Poetry: Selections from George Gad Economou

Christine

hunkered down on

the barstool, guzzling beer and swilling bourbon

shots. just another

night like hundreds before it. she came up to

me, asked

if I was alright. sure, I said right before sinking

the sixth shot of bourbon. mind if I

sit here? she asked. do it, I shrugged. she climbed on

the barstool; her skirt hiked up, I couldn’t help but

gaze down at her superlative thighs. why are you drinking

alone? she asked. to forget and to remember; another round, I

addressed the bartender. forget and remember what? she

pursued. everything and nothing, I replied. she blinked at

me, probably thinking I escaped from the local insane asylum. perhaps,

it was where I belonged. she ordered a cocktail, no

idea what, and a nod got me another round of beer and bourbon.

I’m Christine, she introduced herself; George, I said and shook

her hand coldly. she remained anchored on the neighboring

stool, sporting a refulgent smile. she asked me what

I was doing: drinking, I replied. what else, she insisted.

drinking and writing. what do you write? she asked, glad to

have found something to keep the conversation alive.

she pestered me for a long time. for more than twelve beers and twenty

shots of bourbon. last call, hollered the bartender, birthing within me

the desire to clock him dead on the nose. I have some beer at

my place, wanna come? I asked her, in my slurring way.

yes, she said—wherefore, I never learned. we took

the bus, arrived at my apartment, drank

some beer; as she sat on my blue foldout couch, I

almost thought she had transformed into

Emily. she smiled at me while

holding the beer can near her lips. I smiled

back; drained my beer. sat close

to her. we

kissed. we

fucked. are you okay? she

asked when I

came to. took the liberty to make

some coffee, she added, hope you don’t mind.

thanks, I grumbled in my hangover. we

had coffee, it felt as if

Emily had returned from the land of the dead.

I have to go, she announced. I’ll be back, she promised/threatened.

once she was

gone, I drained the coffee in the sink. filled a lowball with

bourbon. drank and fired up a few poems. a few

hours later, she was

back with two six-packs of Elephant beer and a radiant smile that

spoke straight into my withering soul.

Her Last Night

that last night of

ours, I never got

to say goodbye. I heated

the spoon, you drew too much into

the needle. I said

nothing. we both needed the comfort

of the flaming meadows, we both

required to talk to the brown dragons of

our deranged nightmares. you shot

first, I shot a few moments

later. you exhaled your

last breath while I chased my

dragons in the flaming meadows. perhaps,

down the line, I’ll meet you again.

I never got to kiss your

lips for one last

time. maybe, if we’re lucky, there’s a

place and time, somewhere in the abyss of eternity, where we’ll

get that final

goodbye and, perhaps, it’ll last till the end of fucking time.

Phantom of Love

she came and left like

a dream, the floating ghost of an ancient goddess; into my

life as a vision of unadulterated brilliance, brightening up

the nights and lifting the fog of hangover mornings. for nine

months she remained, the omnipresent phantom of all that’s

good in the world, held my hand during crepuscular

moments of genocidal benders and junk sickness. then, she

was gone; dissipated like the vapor rising from

a burning spoon. one moment here, the next

gone. leaving me all

alone, with the spoons and the bottles, dreaming of

the vision of heaven as I make sure I end up

in hell where she awaits at a

high-stakes poker table.

George Gad Economou has a Master’s degree in Philosophy of Science, currently works as a freelance writer, and has published three novels and two poetry collections, with the latest being his horror novel, The Lair of Sinful Angels, by Translucent Eyes Press. His words have also appeared in Spillwords Press, Ariel Chart, Cajun Mutt Press, Fixator Press, Horror Sleaze Trash, Outcast Press, The Piker Press, The Beatnik Cowboy, The Rye Whiskey Review, A Thin Slice of Anxiety, and Modern Drunkard Magazine.