from another time period,

and I am awake; can't sleep, but I have to, and I drink to forget.

slowing down time, speeding down the highway,

searching for the prophesized tree.



a line, (a blue one)


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