Poems
by George Gad Economou

early mornings

 

a new day dawns, it’s already

pitch dark; no light anywhere

in the proximity, the following months, years,

decades equally dark. it’s alright,

beer and rotgut for breakfast; vodka replaces

the cereal, blow instead of croissants. the street

under the window empty, it’s sunday

morning, everyone’s home, resting and

preparing for another long week of the

same old. in the dark, I sit with drugs and booze

for company; no one to

talk to - phantom moans from

the bed, deep grunts from

the worn out couch. all alone, nothingness around

me, darkness. more beer down

the hatch, more plumes of

blue smoke fill the air, thin lines of white

magic enter the nostrils. ghostly whispers

in my ear, soothing words from

the beyond; angry tantrums and outraged

yawps, it’s alright, too; no one’s here,

after all. voices and shadows, a fusillade of

presences in the room, I’m all

alone. more beer sank, the sun ascends,

time to catch up on my drinking, for

midnight must not

find me sober.

 

 

 

 

attending classes

 

5 am, another

insomnia night - how many

more can I

endure? I don’t

care. the darkness

inspires; fuck the

mornings. I have a

routine, things to

do; once more, I’ll go on

with no sleep at all. at least,

the night had a lot of

writing, that’s some

consolation, decent

compensation for the hours I’ll waste inside

dull, sterile classrooms.

 

 

 

 

 

the small cage

 

something lives in my chest, locked up

in a small cage. I rarely let

it out, it’s wild and untamed. I pour

whiskey on it, I pour wine, beer, and vodka; it won’t

drown, it won’t

die.

 

it tries to break out, I never

let it; I feed it booze to keep it

numb; it chirps, chortles,

and unfazed attempts to escape.

 

one day, it will destroy me. it must

stay within its cage, otherwise

it starts crying and hurting.

 

I must kill it; if only I

knew how. hooch won’t murder it,

drugs cannot kill it.

 

first time it came out, it was noisome.

the second time, it was almost lethal.

it’s almost now, too; it’ll be the last time.

 

the cage's open, love's free,

I'm dead.

 

 

 

 

staring at the abyss of gods

 

during long, insomniac, suicide

nights, I often think of roaring paris, when

hem and scott drank their masterpieces into

life; I wasn’t there. miller fucked pages

by the hundreds, I wasn’t around to

offer him a meal. suddenly, I’m in flophouses

in la, when buk guzzled rejection slips

out of his mind with the chepeast, crudest

hooch available; I wasn’t there

to bring him a sixer of PBR.

burroughs shot junk, while kerouac

peregrinated around the u.s. fueling

on jugs of cheap wine. I wasn’t there,

I wasn’t there to listen to ginsberg’s howls,

I never shook fante’s hand. I sit

in the dark, traipsing around

time, staring at baudelaire locking himself up

in other dark rooms, when balzac wrote for

16 hours straight. I’m stuck in the middle

of nowhere, trapped in a materialistic bubble

of nothingness. if only I’d share

a few cocktails with poe, together carouse

in wet, crepuscular streets of distant cities while chasing

talking ravens. the midnight’s forever, I guzzle

white wine and vodka, dreaming of

different eras, searching for inspiration in

the works of those that are

already gone. the bar in

the sky is an exclusive place, only a

select few get to drink eternity away; I have

to drink faster and work better if I want

to solidify my claim on that corner barstool.

 

 

 

 

a box of tea

 

it’s amusing to consider how

little things can mean so much.

just a box of tea sitting

on my kitchen counter, I

thought I’d stay there

for good; it’s nothing but

a reminder of its owner.

of the one that’s gone.

why did the damn box of tea stay

behind? I try, but fail, to throw

it away; it’s the one memory of

the one that almost replaced the dead love.

the box of tea stares back at me every

morning, reminding me of my shattered

dreams.

I’m but a shadow, a ghost meandering about,

wishing for the lightning to strike and

end the pain.

 

the memories, the dreams, the hopes, they’re

unbearable - weighing me down, not even

fortified wine lifts the pain.

I know the box of tea will remain closed,

never will its owner return.

 

I keep it around, it’s sometimes fun

to drink around it.

 

 

 

 

 

a reason to drink

 

there's always a reason to drink:

it could be a heartbreaker,

an automatic rejection slip from an agent or publisher,

the emptiness of the soul,

the headache that splits your head in two,

insomnia,

the deep desire to forget, or the

craving for some wild carousing.

 

having a drink is always a good idea,

drunken oblivion always

a faithful friend.

 

swig your drink,

allow booze to clear

your head and eviscerate your harrowing thoughts.

if you promised someone (or the county sheriff) you’d quit, or if

the doctors stated it’s bad for your health,

imbibe anyway.

one drink suffices to burn the promises, to

condemn teetotalers to oblivion.

there’s always a good reason to drink; if you

think me mad, swill down that lowball of bourbon,

drain a bottle of fortified wine,

have a few bottles of beer.

you won’t view me as a madman any longer, but

as a divine prophet.

 

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