Poetry: Selections from George Gad Economou

Wine in the Vein

as long as there’s some

wine in

the bottle, and a fresh bottle in

the fridge, the night can

remain young and frolicking, visions

dance on the

walls and words emerge out of the

fire like nuclear missiles. a tsunami of

wine fuels the crepuscular days

of winter and of depression as it

elevates the misery and allows for a

proper pace to be reclaimed.

 

Nights of Ghosts

as the booze river

flows, turns into a torrent, new

thoughts are born and old

whispering ghosts come for

a visit. they remind me of

old sins, of blackout mistakes, of broken

promises. and I drink, drowning them like I

did when they were there, physically, next to

me and I drank and wrote and they wanted something

else, something more, something I could never

give them. I flow down the booze torrent, letting the

waves take me away, to faraway lands, a time-traveling

river that takes me back, so back that I can’t even

recognize the young man guzzling beer,

shooting junk, and scribbling sci-fi novels. I wish to

scream words of

warning but I

can’t, my tongue’s been cut, I have

no voice. if only I could find a way

to write a message on

the wall; use my own

blood, yes. damn it, they’re the undecipherable

messages that stained my

walls when I was high on junk. that was

me and fuck

it there’s no way out of this, I’ll just drink,

in the past, in the now, and in the future.

 

Fighting Ghoul Whales

staring at

the lake, the ghoul

whale sprouting infernal flames; we raised our

waterglasses, swigged down the

bourbon in honor of

the monster that wanted us

dead. then, we refilled our

glasses, killing the second fifth

of Jim Beam. seven more

fifths to

go, along with several bottles of

gin, tequila, and a dozen

cases of beer. just enough for a

good weekend. plus the coke, and the acid.

the whale always lurked, and the alien cops got

wasted and high. we drank, snorted, and popped pills; we

made it

home, with nothing but empty

bottles and cold sweats.

 

Treacherous Sea

broken bottles formed a

treacherous sea every

morning, shards of glass all

around, slicing my

socks and piercing my skin as I

bolted to

the bathroom to throw up. every morning

the same bloody

scene, at times I could barely

walk from the wounds on the soles of

my feet and I always

forgot to clean the mess up once I

poured the second drink of

the morning. more bottles always

were added, none removed. for several months I

drank several distilleries into good fortune, did my

part in helping working people earn a

living while my liver took a beating it still

recalls with terror.

George Gad Economou resides in Greece and holds a Master’s degree in Philosophy of Science and supports his writing by doing freelance jobs whenever he can get them. He has published a novella, Letters to S. (Storylandia) and a poetry collection, Bourbon Bottles and Broken Beds (Adelaide Books) and his drunken words have also appeared in various literary magazines and outlets, such as Spillwords Press, Ariel Chart, Fixator Press, Piker’s Press, A Thin Slice of Anxiety, The Edge of Humanity Magazine, The Rye Whiskey Review, and Modern Drunkard Magazine.