Poems
by George Gad Economou
Morose Nights at the Gutter
what the fuck are you laughing at? Jason asked over his beer.
at this, I replied and showed him the angry response I received
from someone I drunk texted a couple of times - probably during some
drunken recalling of the long gone past.
she seems pretty pissed, he noted.
yeah, I shrugged, swigged down my beer. I guess, I did send her
a couple of quite eloquent texts, which she found juvenile,
because she cant appreciate art,
and well, guess she didnt like them!
I ordered another beer, read the text one last time before deleting it.
I hate bad writing - she had one too many mistakes in her text,
one too many quite nonsensical sentences. sorry, darling of old,
at least, even in my drunkenness, I produce masterpieces.
I sipped on my ice cold beer, still chuckling. she was yet another
burned bridge; yet another former love affair that wished to
change me, that wished I lived my life the way she wanted me to.
Bella walked in, sat next to me; with just a nod she ordered
her vodka and tonic.
what the fuck are you laughing at? she asked. I tried to explain,
and wished I hadnt erased the damn text so quick.
sounds like it happened before.
more times than I can count; kinda comes with the game, I lifted my glass
and we toasted to pointless and angry former love affairs.
you like pissing people off, she remarked.
its one of the few things Ive got for entertainment; lifes shit,
so Im doing my best to enjoy it.
you should learn to care a bit more about others.
yeah, right I shrugged; we drank.
soon, the text was forgotten, just like its composer.
Bella and I drank ourselves under the table and staggered to
her apartment, two blocks away - though, it probably took us
half an hour to find it.
another drink was poured - it was the one that killed all lust from
our bodies and minds. we fell asleep in each others arms,
both dreaming of people weve angered, people weve disappointed.
we woke up, had some vodka and wine.
then, we finally fucked.
at noon, I went back home; to sleep the night off.
trying to remember what the angry text was; I couldnt.
in my sleep, I saw when the composer of the text kissed me
on my old foldout couch and said its only for tonight.
in the end, she broke her engagement off for me, then couldnt take it.
Bella texted me; wondering if Id be at the bar later.
always, I cracked a beer open.
Another Tree Chopped Down
where in the hell do you get all this stuff? she asked, terror in her voice.
I just shrugged; I just know people, who know people.
thats not an answer, she accused me. I know, I nodded.
we chopped the lines, two short for her, four long for me.
euphoria, sudden erection of both body and mind; a desire
to do it all, burn the whole world down and resuscitate it from its ashes.
damn it, she coughed; I offered her a tissue for her nose. Im okay,
she reassured me, yet her eyes told a different story.
in yet another instance of chivalry, I believed her words and
lit a cigarette; I drunk some more bourbon, for the blow had
taken the lightheadedness away.
what are you doing? she cried.
what does it look like? I rebuked, my eyes fixed on the computer screen
and the blank page upon it.
is now the right time? she insisted. its always
the right time, I dismissed her.
and that was it. she stayed
silent and opted to open my copy of Ancient Gonzo Wisdom.
I was drinking straight out of the bottle, typing madly,
while she read, lifting her skirt all the way up, dangling her leg,
rubbing the tip of her high heel on my leg, driving it all the way up
to my sleeping crotch. I hardly noticed; more words added to the dance,
memories from earlier times, other similar attempts made from others.
professional drinker and amateur writer, barfly and a junkie;
sometimes, I put that on my resume, no one seems to like it.
honesty has taken a hard hit nowadays, they all want frankness
only as long as its pleasant and inspiring.
perhaps, I should write how I got inspired to write by reading
Coelho and Atwood, how their words made me want to inspire
and improve the world as well bullshit always sells,
its how I got a Bachelors and a Masters degree - by selling
whaleshit to professors.
the nights in the fancy bars, as the drinks keep flowing and the wallet
keeps getting thinner,
I recall other nights in dive bars and underground strip joints; how much
better sense the world made, when I drank in the latter, how meaningless
life appears to be in the former. and yet, for now Im trapped,
so far away from the joints of the glorious past of nothingness.
when there was no hope, no chance to make it past 27; only dreams
of a magnificent ending, of finally writing the perfect story.
now, Im nearing 28, have no dreams and yet still no hope;
only nagging from everywhere, about my drinking (which has gone
featherweight) and my inability to function properly. I walk down
the streets of Athens, unable to find one inspiring face; the cars speed by
and often I think of just jumping still here, seeking for the perfect story
that wont come.
a phantom ghost touches tenderly my shoulder, and soft lips
I havent kissed in 8 long years whisper in my ear:
your Hell is now, embrace it like only you know how.
In the Streets of Broken Dreams
with the right music blaring into my ears, I recall
the last visit to the old town; old home.
how I spent an afternoon walking around more
than I did the eight years I lived there. in just a few hours
trying to see all the sacred spots.
always a ghost next to me. flickering images; of Emily by the port, as we headed
drunkenly
to the dives.
of Christine holding my hand, trying to make me quit the vices.
of countless other nameless faces, some drunk, some sober, some
always with the whispering ghosts; two steps behind
the unattainable dream that keeps evading me.
I was there, as I am now vividly in my head. all the streets,
the old dives and the new bars. the walks, the talks,
eight years of madness - it felt much better than anything.
for a while I embraced sobriety, trying to make it into the
sex-literature market. no way to shred off what I know, the booze,
the drugs, the people.
how can I write about a prince falling in love with a farm girl?
how can I write about two regular middle-class people and their lives?
give me the junkie, the methhead, the boozehound, the bum,
the dealer, the pusher, the loan shark, the tired bartender.
give me dives, not fancy nightclubs. people with no hope.
thats what I know; and I stare at the sky,
ready to get the fuck away, back to where I belong; perhaps,
in some other distant country, even take me to goddamn Mars
and let me brew beer and moonshine. lets make the red planet
a boozehounds paradise.
wondering where Ill be, as soon as I have just enough money;
saving up, preparing for the last trip. and Im still here,
recalling all the ghosts that accompanied that last walk through
the all too familiar streets I drunkenly shambled through so many fucking times.
Losing Battles
seeking for inspiration everywhere; mostly in tall drinks,
and in pissing people off eliciting reactions that fuel the poems.
of course, most people arent able to procure decent reactions
to make up for more than a couple of poems. its all right; it answers
why I can never write likeable charactersIve rarely met anyone
truly likable.
and certainly Im one of the most unlikable people youll ever meet,
and drink with.
nothing really matters, Ive already forgotten the deleted message
from a scorned former love affair - did text her drunk twice lately,
what for, Ive no clue - and at least it fueled a couple of poems.
still lingering on the past, the two great loves, all the false
replacements, the cold embraces.
unwilling to look forth, as the future becomes bleaker with
every passing day; staying in the drunk, substance rich past,
when everything made sense within the insanity.
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