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by George Gad Economou





Another Dry Bottom



more and more bottles emptied, hangover mornings

wasting time, no desire to do anything. hardly able

to breathe, the nights grow long and tedious without

a bottle by my side.


as the wolves in the distance howl, monsters descend upon

the empty streets, storming the bars, shutting them down.


every day, upon waking up, two tequilas for the headache,

a nice glass of whiskey to soothe the heart and kill the memories.



remaining still, breathlessly walking down the road, forgetting

the nights, the philosophical discussions with tired bartenders.



morose nights of insanity, searching for meaning in empty bottles;

howling at the moon, cursing the mocking stars.




a line, (a short blue one)



Mornings of Intense Insanity



‘twas 8:30am;

the first bourbon had already been poured,

downed. one more glass.

Jasmine was right there

on the blue couch

– she was only wearing a John Lennon shirt of mine –

smoking a cigarette idly.




a knock on the door,

I peered from behind the blind.

opened the door; quick transactions yet again.

a “good morning”, “how are you?” “fine, you?” “fine, thanks.”

“here’s your junk” “here’s your glass”

“bye” “bye”

and the darkness reigned once more,

as the door was closed, the blind lowered.



Jasmine looked at the brown sugar in the bag,

did not ask a single question – had been present for a transaction

before, even though I only knew her for two weeks.



the needle was ready

– the murderer of my true love, and my most faithful friend –

and as the junk was placed in the spoon,

Jasmine grabbed me by the arm;


she asked feverishly.



“too many reasons,” I said

and inhaled hungrily the rising vapor.



“how can there be even one reason?”



liquid junk in the syringe,

death trapped in a tiny box;

uncontainable, yet so peacefully looking.



once, I thought bourbon would take me away;

for a while, it seemed junk would do the trick

when, only briefly, once sent me to the glorious Bar.



not anymore, the insane junk mornings of dark summer mornings

are forever gone, past remnants of a life lived on the edge,

while constantly lacking the balls for the last damn step over the cliff.



Jasmine saw the tapping of the needle,

the squirting of few precious drops

– expensive tickets to the land of nothingness.



in it went;

soon, it all became clear.

I was on and off,

switching faster than a lightswitch

toyed by a hyperactive child.



Jasmine next to me;

her touches, her kisses,

memorandums for colder nights

of aimlessly wandering about

the flower meadows

where melting dragons roam.



I saw the colors; but, no BAR.

only a single dragon,

and a redheaded angel,

Byron’s Muse’s little sister (the shame of the family);

I smiled at both,

only momentarily could I now feel

the soft touches on my face,

my body.

the kisses meant

to bring me back to a reality

I abhorred.



hours; wasted once more.

junk and bourbon.

the two true brothers.

the warriors I used to bring with me

whenever I rode into battle against

my gravest enemy.



now, I’m all alone;

even the bourbon only comes by


COME UP! sometimes I scream

during dreams I murder old friends

and raze apartments I only saw once down to the ground.



Jasmine! I cried during that cold summer night;

it was snowing only  inside the small apartment.

she was nowhere around;

only a note.

I’m coming back tomorrow. be sober.



she came. I was drunk.



I had smoked the junk during the night

– 4 grams in one night; a common instance

during my vicious, yet uneven, war with the page.



she saw me. kissed me.

I couldn’t get it up.



she walked away,

when I put a wrestling card on the tv.



she did return, one more time.

the last chance I was given.



found me on the couch,

with a busty blonde next to me;

we were both drunk (and gently high)

and watching bloodbath deathmatches from Japan.



Jasmine walked away,

when a threesome offer came up.



it’s alright, I told myself.

poured me another bourbon,

thus finishing the bottle.



always another one to open,

the stranger on my couch kissed me,

squirmed, when one of the wrestlers was stabbed on

the cheek with a syringe – all in the name of extreme entertainment.



I heated up the needle, time

to stab myself too.



the stranger partook;

lost in the mist, we might have fucked.

can’t remember.

come morning,



I was all alone;

no one to come by,

except for the dealers and the methheads.



I spent the morning cooking,

the evening injecting,

the night writing.



finally, exhausted,

I fell asleep;

in my dream,

the dragon was Jasmine-shaped.

I woke up in fervor,

drank two glasses of bourbon



and could get on

with my routine all

over again.




a line, (a short blue one)



Boozehound’s Last Song



whether it’ll last a week, or a decade,

it’s time for the final bender; nothing’s ever truly accomplished,


spending nights in dives and mornings searching for

whatever was lost between the 7th and 10th drink—

phone, wallet, friend, romantic interest, soul, liver.



after way too many burned bridges,

and due to circumstances that stubbornly refuse to change,



it’s time to pour the final first gin and tonic of the day—of life.

its smooth taste hits the throat beautifully and the sparkles

light a warm fire in the withering heart.



one turns to two, turns to five; a beer for the edge,

some Wild Turkey as night falls and some

craziness’s requested by the masturbating gods.



all the nights and weeks in dives come back as

vivid acid hallucinations, as more beer and bourbon’s consumed;

tirelessly moving back and forth, all the times I scared some poor

soul shitless, every time I burned another bridge made of hay.



more drinks flow, as memories keep coming back—yet, I still can’t

dig memories out of the well of darkness. all the blackout days and weeks

are eternally gone.



mysteries for future historians.



the first bottle’s gone—mysteriously empty. a second one’s cracked open,

one more glass to commemorate the last good bender.



trying to embrace sobriety to create better circumstances for

a future in new dives.




a line, (a short blue one)





for some, it’s a spiritual journey, a way to achieve

nirvana, or something; I’ve achieved nirvana,



once, and chased the damn blue dragon for several years.



yet, in every empty bottle, I looked for answers. never found

any, but,

there was always another bottle to search.



now, there’s none. for several weeks gone dry,

due to dire circumstances. no money to hit the bars,

no real dives around to bum drinks off more fortunate bums.



new streets, the changed streets of childhood,

and I’ve got nothing to drink but weak coffee.



going insane, as midnight approaches, I’ve nothing

to wash the dreams away, nothing to help the keyboard

dance the damn flamenco of the dark ages.



smelling beer in the air, almost tasting Wild Turkey—

hallucinations of my suffering taste buds, as they crave

for a good long hit to commence a decent night.



nothing to drink but water and damn weak coffee,

nothing to soothe the burning mind, to wake the withering soul.



my spiritual journey ended, when the last bottle of gin went dry.

when the world turned turncoat and teetotaler.



and it’s alright; I’ve longed for the streets of childhood so much,

I managed to return to them. only to witness the utter destruction

so perfectly concealed from the thin veil that covered my hazed eyes.



now, sober for far longer than I thought possible,

I’m ready for the next trip; the last song, no matter how long

it lasts. somewhere by a beach, swigging cheap beer and margaritas.



sobriety only made me appreciate the booze more,

made me appreciate all the things I had and didn’t want;



sobriety—the cruelest spiritual journey I ever undertook, but,

it’s alright. I needed the wakeup call for what’s truly vital in this life.



the lost highway awaits me, the curvy roads that once led me to a lake

populated by a ghoul whale spurting infernal lava.




a line, (a blue one)


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