Poems
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 lighta 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;
couldnt breathe. the spike still
in the arm; no one called
an ambulanceno 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 awaycouldnt 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.
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; cant 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;
its 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.
well 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; its, thus, back to
junk stories,
fading memories from the shooting gallery.
on a couple of occasions, though,
they cooperatemomentarily
producing something truly sublime
but, obviously, unpublishable.
its alright; I write for the posthumous induction
to the Bar.
the Wild Turkey river flows in abundance
and
meets the junk waterfall;
the world keeps going around the sun
and
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, Ive 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,
and GOOD NIGHT.
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, theyd have snorted my blow, too, if I had it
laying freely.
the ants are dead now, its 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, its
not even 2 p.m.; I dont 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.
Brutal Drunk Writings
pouring out all anger and despair onto the page,
trying, in a state of mind that wont 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 floorsuicidal, 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 wouldnt utter sober,
things that plague my sober mind and come to life
whenever more than 7 beers are consumedespecially 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 goodpoems that cant be published,
cant be read, until Im gone from the world.
its all right, leaving a legacy for the future.
honestys hard to come by nowadays, no one
truly appreciates it; yet, its the one thing that matters.
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, Ill worry
about tomorrow. now is now, and its alright; I
guzzle another beer, I light a cigarette, and fire
up another poem. words flow out like tidal waves,
Ive 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.
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