Five Poems by George Gad Economou

 

Screaming Driver

 

just came out of the doc’s office—impressively, I’m

healthy as an alcoholic bull—

 

and some driver stuck in traffic began yelling.

something about prison, cursing everyone…

 

poor sod. maybe, his wife’s fucking the young neighbour.

maybe, he never had a woman in his life.

 

perhaps, his daughter’s dancing in a strip joint,

perhaps, his son blows guys for smack.

 

maybe, he’s all alone, lost it all—

house foreclosed, family left, business ruined—

 

and all he’s got left is his dumpster fire car and

the chance to scream at the world.

 

he’s only one traffic light away from death;

in some corner the wrong guys will stand.

 

he’ll never be seen again; perhaps,

it’ll be one of the most lonesome funerals.

 

I’m in my dive toasting my good health and

thinking of that poor sod, who may already be lying

lifeless and mangled in some gutter.

 

maybe, he’s at home, imprisoned inside four cold walls,

 

somehow believing to be superior to those around him.

 

“another one,” I tell the bartender; well tequila

 

and the sod’s as dead as a Christmas tree in March.

 

a fairytale

 

the fairytale ending I desired—like any modern editor—and got

a hefty fix of realism. she’s gone, I’m all alone.

it’s

alright, ‘cause that’s how life works. I fail

to forgive myself for ever daring to

think the dream could

come true. I knew beforehand

the cruelty of life, yet I

still believed. I was shot down like a

rabid duck by a heartless hunter and, unlike most modern editors,

I learned my lesson about happily ever afters.

All those wasted nights

 

staring back at the cruel

timeline of past and present

I encounter nothing but the emptiness

that envelops me;

 

there’s no boozing,

no reveling;

 

long gone are the rowdy crowds

of a former life,

just like the line of hopeless addicts

waiting for their temporary cure.

 

into the abyss,

where are the nights

of hard drinking,

of abusing everything and anything?

 

gone; so simply, so brutally.

 

nothing left behind,

only the effects on the body,

on health; young death,

that’s fine.

 

I never truly expected to make it past 30

and I’m nearing the threshold.

 

coffee, to maintain some sanity;

cigarettes, because there’s one bad habit

that won’t be abandoned.

 

nevermore, the nights of mad carousing,

the hangover mornings that were spent

drinking vodka out of the bottle.

 

I close my eyes,

teleported to the place I never called home

yet was more home than anywhere else;

 

I miss the blue clouds of smoke

rising from the glass-pipe;

 

I miss the sea of

empty bourbon bottles on the floor;

 

most of all,

I miss the two significant ghosts that

couldn’t be lost even in a flooded town

of shadows.

 

we stayed

 

we tried to run,

but we were trapped;

we tried to hide,

but we were out in the open.

the monsters came, dragged us into

their inescapable realm.

we stayed because

we belonged.

midnight was lifted.

the veil was raised, the mist dissipated.

we stayed.

 

eternal infamy

 

we met a couple of days ago,

in a dimlit dive; we chatted, kissed

goodnight—and she blew me in the

restroom. I cooked some dinner, she arrived with

two six-packs of tuborg and a small bag

of pot. we polished some joints, drank some beer,

ate the decent dinner. we kissed,

she went down on me

again, then I reciprocated the favour. she climaxed, but

I was too tired to continue. we laid

down, she rolled a joint, and after a few

puffs, I could get it up

again. come morning, she

left, I doubt I’ll ever

see her again; she’ll live forever, though,

in this lowly, loveless poem.

George Gad Economou - Currently 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.