Four Poems by George Gad Economou

 

singing willows down by the creek

 

 

as the wind blows and the river flows—where are the flames, the destruction  

a man said would rain down upon us?—the shows go on, 

 

here, there, everywhere; in nowhere meaning was once found.  

where all dreams are buried, in a nameless grave by a fountain of 

withering flowers. 

 

down at the dive they rush to get all orders; gin, whiskey, tequila, beer, wine, vodka… 

all for the lone man in the corner stool, suffocating on the island of pleasure,  

 

away from everyone. the nightingale has lost its voice,  

the sparrow shall fly nevermore. 

it’s all right, cries the madman in skid row’s darkest corner, a sandwich plate 

on his body: seek salvation, the apocalypse will never come. 

drowning sardines in their coffins made of tin and of dancing music  

 

try to reach the end by returning to the starting line.

 

 

Even Cockroaches have Souls

 

 

in a rundown apartment we sat, boozing 

another night away isolated from 

the world.  

 

we talked of numerous things I’ve 

already forgotten, except for 

one tiny thing:  

“even cockroaches have souls,” 

she said when I tried 

to step on one that was strolling around us.  

 

I didn’t kill the fucker;  

besides, it might have 

had more things to live for 

than us.  

 

I had a long snort of scotch, then poured 

some on the floor. it took a 

taste, then stumbled away.  

 

we drained the bottle fast. 

 

angry drunk tantrums broke the silence of the night; 

someone was chasing the same cockroach 

I had shared a drink with. 

 

I felt bad; a drunk kiss sufficed 

to make me forget.

 

A Walk by the Beach 

 

an unexpected visit 

(hadn’t seen her for a while); 

had nearly forgotten her 

eyes that reminded me of others. 

 

I wasn’t drinking; I was near the bender,  

still staying clean for reasons unknown.  

 

knock on the door,  

there she stood.  

 

she had broken up— 

because she couldn’t stop  

thinking of me.  

 

we took a walk to the nearby beach,  

strolled along the water  

despite the cold breeze.  

sat on a park-bench,  

talked.  

 

in my mind, I saw a family playing on the sand,  

a small child running around (a story I once wrote, 

born while she was talking to me 

and I didn’t listen).  

 

it was the family I never had (because of 

the spike). 

death is all around us;  

the same beach we were at, 

I had been with Emily (the one taken away).  

 

she was talking, and 

I heard Emily in my head;  

 

could it have ever been otherwise?  

 

the one great love, 

the true one,  

gone too soon,  

before I could even utter “I love you”.  

 

she wanted me to stay clean, 

off the booze (and the drugs,  

had she known about them).  

Emily never pressured me to get sober; 

au contraire, she indulged to the same vices— 

we were together at the lake house 

battling ghoul whales in the water.  

 

the beach remains untouched, 

I live far away now,  

in a different country altogether;  

 

I still remember the nights and afternoons 

there with Emily, 

drinking cold beer on the moist sand, 

kissing and fucking next to the  

luxurious mansions.  

 

smoking hash under the pale moonlight,  

talking about the day we’d sail around  

the world.  

 

I can also remember the early afternoon of long after 

(yet, long ago too), when she talked and I didn’t listen.  

 

we went back to my apartment,  

sat on the blue couch (whereupon Emily 

had slept for 9 months,  

and also exhaled for the very last time).  

 

she told me she broke up;  

told me she missed me,  

couldn’t stop thinking of me.  

we kissed.  

 

and her lips tasted nothing like Emily’s. 

I wished out; I couldn’t leave.  

I was looking for something, 

something she didn’t possess, 

yet, I was so desperate I created it in my head.  

 

then, she was gone;  

to Germany to find herself. 

 

she did. she went back to her boyfriend 

(after 3 pointless weeks of us sleeping together, 

going out, trying to make something meaningless 

work). 

 

I returned to the bottle, never again 

betrayed my faithful friend;  

even now, where I can’t drink all the time, 

I drink half the time.  

 

the bars are getting to know me,  

bartenders greet me heartily  

for they know with me there, 

the cash will flow in their pockets.  

 

I have no job, no future,  

no dreams;  

only the nightmares from the night 

Emily died 

and the page that still haunts me like 

the cockroaches  

that lived on the walls 

of my former home.  

 

the bourbon bottles empty,  

a sea I must cross every morning.  

 

I stare into the sun,  

trying to catch a glimpse of the ghosts 

of all the great minds that once (2400 years ago) 

walked the streets I’m now walking.  

 

I breathe in the same air,  

but,  

just like those who drink in the same bars 

Bukowski and Thomas did, 

I can’t find the light.

   

 

 

under the bridge

 

 

torn down walls of houses built on broken dreams 

fires bloomed and trees were chopped down;  

escaping insanity by locking yourself up in the asylum  

to stay with the sane prisoners that wished to escape.  

walking next to the rail tracks, following the lines of pioneers, 

only a bottle of bourbon in hand, and two cigarettes in the shirt’s front pocket.  

nothing more to ask for, except for a match and there’s no one around to offer one.  

cars speed through highways, 

reaching towns and then are parked, abandoned, left there to rot, till they’re nothing but dust.  

faraway shores never reached, seen, explored; all the wonders of the world hidden away 

in plain sight. we cried in our sleep, after numerous injections and snorting anything 

we could get our hands on. it was sheer madness, yet we cackled like satisfied children, 

wiggling our imaginary tails to anyone that offered more than a few lousy grams of blow.  

even from underneath the low bridge we could hear angels sing and we smiled as we embraced, 

battling the cold by uniting our freezing souls; it was a sight to behold,  

until the black angel of mercy separated us for good. 

lost the bridge, lost the smile; there was nothing but eternal midnight trapped  

within four deaf walls that will never testify the atrocities witnessed.  

broken veins, like the dreams, we never shed a real tear at the funeral. 

only crocodiles wiping dry blue eyes and we sauntered away,  

because it would NEVER happen to us. only to others.  

back to the bars, to the dim-lit dens where naked bodies dance for a few bucks; 

once more hiding yellow pages under foreign mattresses,  

staring straight into the endless tunnel and seeing a pair of pale eyes glaring back with a grim grin 

as a grip around my throat tightens, unblocking the emergency exit so desperately sought.

George Gad Economou has a Master’s degree in Philosophy of Science, currently works as a freelance writer, and has published three novels and two poetry collections, with the latest being his horror novel, “The Lair of Sinful Angels”, by Translucent Eyes Press. His words have also appeared 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.