Poetry: Selections from George Gad Economou

Friends Lost in the Oceans of Memories

when Jimmy first stepped into the Circus

he looked lost, innocent, pure; just like all men

before him, he was mesmerized by Gina’s kindness and looks. 

 

his mind went hazy, his eyes grew blurry—there was no salvation

for him any longer, though he certainly believed he had

discovered absolution.

 

from my corner booth I watched, over a glass of Four Roses and towers

of yellow papers, the destruction of

another young soul—I was young, too, though I felt

older than the universe.

 

Gina ordered for Jimmy and he drank, and drank

(and drank)

hypnotized by her wide, bright, green eyes that could see into

one’s soul. he thought he’d found love.

 

I’d been there—the rest of the faithful heavyweights, too.

Gina was always the last to stand—always beating us at our own fucking game.

 

perhaps, that’s why everybody loved her. 

he soon discovered what toxic love means: in a short month,

he stumbled through the door, holding on to his jacket tight (rookie mistake

but who can blame him? haven’t we all done the same thing at some point?)

 

and hurried to John, the tall Irish bartender with the narrow dark eyes that said

absolutely nothing. “hey man,” Jimmy said, “I got four grams of heroin on me.

“you’re the one to sell it to?”

 

John clocked him dead on the nose; little Jimmy fell down, whimpering.

us cruel drunks laughed. John took the dope, put some money in

Jimmy’s pocket—the Irish bastard always had manners; perhaps, what

made him the least interesting person in the Circus.

 

for a while, Jimmy whined, John cut the junk, 

and the rest drank. 

 

Jimmy clambered up to his feet, staggered about. he’dnever talked to me.

horrified—after all, I was Gina’s main lover, the one she’d come to

when there was no one new around. 

 

I got up, ordered bourbon, and handed Jimmy a small piece of glass;

“give it to Gina,” I instructed him and he ran, as if he’d seen the Devil

(perhaps, he did—I had questionable drinking partners back then).

 

another month went by and Gina had come back to me.

 

“what happened to little Jimmy?” I asked as we lay in bed, 

dragging long puffs from a glass pipe and chasing them with vodka. 

“haven’t seen him for a week,” she confessed. “lasttime I saw him,

“he was screaming something about secret agents and alien police.”

 

“they got him too, huh?” I chuckled, dryly, as I recalled

a spaceship hovering over a lake housing a ghoul whale. 

 

“yeah,” she agreed—recalling her own dark memories.

 

I’m sure Jimmy’s still running away from the secret agents,

just like I’m never going near a lake fearing I’ll become a modern Jonas.

My (un)Fair Lady

 

you don’t know how it feels

(you can’t know), until

you try it; once you

do, it’s already 

too

late.

 

in

and

out. 

 

one motion. 

simple. 

 

horrendous repercussions; 

you enter the violent storm, there are

no ports to protect you, 

no havens wherein to retreat. 

 

out in the open, to

struggle,

fight, approaching

death, every day a 

step toward it. 

 

during dark nights of winter,

you’ll hear the 

grave-diggers’ shovels

hitting the dirt heartlessly. 

 

if you’re unlucky, 

you’ll see black turtles emerging

out of an infernal abyss to

take a piss on your unwritten tombstone.

 

you won’t quit, 

you will never say no, 

even if deep down you want to.

 

stay away for a while, 

it’s feasible;

forever?

no way, my friend, 

sorry.

 

terror-stricken nights, 

waking up covered in sweat from

nightmares you remember, and

wish to forget. 

 

you run through the meadows fierce

dragons have set

ablaze.

 

you gallop around the leaping

flames, trying to catch

them despite being

equipped with nothing but

a butterfly net.

 

good luck.

 

if they like you, the dragons will

occasionally dance for you.

don’t have great expectations. 

 

you’ll get stabbed

(more than once),

by a woman

or a needle. 

 

I know both too well;

the result is the same.

Dark Dead-Ends of Hell

 

“do you have some change, man?” the

eternal question in every crowded spot.

some look for food; others, for the next fix. 

 

I’ve more sympathy for the latter.

I know

sickness, the dreadfulness of

yearning for one last fix. 

 

to hear the click.

to feel alright.

 

I lost everything to a

cold needle. 

 

it murdered my first love,

drove away the second;

there was never a third,

nor will it ever be.

 

the spike; true love.

the rest are only stories

belonging to a past buried deep

in the forest,

dispersed like ashes in the wind. 

 

nothing stands,

it’s all about death, the faint

remnants of an

army buried so long ago

no one’s left to mourn the fallen. 

 

it all goes back in circles, as

new experiments take place

in old laboratories

and

guinea pigs are transmogrified into hogs

into humans into chicken into

whales; no

end in sight, no solution

to any problem.

 

as the needles procreate, the

junk is heated in the spoon;

vapor rises, inhale,

disappear, vanish,

nirvana

click,

euphoria. 

 

never lasts.

what does?

sex doesn’t.

happiness doesn’t. 

marriage doesn’t. 

life doesn’t. 

nothing lasts.

 

just like junk euphoria.

it gives an intense second, then you’re back

in the streets:

“do you have change, man? just a nickel, mister.”

Touching the End of the Night

 

the last needle

thrown away. 

sweat,

pain,

exhaustion. 

bloodshot eyes

and the mirror on the wall

tells the story

better than I ever could. 

final moments, 

the final sunrise that’s

not meant to be witnessed.

no hands to hold,

no embraces into which to lose myself.

last breath,

the cold touch of the merciful Angel

and I smile.

into the vast unknown,

the emptiness of space and time

where memories and hope collide

until nothing remains.

no more moments,

nothing to keep me breathing.

with the needle as the vehicle

forth I plunge,

towards the nothingness

I’ve dreamed of for so long. 

the last words

will never see the light of day,

countless stories will remain unbirthed

and not a single soul

will shed a lowly tear.

time to move forward,

rediscover what was lost

the end is nigh

and it’s reason enough to smile.

farewell, be well,

I’ve stopped caring

I see the light ahead. 

there’s a bar, 

and the beer has already been poured.

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.