Saturday 18 May 2024

Four Poems by George Gad Economou


      Crying Angels


lovely angels from down below, 

fallen brethren buried under mountains of ice.  


black frosting covers the cake,  

countless suicide attempts thrown out of broken 



mercy songs reverberate in the walls,  

from the bourbon bottle 

emerges a 



a sight never before beheld,  

never again to be witnessed 

all over, once more.  

the ice never melts,  

we never ran out.  


false promises painted  

on beautiful canvases;  

the moments are gone 


forever lost. 

somewhere in the depths of the wild  



dances the magnificent siren of 

old. forever gone, 

never to return.  


moments, the daily struggle  

of finding junk in 

dark alleys of lost cities.  


hunger and thirst,  

always with a bottle under the arm. 

crawling, dancing, 





futile efforts,  

desperate cries under heavy snowfall. 


holding hands that 

are not there. 


fabulous mansions, 

gardens in the middle of the living room; 

cheap beer,  

stale tobacco.  

cold, pointless conversations. 


fancy bars, gin and tonic,  

overpriced, underwhelming.  



the empty walls cry in despair,  

new blurry ghosts reappear out of 

the mist.  


ice and junk, 

nowhere to run.  


we always had some in the pocket,  

under a mattress, or 

in bags.  


now, only the vague 


of times never to come 



tears under the table, 

smiles over half-empty glasses of whiskey. 


no one out there, 

yet I keep on calling.  




the answer never comes. 


always the same question 



within the beer-stained walls.



      Best Drinking Companion


we once drank with Satan, the dark overlord of a 

realm where geniuses and criminals thrive;  


a true heavyweight, matching Emily and me drink to drink, 

joint to joint, shot to shot; we couldn’t stop,  

we kept going and going 

until we 


passed out on a blue couch. 


morning come, He was still there, hungover and 

with dry puke decorating his shirt,  


we laughed at Him, He joined us—a good 

sport, after all.  


“I’ll see you soon,” He stated—a chill 

traversed our spines—and a cloud of 

black smoke engulfed the room as he 

disappeared. fucker was keen on maintaining 

the trite conceptions of Him. 


we fired up a joint, poured two straight Wild Turkeys,  

and avoided each other’s glance for about half an hour;  


in our high and stoned timeline, we forgot of the 

ominous prediction, and simply drank. 


we drank ourselves under the table,  

setting the battlefield for what was coming.  


I’m still here, final preparations for the great battle  

all the way down to the pits, where she 

is, spying on the common enemy. 


these thoughts keep me awake at night. 

the heavyweights I’ve drunk under dirty tables,  

the aficionados I nearly destroyed through an excess of drugs  

as they naively tried to top a man that had absolutely no desire to see 

another sunrise. 


Satan still waits, still avoids me, waiting for 

the right moment.  


wine for breakfast 

as I’ve decided to go light for the sake of the growing gut;  


dreams from the gutter, memories from shooting galleries made 

of clay, horrific images of a 

funeral during a rainy afternoon in a brown graveyard. 


the leaves fall, the dirt’s shoved, 


no gravestone, no marking, nothing but 

faint memories of a drunk year, of yellow 


papers filled with words branded with fire and blood. a black 

shriveled liver was found yesterday floating on a beach; must be 

mine, I just can’t remember when I 

last went out for a swim.


      Crushing Weights


an elephant sits on my chest refusing me 

even a single sip of his Pappy bourbon;  

no matter how hard I beg, 

how many tears I shed,  

NO, is the only answer I get.  

my legs are numb, 

my mind hazy.  

the needle, I dreamt of it last night.  

memories; hallucinations; acid trips; kisses.  

all gone. forgotten, erased.  

are you still out there?  

the mist grows denser. 

hello, my old friend, it’s been a short while; 

what kept you away?  

new beginnings same old endings, 

same old song  

played in an eternal repeat.  

no dancers, no lights, only blue smoke breaking  

the monotony of the dark night.  

empty seats everywhere,  

the deserted bus drives up and down the highway with 

no one to pick up. 

the forest inescapable, a humongous rock blocks the only cave connected with the world; 

famished monsters stalk the dark corners,  

delighted in the mist. no sound but the strong wind and the hard rain. 

give me a sip, I beg the elephant. 

he sits lower; NO.  

all right. 

distant screams, another victim claimed.  

blood river,  

bodies wash up ashore.  

no sip; the scent is intoxicating.  

resisting the urge to escape; pointless.  

conserving energy for the grand finale.  

another body floats on the stream, 

taken to places that as of yet do not exist. 

the rain intensifies, washing away the final remnants 

of glorious artifacts.  

the night remains dark, there are no mocking stars.



      Desperate Drinkers


no one to wait for us at home,  

no one to care whether we survived another day. 


we simply drank until we were petrified.  

somehow, we always found our way back home, 

some bizarre alcoholic mechanics guided our legs 

back to the original destination—with only a handful of 

instances of wrong coordination and confusion. 


the bars were always full, yet empty; they lacked soul, 

even the ones down in skid row, by the port, 

where the bums lived and drank.  


they only liked to yell at each other in their 

incomprehensible (to me) language. after a few punches thrown and taken 

they stopped caring; they yelled at others.  


they wanted to talk, to joke, to kill time; happy 

in their state of oblivion. I didn’t like them 

but I preferred them over the rest.  


I drank with them, bummed drinks off them, 

they bummed drinks off me. it was an unbreakable circle,  


we didn’t care; somehow, I’d find my way home with 

all of my belongings, minus the few bucks I had on me to begin with,  


and as the rhymes fail and I strive for lines strong, 

heartgripping and sorrowful, 


I drain my coffee, pour some gin in the cup  

and drink it down to erase all the new memories, 

keeping only those from skid row and the gutter, 

when I had to sell glass to pay rent and buy decent bourbon 

so I could drink at home 


some people get angry when drunk, others turn still and sullen;  

I’m both; sometimes throwing punches at walls, closets (and people),  

and sometimes sitting solemnly in the corner, draining  

bourbon and gin and tonics,  


thinking of those I’ve lost, the love I’ve buried,  


the endless mornings I can’t bear. 


growing suicidal every night when the green moon rises,  

thinking of the morning I’ll never wake up and finally feel 

alright; yet, I’m still trudging through the dense mist 

somehow believing 

I’ll one day make it (I’ve made it out of the mist 

many a time before, why not one more? or two?). 


I miss the passionless embraces of the women 

frequenting those same bars I used to haunt; the hopeless 

company that had given up—I hadn’t. now, 

I understand them better. 


even though I’d never grow to like them,  

I sometimes miss their company, if for nothing else, 

for the chance to throw some punches and then share a drink 

free from lethal, homicidal frustration.

George Gad Economou - Currently residing in Greece, George Gad Economou has a Master’s degree in Philosophy of Science and is the author of Bourbon Bottles and Broken Beds (Adelaide Books), Of the Riverside (Anxiety Press) and Reeling Off the Barstool (Dumpster Fire Press). His words have also appeared, amongst other places, in Spillwords Press, Ariel Chart, Cajun Mutt Press, Fixator Press, Horror Sleaze Trash, Outcast Press, The Piker Press, The Beatnik Cowboy, The Rye Whiskey Review, and Modern Drunkard Magazine.

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