Poems
by George Gad Economou

 

 

no title needed

 

bitter words of a drugged-up, drunken mind, can’t

let fear overwhelm my soul and typing

fingers; words never meant to

be printed, stories the current market shall

shun for they’re dark,

gritty, realistic. I just hide

my manuscripts under whorehouse mattresses, or in

dark corners of shooting galleries’ attics and basements. the bar

in the sky doesn’t look at sales to grant

entrance—I draw another

breath, punching the banged-up

keyboard, chasing the craft I

never chose until I know I’m worth of

climbing on a stool of the great bar in the sky.

 

 

 

a junk song for love

 

a love song with no substance,

a junk letter with no fucking.

I try to forget, drink, remember more clearly.

you're still around, despite

the years elapsed;

your lips prevail over those that came before and after.

warm embraces during the coldest nights are

the only hope of escaping the soul-devouring mist.

too late,

you're away;

someone else may now kiss the lips I once kissed, holding tight

the firm body I once held.

who’s the lucky bastard staring into the eyes I

made watery countless of times?

I crack another bottle,

recall why you left;

it's alright,

you wouldn't have survived near me,

I couldn’t live near you.

two different worlds collided for a single moment,

begetting a refulgent beginning that

was doomed to an early death.

not where we belonged; attempts were

made to enter each other’s world. we

failed. it’s alright. we gained

memories for lonely, snowy nights; for me

you were the distant lighthouse warning me

of rocky shores lurking within

the fog.

 

 

 

insignificant promises

 

I shall never stop drinking again I promise

myself, I’ll never abandon the most faithful friend.

even during times of unbearable pain, of

thunderous heartache and desolating melancholy,

booze is always around to proffer comfort and consultation.

things are clear now: she never loved me, I was just her

emergency exit just in case her relationship

hit a sturdy iceberg. she’s home, it’s all over.

I drink, each glass eviscerating more memories of the

one that waltzed in and out of my life like a disease

and I’m free to live.

 

 

 

 

Midnight Ride to Nowhere

 

we were all down on our luck;

as much as you can get

in a socialist country with a well-functioning (for now)

welfare system.

 

the outcasts, the misfits;

we loved every moment of that misery,

how respectable citizens would enter

our bar only

to scuttle away instantly,

horrified of the glares we flung at them.

 

very few remained, those

who did

never left.

 

we drank from morn till night,

until last call, and up we were again

at opening time

drinking, fighting.

there was no bitching,

except for the newcomers

who quickly acclimated.

 

we drank in the bar,

unwilling to go out in the sun,

the snow, the rain, the

nice weather of a two-week summer.

 

one year, I spent it there;

right after Emily was gone.

I found it one lonely night

and knew it was home.

 

I had to escape, after all.

one year of pain, devastation,

loss, and rejection slips.

nothing good ever came my way.

 

they took me in right away;

only few punches were thrown the first night,

I took them well, landed a couple of my own,

bust a nose or two.

I was one of them;

they never bothered me

even though I didn’t speak their language.

 

I met quite a few characters in there,

most of them long gone;

one was betrayed by his liver,

it one day simply exploded.

another was hit by a car,

he crossed the street at night

blind-drunk; never felt a thing.

 

it’s how it was; one year in a

train going nowhere.

the ride was far more

interesting

than 5 years at the university,

6 years in elementary school,

3 years in junior high,

3 years in high school.

 

for a year, I just drank.

clean from junk,

only pot and blow in my blood.

 

a ride to nowhere,

and I fucking adored every second of it.

 

now, I’m sitting in the dark,

in an air-conditioned room in

the midst of a heat wave in

a different country altogether;

back to the childhood streets

and I still dream of that long year

in a bar.

 

I had absolutely nothing then,

no hopes, no dreams, no future;

nor do I have any of the aforementioned

now.

back then, I

had the bar, the drunks,

the occasional whore searching for an easy buck.

 

it was far greater than the mansions

and the expensive cars

and the rich kids with whom I lived

later down the road.

 

at least, the bar,

futureless as it was,

had soul.

now, I’ve lost that, too.

 

 

 

 

 

elsewhere

 

another hangover morning, mind

exhausted, creativity at it’s

highest—why am I at my

best when I’m at

my worst?

I write mechanically, just to kill

time; the lecture’s dull and pointless, I envision a

different place, somewhere to run to, to hide in.

I stay put, trying to subdue the headache with strong

coffee—waiting to get home where a fifth

of bourbon awaits like the best kind of

lover. with my lover, I’ll do the

calculations, decide the

next step. I see an

airplane soaring through

the sky—destination?

Rate this poetry.

Copyright is reserved by the author. Please do not reproduce any part of this article without consent.