Poems
by George Gad Economou
early mornings
a new day dawns, its already
pitch dark; no light anywhere
in the proximity, the following months, years,
decades equally dark. its alright,
beer and rotgut for breakfast; vodka replaces
the cereal, blow instead of croissants. the street
under the window empty, its sunday
morning, everyones 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, its alright, too; no ones here,
after all. voices and shadows, a fusillade of
presences in the room, Im 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 dont
care. the darkness
inspires; fuck the
mornings. I have a
routine, things to
do; once more, Ill go on
with no sleep at all. at least,
the night had a lot of
writing, thats some
consolation, decent
compensation for the hours Ill waste inside
dull, sterile classrooms.
the small cage
something lives in my chest, locked up
in a small cage. I rarely let
it out, its wild and untamed. I pour
whiskey on it, I pour wine, beer, and vodka; it wont
drown, it wont
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 wont murder it,
drugs cannot kill it.
first time it came out, it was noisome.
the second time, it was almost lethal.
its almost now, too; itll 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 wasnt there. miller fucked pages
by the hundreds, I wasnt around to
offer him a meal. suddenly, Im in flophouses
in la, when buk guzzled rejection slips
out of his mind with the chepeast, crudest
hooch available; I wasnt 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 wasnt there,
I wasnt there to listen to ginsbergs howls,
I never shook fantes 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. Im stuck in the middle
of nowhere, trapped in a materialistic bubble
of nothingness. if only Id share
a few cocktails with poe, together carouse
in wet, crepuscular streets of distant cities while chasing
talking ravens. the midnights 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
its amusing to consider how
little things can mean so much.
just a box of tea sitting
on my kitchen counter, I
thought Id stay there
for good; its nothing but
a reminder of its owner.
of the one thats gone.
why did the damn box of tea stay
behind? I try, but fail, to throw
it away; its 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.
Im but a shadow, a ghost meandering about,
wishing for the lightning to strike and
end the pain.
the memories, the dreams, the hopes, theyre
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, its 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) youd quit, or if
the doctors stated its bad for your health,
imbibe anyway.
one drink suffices to burn the promises, to
condemn teetotalers to oblivion.
theres 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 wont view me as a madman any longer, but
as a divine prophet.
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