Currently residing in Greece, George Gad Economou has a Master’s degree in Philosophy of Science and is the author of Letters to S. (Storylandia), Bourbon Bottles and Broken Beds (Adelaide Books), and Of the Riverside (Anxiety Press). His words have also appeared in various places, such as Spillwords Press, Ariel Chart, Cajun Mutt Press, Fixator Press, Outcast Press, Piker’s Press, The Edge of Humanity Magazine, The Rye Whiskey Review, and Modern Drunkard Magazine.

Methamphetamine River

a fierce dragon soars through the purple skies, 
setting dwarf suns aflame; once, we could hardly stand
without our medicine.

the endless salty tears rolling down your cheeks, 
I tried to kiss the pain away too many times;
no chance in hell we could ever make it. 

we knew it from the start, from when the first hopeless
came through the door seeking for the coveted way out, 
for the cure to exruciating heartache. 

often, you wished that glass was a woman, 
to fight her and untangle me from her tight grip.

it wasn’t; it’s not. 
glass. and bourbon. all those years, 
just going through rough motions, staring out of
tiny broken windows, breathing in life
and exhaling thick clouds of blue smoke. 

bonfire of dreams, breathing in the heavy smoke,
choking, 
lighting cigarettes off of cremating corpses. once 
we danced naked on the beach, onlookers stared horrified. 

we wanted it all, and got nothing. when you lose
at poker, despite having four aces, 
you know you’re fucked. 

I’ve lost such good hands, way more than once. 

glass, it was the way out. nothing glorious about it, 
what in life is? 

nothing, you used to say. (or did I say it and
you simply agreed?) 

too far gone, deep into the dense mist. no rescue teams
can reach me as I descend deeper down the well of madness. 

it’s alright; we once thought we’d live forever. 
just like all young madly in love couples do. 

we learned better; life taught us a harsh lesson 
in the cruelest way possible.

glass, the one way out I needed; into the mist I remained,
and forever shall,
nothing else to do, nowhere else
I’d rather be. away from everyone but
the whispering ghosts. forgive me
for having tried, more than once,
to replace you. 

glass; it was the best replacement, offering
the coldest, yet most revered, embrace. 
the rest were just stories, meaningless lines
on blank pages. 

I drink coffee and seek for the glass-pipe I hid inside the 
deaf walls I once called home. there to remain, with your lingering spirit, 
forever. 

drunk on weekends, nothing else to do; nowhere else to go
but in pubs and bars, drinking motherfuckers
under the table despite having lost my former championship form. 

we both died but I was sent back; a rejection slip
even from the Devil—another coaster for my drinks. 

the whiskey has taken over, 
cocaine’s become the new best friend.

here I am, doing everything to end it; 
managing to fail even at what most people accomplish without trying.

Reaching for another Bottom

Jim left a bottle of Tennessee whiskey in front of me; 
“pour it yourself, I’m busy,” he said, knowing the bottle’d
be empty way before last call. 

I drank. peered about at the dive I called home. 
Gina and Jeanette worked the tables, Mads and Jens faithful to
their stools.

newcomers—college students looking for a cheap buzz—swarmed the wooden tables
and guzzled beer, cackling and asking for trouble. 

in the corner stool with the bottle; glass after glass smoothly going down. 

the head light, body numb; petrified. 
I’d just lost another embrace that tried to pull me out of the
well. I chose
shots of well tequila and soft to the heart bourbon. 

Jim played Hank Sr. on the speakers; damn him,
he knew me all too well. 

just another man on the lost highway; chain and ball around my ankle.
high on bourbon,
I went for tequila. then bourbon. then tequila. ad infinitum.

Hank sang, I cried, the students were laughing at a meaningless joke.
Jeanette scored; Gina came out of the bathroom followed by two rhinos. 

our faux bikers came in their leather jackets and skillet hairstyles 
to shoot pool; roughening up the students, leaving the barflies alone.

then, she arrived. sauntered inside, sat next to me. 

a tall one, she
ordered: meant gin and tonic, and save on the tonic.

right there, next to me. the honkytonk angel haunting my every dream.

we talked, laughed, kissed; then, she vanished into thin air. 

another Emily mirage, a cruel joke of the masturbating gods in the Bar. 

Gina had her triple tequila and we went back home; a glorious foursome
with Jim and Hank, till the sun came up and we passed out on the
blue couch sporting way too many stains.

Darkness in the Water

the air was scarce, 
hot, humid, 
how to breathe? 
the endless yellow mornings, 
the purple evenings of a sun 
that refused to shine; 

patiently waiting.
constantly anticipating, 
the one hour, the 
one single minute of
sweet release. 

under the cold water,
trying to survive,
yet failing,
falling,
failing to rise,
to remain afloat. 

drawing breaths,
dragging in snorts of water, 
the endless mornings
never ceased;
one midnight following another, 
always 
somewhere else to be, 
someplace else to visit. 

it would never stop,
it never stopped;
down the road, 
there’s a lighthouse abandoned 
long ago.

a scream comes from within,
seagulls scatter
to new countries,
still-sunk islands.

eruption of a volcano,
come check out the fireworks! 

young children playing with
the lions at the zoo

till first blood is drawn
and the match has to stop.