George Gad Economou
Chained on the Bed
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,
when theres nothing
to live for?
I would only get up to piss,
vomit, and drink;
without that first vodka and orange juice,
I couldnt even breathe.
after the third glass,
I felt somewhat alright,
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;
just like the clouds of blue smoke
produced by every cigarette,
by every glass-pipe.
within dreams theres no death,
Emilys 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 were truly happy.
then, the alarm clock rings,
I try to break it, but,
I cant; 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 Im 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.
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 didnt 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, lets be honest,
I dont have much else to say;
I never do, but,
after having lived in nothingness for so damn long,
Ive learned to express it in many words
and in many forms.
its the result of living in shooting galleries,
sleeping junk hallucinations off next to procreating cockroaches.
dragons outside the window,
unable to escape, to evade
the lingering scent of bourbon
all those months gone by,
the broken glass-pipe,
the aluminum foil bongs;
its all gone,
dropped into the abyss,
there to hide from the sun and air,
alone, forever and ever.
the darkness rises,
yet, theres no bourbon to take it away
in fancy nightclubs,
dancing along the mindless youth,
the all-engulfing fog.
like a veil over the entire town,
the pain comes back,
the trembling of the arms
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.
theres 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 ones around;
only the fading sun,
the exploding moon.
the dragons outside the window
more vengeful and determined
than ever before.
Harrowing Moments of Bourbon
there was always one
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 didnt leave, not even then.
she had guts, my Christine;
a testicular fortitude I havent seen since.
she was not a drinker, a
self-loathing drug abuser.
no, she was pristine, clean,
wherefore we stayed together for
as long as we did, Ill never truly know;
she never explained it on the phone,
when she announced shes 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 didnt 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,
its 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, its you I still miss,
the one thats 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 days ending,
afternoons coming and Im
going out drinking
despite it being 45°C outside.
at least, Ill get
drunk pretty fast
and wont have to remember anymore.
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