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, amongst other places, in Spillwords Press, Ariel Chart, Cajun Mutt Press, Fixator Press, Outcast Press, The Piker Press, The Edge of Humanity Magazine, The Rye Whiskey Review, and Modern Drunkard Magazine.

Blocked

the fingers freeze, memories flood
the brain, and the heart wishes to
stop beating altogether. I try to write about
the first time I met
Emily, in a reeking
dive bar; goddamn it, it’s
impossible.
I’ve tried it drunk,
tried it
sober, tried it high. nothing
works. always the same
result. I’m back on that
fucking barstool, on the evening I
first laid eyes upon
my angel, my goddamn Cherubim. Blake couldn’t
describe her well enough. here I am, doomed to 
stare at the unfinished novel until I
get the nerve, the courage, the balls to
write about that evening of drinking that 
changed my life
forever.

Finish Line

sailing along the
nightstream, flowing with the
dark river traversing universes - the wind
howls, wolves hiss, the river goes on
and on, climbing mountains and riding lush savannahs - where are
the checkpoints? the promised cabins of free booze - keep on
going, forth and back back and forth, it’s all that
matters - dinosaurs roar as they return to
the eternal darkness - follow the dark river to
the ends of the earth, to where things
begin anew - circles, over and
over, same things repeating time and again - follow
the river, row yourself to the starting
point only to attempt all over again to find
the finish line.

Regressing into Brilliance

as you delve deeper into the
well of drunkenness, your mind
opens up; your taste in
music changes. no longer do you
only care for the blues, the classic rock,
maybe the outlaw country. you want the
party music, the stupid, pointless noise you
curse teenagers for swooning over. everything
changes, you become an adolescent once
more, the drunker you get the younger
your brain becomes. soon, you’ll be
drooling all over your shirt and call mommy to
change your wet diaper. it’s fucking
alright; these are
problems your hangover can take care
of. drink some
more. crack another
fifth. drink up, convince yourself there’s
nothing to feel embarrassed or guilty of (it’ll
ease up tomorrow’s hangover, trust me), and
enjoy the hours of youth, enjoy the
chance to be rejuvenated. drink up,
motherfucker, fuck some
shit up, and get roaring drunk, drunk
enough to want to set the world
on fire like you did when you
were 15. be that drunk teenager
again, feel young and pure and full of justified rage, and
fight against the teetotal world and the conventions of
what you thought as good or bad (music, food, booze, women, whatever).