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by George Gad Economou



death of a junkie


with the spike in his arm, he

ran, trotting away from

the monsters. no one bothered with

the collapsed body on the

pavement; he kept on running, away

from the creatures of the dark. galloping toward

the radiating light—a voice beckoned, he ran.

no one flung a glare at the still body; he ran toward

the evanescing light.

he ran, and galloped, and trotted;

couldn’t breathe. the spike still

in the arm; no one called

an ambulance—no one

cared. he ran, but the light

was dead. the monsters gained on him.

their noisome breath heavy on the back

of his neck, their hairy hands and sharp claws

brushing against his quavering skin.

the needle still in the arm, no one gave a damn.

he was running away—couldn’t escape. they

caught up to him, grabbed him,

devoured him.

his soundless screams of agony reached no ear; they all

glanced away from the ghoulish sight of the quaking body

on the pavement. he could not run, the empty, cold

needle still in his arm. just darkness, not even a whisper,

not even a pant.

only in the morning, when the offices and shops had to open,

did someone call to have the body removed from the sidewalk.



a line, (a short blue one)



Boxing in the Dark


without the booze to subdue them,

and without the drugs to keep them content,

the demonic voices are back;


turning written words into bloody warfare,

each page another battlefield blanketed with mutilated corpses.


staring at the massacre

—helplessly from far above—

I hear the anguished screams of the final pain;


I remember clearly

the former wars; always the same visions,

grotesque, brutal, unwatchable.


fascination hides in the bloody screenshots

in my head; can’t subdue them,

I allow each demon a few hours of freedom.


sometimes, I lose it completely;

the fog falls heavily, engulfs everything

leaving behind nothing but razed fields

and brutalized virgins.


on occasion, there are moments of brilliance

during hours of lunacy;

it’s for those moments I live,

for those moments I fueled my brain with

every substance known to man (natural and artificial alike, I was

never prejudiced).


sex sells, and one of the demons is

a horny woman; trying to find new ways

to make ends meet, to finance

the growing vices,

the ever-increasing lust for more.


recent beginning; a chapter added

to the old book that can only end

in death.


we’ll see how it goes;

the demon crawls out every now and then,

offers some desolate brilliance then is

overtaken by the older, stronger

demons and they turn her stories

into theirs; it’s, thus, back to

junk stories,

fading memories from the shooting gallery.


on a couple of occasions, though,

they cooperate—momentarily—

producing something truly sublime

but, obviously, unpublishable.


it’s alright; I write for the posthumous induction

to the Bar. 


the Wild Turkey river flows in abundance


meets the junk waterfall;

the world keeps going around the sun


I fight with the page ignoring the raging war.


whoever wins, the result will be the same; a new

battle begins right after the truce is signed.


same old game, I’ve learned it well by now;

I only feed the demons, keeping them alive

hoping for the rare moments of brilliance

amid the countless years of mutant whaleshit.


drink it down with me,




a line, (a short blue one)



the ants came for me, too


when the ants first came,

I scoured for their nest, their

headquarters. found nothing, so I

put duct tape over some holes in the kitchen tiles.

they kept coming, the rotten, shrewd bastards.

they climbed on my food, in my booze.

spoiled the scarce edibles in my apartment,

and swam in bourbon.

I threw the food away, stopped giving a damn; hid a

few things to ensure survival, and drank down

the drowning ants in my lowballs.

like me, they sought salvation in the drink.

it killed them, as it will one day kill me.

the ants died happy,

I saw some of them smile, while others lowered for

not having lived enough.

like us, the ants sought liberation in the drink,

perhaps, they’d have snorted my blow, too, if I had it

laying freely.

the ants are dead now, it’s too

cold and dark for them; I drink ant-free

hooch, it lacks the palatable taste

of withering desperation. another

sip, another broken keyboard;

why should the few things we cherish be

pristine, perfect, untouched?

I crack another fifth, it’s

not even 2 p.m.; I don’t need the

night to drink; always is a good time for another drink.

I recall with a smirk the hundreds of suicidal ants that

leaped into my glasses, finding a pleasant, alcoholic death.



a line, (a short blue one)



Brutal Drunk Writings


pouring out all anger and despair onto the page,

trying, in a state of mind that won’t allow me clearly

to see the words,


to express all the things I wish to yell to the world.


standing at the balcony, contemplating a moonsault

from the second floor—suicidal, homicidal, genocidal

lingering thoughts, attempting not to sober up


for in drunk writing not only is there cruel honesty,

but quality, too.


writing for and to people, telling things I wouldn’t utter sober,

things that plague my sober mind and come to life

whenever more than 7 beers are consumed—especially in

midsummer with 37 degrees outside.


the fingers move, the mind tries to erase the mistakes

and it takes a long fucking time to finish a lowly poem; but,


in the end,

the results are cruel and good—poems that can’t be published,

can’t be read, until I’m gone from the world.


it’s all right, leaving a legacy for the future.


honesty’s hard to come by nowadays, no one

truly appreciates it; yet, it’s the one thing that matters.



a line, (a short blue one)



declaration of affection


why should I care about tomorrow, let alone

about ten years down the road?

let me first make it through

today and tomorrow, I’ll worry

about tomorrow. now is now, and it’s alright; I

guzzle another beer, I light a cigarette, and fire

up another poem. words flow out like tidal waves,

I’ve rediscovered myself. I feel

fucking fine; thank you cordially for

showing me how badly I needed you

out of my life and thoughts so I could

dream dreams with substance, instead of a lifetime

with you that would obliterate everything

I ever was and am.



a line, (a blue one)


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