Four Poems by George Gad Economou

 

Crumbling Walls

 

“I just don’t get it,” she asked as we sat, side by side, inside the 

wizened shooting gallery, someone’s former home lost to foreclosure,  

“you’ve got a place to call home, a dream to pursue, good looks. 

“what the fuck are you doing here?”  

 

“I don’t know,” I shrugged, twirling the glass-pipe  

between my fingers. “I like it better here than out there with  

“what you’d call normal folk.” 

 

“you’re insane,” she scoffed. 

“might just as well be the case,” I concurred. “it does that  

“to you.” 

 

“you seek death while you have a life,” she continued,  

high and in the mood to be philosophical, 

“while the rest of us seek life for we have nothing but 

“death.” 

 

“write that down,” I encouraged her. “might 

“one day land you a job at the university; or a publication in The New Yorker. 

“they love bullshit like that.” 

 

“cut the shit,” she punched my shoulder, playfully.  

“I’m not shitting you,” I threw my arm around her shoulders, held her 

close.  

 

(it’s insane that I remember those moments vividly, 

seeing them transpire in front of my tired eyes, 

but cannot recall her name.) 

 

“right,” she sighed, rested her head on my shoulder; we both 

blankly stared into 

the abyss. winos and junkies engirdled us, yet they 

they did not exist (for us), just like we didn’t exist (for them).  

 

perfection.  

 

“will I become a story, too?” she asked after a long while of perfect silence. 

“probably. one no one will ever read.” 

“why?” she looked at me with a soul-warming, sorrowful smile.  

“we’re not today’s heroes,” I said while rummaging, 

with my free hand, through my pockets. “we’re the outcasts, 

“the bad guys, the ones to avoid.” 

“so, make me into a bad guy,” she giggled. “I’ll be alright with that.” 

“and,” I filled the pipe and fired up the lighter 

underneath it, taking long drags, “who shall be the hero? me?” 

“why the fuck not?” she lifted her shoulders; her face too close to mine, her 

breath reeking of good glass, and of passion.  

“I’m no hero; not today, nor tomorrow. maybe, I would 

“have been yesterday. or the day before yesterday.” 

“so fucking what?” she insisted; then, she wrung the pipe 

off my grip and had a drag.  

 

bugs crawled under our skin, devouring us from within; flesh-eating bugs  

doing damage but refusing to  

deliver the final blow. intelligent parasites, keeping 

the host alive for as long as possible.  

 

men in black staked out the gallery, watching,  

waiting, guns in hand; one day, they’d raid and we’d all be dead. they 

never did while I was there.  

 

her head on my shoulder, we shared the glass pipe,  

staring into the abyss and the grey cloud of smoke turned 

green from the abundant moonlight penetrating the broken windows.  

 

“can we last?” she asked while scratching her arm, digging 

the bugs up. 

 

“no,” I said, having made peace with my parasites, letting them eat 

the useless away—they steered away from the liver (too poisonous) 

and thus, I didn’t bother them.  

 

“yeah,” she agreed and jumped to her feet, frantically 

walking about, searching for the feds, the secret agencies,  

the pre-paid assassins.  

 

we were alone, lost in a raucous crowd;  

for a while, we desired nothing more. 

 

The LakeHouse

 

birthplace of many youthful  

dreams and aspirations; in its  

rooms, a young, innocent love 

based on drugs and booze 

was born and matured in a 

few days. 

 

fuelled by our  

favourite poisons, we embarked on  

a short weekend escape that would  

engrave itself viciously  

on my at the time living soul.  

 

burning junk in the morning to 

maintain the flames alight;  

 

kisses on the porch overlooking the 

lake and surrounding forest. 

we knew we  

belonged; not in  

that lakehouse, but somewhere  

similar, yet greatly different,  

next to some other lake, 

in some other country. 

 

away from everything; just  

the two of us against the 

whole damn world. 

 

we were ready, eager, prepared to  

FIGHT. we  

did, and 

lost. I’m still  

grieving; tough pill to swallow 

(even for a man that at 27 has already  

popped down every pill available  

in the markets of dark alleys—following,  

without wishing to, the  

glorious footsteps of the great master  

now hopefully looking at me with some pride  

from the great Bar in the sky). 

she’s gone, forgotten by  

all but  

me. as the sun  

rises, signalling the birth of more 

stillborn dreams, I recall the lakehouse and a  

tear drops into the strong coffee; 

 

insanity has been on pause for 

six months; haven’t injected, snorted, eaten, nor smoked 

illegal substances for quite a while. 

 

I miss the rush, the  

hallucinations, the escape.  

 

my sole solace, Friday’s  

beers reminding me I was,  

once,  

a free bird soaring through 

the skies and deserted highways. 

 

the lakehouse represents the days  

I dove into the sea of  

depravity and despair—best damn  

decision of my life. 

 

the world around me turns smaller, 

no breathing space available; I lost  

my Emily a long time ago and it sometimes  

feels it was only yesterday we  

drank Four Roses by the lake, staring at the horizon, 

making grand promises for a future that 

was never  

meant to  

be.

 

Turtledoves on the Window Sill

 

almost every morning, I was drinking and 

watching a tiny part of the world 

from my window; 

had no place to go,  

nothing to do. 

 

only Four Roses bourbon, 

stale tobacco;  

 

the grey clouds kept on descending like an 

otherworldly mist coming to take me away.  

 

humming from under the blankets,  

I saw nothing, heard everything.  

 

the bourbon river flowed, 

there were mice under the kitchen sink 

playing 5-draw poker,  

 

some flies danced near the ceiling 

and I didn’t disturb their tribal rituals. 

 

it was all over the day we 

saw the sun sincerely lambent,  

when the grass burned 

on the other side of the world.  

 

we had to run,  

the planes were grounded;  

 

angels serving time, 

criminals buying mansions on  

the mountains. we had it all. 

 

we lost it.  

reclaimed the spoils  

of the ongoing war.  

 

razed fields and  

burned landmarks of 

other epochs; 

 

relics walk by,  

sometimes,  

back then we hollered and laughed.  

 

not anymore; 

relics, too. 

others are doing 

the hollering and the laughing. 

 

others will replace them, 

just like they did with us.  

 

in back alleys 

drunks fight;  

not the same ones,  

but they’re drunk and 

fighting, 

it’s all that matters. 

 

some drink because they cannot have 

fun otherwise, 

and some drink 

because it’s all they know, how they manage 

to live.  

 

I belong to both, and to neither.  

I never escaped,  I never 

tried;  

temporary sanity,  

I drink, it flies off the window.  

 

she got up; kissed me on the cheek.  

asked me the time. 8.30am.  

“did you get any sleep?”  

no, I drank all night long.  

had nothing better to do.  

 

she kissed me again,  

took a hit from the bottle.  

 

got dressed, headed to work.  

I stayed behind, 

postponing my going to class 

for another day. 

 

Ghost Love

 

it was faraway lands we dreamt of, and you 

made the longest trip possible, to the one destination 

from whence there’s no return.  

 

after the funeral, I went to the dive; the place we met, 

danced under “Purple Rain”, got drunk, and ended up 

in my dorm room—drinking more beer, having fantastic sex. 

 

who’d have thought that one night would turn into the nine 

most magnificent and wild months?  

 

I drank you away— tried to anyway— 

 

while women came to me, trying to decipher  

my teary eyes; I shooed them all away,  

 

for once, I couldn’t leap into the next adventure.  

 

after a short while, and several shots of bourbon and tequila and quite a  

few beers, 

 

I left; shambled to the bus, back to the apartment that was 

home—though never felt like one sans when you were there— 

 

for so damn long. 

 

drank some more; constantly trying to drink and write you away. 

 

failing.  

 

drunk all the time, somehow finding comfort in the haze 

of booze and drugs because I felt 

as if you were right next to me, indulging to the same 

vices.  

 

in drunkenness, I feel your hand in mine, 

your soft voice landing in my ear, tingling my dazed mind.  

 

I looked to my right—you weren’t there. 

I looked to my left—nope, still gone. 

 

more bottles drained; still bottles are drained, still 

boozing most days away, unwilling to function  

in the cannibalistic society.  

 

I still fucking miss your hand in mine,  

your hair in my face as we slept in a stoned embrace. 

 

what keeps me alive are the wild acid dreams 

of you making a fool of the Devil, drinking the bastard 

under the table,  

 

preparing His kingdom for my arrival—we’re taking over, 

as we promised Him the night we drank and shot junk with Him 

on that blue couch of mine. 

 

bourbon and gin and tonics,  

beers are reserved for maintaining a healthy pace, 

 

and countless cigarette stubs cover the ashtray.  

 

the words keep flowing, 

 

your image once more pops in my head, a couple of tears roll.  

 

recounting the hundreds of embraces that tried to replace yours;  

and all failed miserably.  

 

bourbon love song, once more for my fallen angel that left 

the world too soon and now is outdrinking the Devil 

without me.

Residing in Greece, George Gad Economou holds a Master’s degree in Philosophy of Science and supports his writing by doing freelance jobs whenever he can get them. Has published a novella, Letters to S. (Storylandia) and a poetry collection, Bourbon Bottles and Broken Beds (Adelaide Books). His drunken words have appeared in various literary magazines and outlets, such as Spillwords Press, Ariel Chart, Fixator Press, Piker’s Press, The Edge of Humanity Magazine, The Rye Whiskey Review, and Modern Drunkard Magazine.