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George Gad Economou




Chained on the Bed



there’ve been

countless mornings where

getting off bed appeared




even more mornings,

where the desire

to get up, fight the world,

enter another fruitless war,

was not there.



the sun could shine bright outside,

or, it could be raining heavily,

drowning the ducks in their ponds;


the blanket was warm,

the mattress soft;



wherefore get up,

walk around,

see people,





when there’s nothing

to live for?



I would only get up to piss,

vomit, and drink;

without that first vodka and orange juice,

I couldn’t even breathe.



after the third glass,

I felt somewhat alright,

although, still,

I felt the elephant

sitting deeper on my chest.



the beers and the bourbon came later in

the early afternoon,

as did the pot, the blow;

all efforts to give the endless fight

some purpose, some real reason

to go out there, cry tough,

make it happen.



despite it all,

no reason remained for long;

everything always


just like the clouds of blue smoke

produced by every cigarette,

by every glass-pipe.



within dreams there’s no death,

no desolation;

Emily’s still alive,

our child is now 6 years old;

we live by a lake, surrounded

by tall mountains.



all alone, in the midst of beautiful nature,

and we’re truly happy.

then, the alarm clock rings,

I try to break it, but,

I can’t; always something to do.



job interviews that get me nowhere,

writing that often has too little to say,

outings with friends that often turn tedious,

reading the old masters that on occasion had something great to say.



and I’m all alone,

exploring the darkness with

a half-empty bottle of bourbon in my hand,

still searching for that one glorious moment in life

that will make everything else forgettable.




a line, (a short blue one)



Cockroaches mating under the Mattress



the only fucking in the shooting gallery

was that of cockroaches;

we slept in worn-out, burn-out, torn-out

mattresses on the unwashed for ages floor,

and next to us

a few cockroaches did their thing

to make more of their kind

to pester us for all eternity.



and we were too high to see,

let alone procreate ourselves.

we could barely talk coherently,

how the hell were we supposed to enact

the precious act of penetration?



only a couple of the fiends

could still get it up,

and only a handful of the women

were ever in the mood;

those were usually the coke-fiends,

the ones needing uppers.



for the rest, who went for downers,

sex was out of the question;

and we didn’t really miss it,

to be frank.



sex can lead to pregnancy

and pregnancy can be fatal to many parties,

when it involves parents addicted to many

natural and chemical substances that

are meant to destroy the mind, kill the body,

and elevate the soul.



so, it was only the cockroaches fucking in those

worn-out mattresses of shame and blood

and it was alright; they do have souls, too,

as someone once told me during a wild drinking night.



other than that, let’s be honest,

I don’t have much else to say;

I never do, but,

after having lived in nothingness for so damn long,

I’ve learned to express it in many words

and in many forms.



it’s the result of living in shooting galleries,

sleeping junk hallucinations off next to procreating cockroaches.




a line, (a short blue one)



Flying Needles



dragons outside the window,

once again,

unable to escape, to evade

the lingering scent of bourbon

and junk.



all those months gone by,

the broken glass-pipe,

the aluminum foil bongs;

it’s all gone,

dropped into the abyss,

there to hide from the sun and air,



alone, forever and ever.



the darkness rises,

mist falls;

familiar sight,

yet, there’s no bourbon to take it away


poisoned drinks



in fancy nightclubs,

dancing along the mindless youth,

eradicating, temporarily,

the all-engulfing fog.



like a veil over the entire town,

the pain comes back,

the trembling of the arms

the sweating.



no escape,

once more;


like always.



and she cries from the bed,

hidden under the blanket,

like in those days she was still around and well,

begging for one sober night,

one morning of normalcy.



there’s nothing like that,

never was; will it ever be?



constant questioning of the inquiring ghosts,

revengeful shadows still crying over spilled gin;

one more drink,

one last night to escape.



the final chance.

no one’s around;

only the fading sun,

the exploding moon.



the dragons outside the window


more vengeful and determined

than ever before.




a line, (a short blue one)



Harrowing Moments of Bourbon



there was always one

coveted exit,

the one true desire haunting

young, innocent minds;



nothing was ever truly accomplished,

living for the sake of surviving,

breathing to satisfy the well-tuned mechanism.



yet, the scarce moments of yesterday

have defined a new future meant

to be under a cold, lonely bridge



in some undefined city that has

yet to be risen from the dead.



all those nights of heavy drinking,

the pleas from warm lips I used to adore;



the mornings of insanity,

when the bugs crawled under my skin,

I surrendered to the madmen and the alien cops

nothing ever really changed, despite

the dull attempts.



I still remember coming home

holding an empty bottle under my arm

and still wearing the condom

from a night I had forgotten even then;



she saw me, cried, punched me wild.

she didn’t leave, not even then.



she had guts, my Christine;

a testicular fortitude I haven’t seen since.



she was not a drinker, a

self-loathing drug abuser.

no, she was pristine, clean,

sober, perfect.



wherefore we stayed together for

as long as we did, I’ll never truly know;

she never explained it on the phone,

when she announced she’s moving

to another city.



it was finally, definitively, unquestionably


and I cried, for the second (and insofar last) time in my life

I shed real tears for a woman.



even the needle didn’t scare her,

my brief visit to the Bar;

she was the one that brought me

back down to earth, to life.



why did you do it, Christine?

I wished to stay there,

I was about to drink whiskey with Dylan,

beer with Charles. the needle had

been warmed up by William himself!



you brought me down,

cured me; saw through

the cold turkey, the

desolation of the painful lust.



I wish to hold you

one more time;

as I remain in the dark,

avoiding the Athenian heat wave,

I think of you, of

the bourbon nights I made you cry.



when I watched wrestling for a whole weekend,

and all you wanted to do was for us

to go out for a walk; I was too drunk and stoned

to move a muscle, and yet,

instead of nagging,

you came to lie down next to me,

held my hand in the dark,

told me

it’s going to be alright,

for you knew the emptiness within.



all those years gone by,

so many bottles emptied after you left,

the needles, the glass-pipes. nothing

ever truly ended. only




and yet, it’s you I still miss,

the one that’s still alive and gone away.



the one set of lips I wish (and still can) to kiss,

where are you, except for in my brightest dreams?



the day’s ending,

afternoon’s coming and I’m

going out drinking

despite it being 45°C outside.



at least, I’ll get

drunk pretty fast

and won’t have to remember anymore.



a line, (a blue one)


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