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by George Gad Economou





there’s no forgetting that first night

we met, that dive bar in Aarhus, Denmark,


when Purple Rain blared through the speakers when I

met your sparkling green eyes. how could I’ve known, at

the time, that that random meeting would lead to the most

intense nine months of my life, that it would

define who I’d become? ten years since your

passing, I’m still defined by your presence.


no one’s replaced the warmth of your embraces, the way

you held me when I was too hungover to move.


even now, I dream of your embrace. when I wake

up hungover, I picture you’re there next to me, your hand messing

my hair, and I momentarily feel better.



a line, (a short blue one)





getting into the fifth of Plymouth, draining

it slow while I chase it with beer, getting

delightfully drunk, I stare at the night sky, and realize

this collection, BoozeSongs, is all about

you, Emily. we boozed it up every night,

for nine months we were brilliantly drunk and high.


it’s almost ten fucking years since I’ve last seen you;

ten fucking years since the Devil decided he wanted

you in his realm. we outdrank the rotten horned bastard

one too many times and he wanted his revenge.


he always feared me, for reasons unknown. I’ll

come for you, one day. booze can’t kill me. hard drugs

failed to do the job. one day I’ll crap my liver out and

take a seat next to you at that poker table in the

Devil’s living room. we’ll swill Maker’s Mark and smoke

smuggled Cuban cigars and cheat the horned bastard

out of everything he owns.


we’ll take over hell, like we promised we would during

a tequila weekend. for now, I’m trying to erase you from

my writing, I can’t. you belong in every fucking

line. it’s how it’s supposed to be.


you’re my Jane; my Sera; you’re my Emily and one day

someone’s gonna play you in a movie shown in theaters

too long after I’m dead.



a line, (a short blue one)





lost in the mist of absentmindedness, of too many

things to do yet lacking the strength to do any,


enshrouded by thoughts and the pressure of time,

and unemployment and lack of cold cash, there’s nothing

moving that could turn things around. flopping about, jumping

between half-finished short stories, lousy poems, and job

applications, finding no strength to pursue



the words won’t flow, the beers and whiskey do but they

simply make me want to rewatch Barfly and Leaving Las Vegas,


the sparks are dead, trying new drinks to rekindle the

flames, to ignite the mad dance that broke

keyboards and terrorized neighbors and might have

even sparked revolutions or at least meaningful




a line, (a short blue one)





deep into my cups, I stare at the dawning

sun, the sky turning blue all over again; I go back to the

times we’d sit in an embrace on an algid, sandy beach,


high on crack cocaine and rotgut,

and we watched the dawn

of a new day. we’d always think that

one glorious someday we’d

make it.


we never did. you were gone too early,

I never had it in me to make it. it’s

fucking all right.



never seemed to matter; ever since I attended

your funeral, life lost

meaning. every barstool I hoist myself up

on, I expect you to occupy

the neighboring one. you




I drink alone, fending off anyone that

attempts to breach the invisible wall I




a line, (a short blue one)





it’s so fucking tempting, you know?

2am in the morning, I’ve got 3 liters of

beer in my bloodstream. I stare at the open

window, the two-story jump I

could perform.


so fucking easy.

one leap, it’ll all be over. I’ll be

reunited with my Emily. I know she’s reserved

a seat for me at the Devil’s private poker table.


my drinking buddy doesn’t want me there; he’s the anchor

that prevents me from leaping off the balcony, he’s the reason

I could never jump in front of a speeding 18-wheeler.


it’s so easy to do it; I stare at the open window, the balcony rail,


all so fucking inviting. LEAP, a voice beckons me. I stay put.


another poem to conclude, more rejection slips to

drink away. more life to waste.



a line, (a short blue one)





the end is nigh, almost on sight, silent

prayers for the night never to turn

blue, as wine goes into

the glass, more wine to freeze

time, to capture effulgent moments trapped

in the eternity of boredom.


more wine, begs the sparrow on the window sill.

more wine, bawls the staggering wino.


more wine fills the glass, and things start making




a line, (a blue one)


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