Currently residing in Greece, George Gad Economou has a Master’s degree in Philosophy of Science and is the author of Bourbon Bottles and Broken Beds (Adelaide Books), Of the Riverside (Anxiety Press), Reeling Off the Barstool (Dumpster Fire Press) and The Omega Of Us All (Anxiety Press). His words have also appeared, amongst other places, 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, and Modern Drunkard Magazine.

The Streets of Fallen Dreams

I recall vividly all the streets I spent eight years on; streets
I strolled along with Emily and Christine.

also alone, drunk and stoned out of my fucking mind.
I waited for a bus, crying over lost cold embraces. 

I shambled about aimlessly after Emily’s death.
when Christine was gone, I scoured the same streets for meaning; I found
it inside an underground strip joint.

two years away from those streets; at first, I thought it’d do me
good. thought it’d be good to
escape and create new memories in the 
streets of my childhood.

nothing’s as I remember. things have gotten worse.

through freelancing and sex stories I’m trying to save up
enough to return to the streets of fallen dreams. 

I’ll be close to where Emily’s spirit resides. all it takes, a few
months of patience. save up enough for a deposit, a couple of months rent. find a way to make it, 

even if it means going to the parks, to the new winos; this time 
stay there, on the bench I passed out on several times during months-long
benders.

there’ll be no blue foldout couch to offer temporary refuge, 
to lie down on and watch wrestling and guzzle drugstore rotgut
in order to silence the whispering ghosts.

I’m almost there; moved away to escape, now I want back in.
I miss the madness, the insanity, the forgotten nights and days, 
the vices, the cold embraces…I want back in because it was what worked. 

I stare at the clear blue sky of my hometown—a dead city and Plato’s spirit
is on the brink of giving up. here I go, a sip of stale coffee, 

mentally getting ready to return to the streets I once wished to escape, 
the ones imbued with way too many blurry memories, good and bad. 

back to the whispering ghosts,
away from the shells stalking me right now.

staring at the long road Ahead

5 years, 25, 60; 
where will you be, 
what will you do? 

questions constantly ringing
like monotonous modern music lacking rhythm and soul. 

HOW THE FUCK SHOULD I KNOW?
I wish to shout; instead, I
smile and nod. 

under a bridge is the most plausible answer; 
sleeping under blankets made of snow.
resting peacefully in a shallow grave by the sea,
observing the waves, envying the sharks and whales that
swim free with no obligations but those imposed by nature. 

still here; 26 fucking years and counting.
I feel like 70, perhaps I’m even older;
my liver is 80, so the doctor said.
I never went to visit him again, he was a medical hooker. 

live long, what’s the point?
I pour more gin, light a new cigarette;
more future minutes erased, just like that, 
as simple as snapping your fingers.
too easy, living long; take care, don’t drink, don’t eat, exercise, 
get a steady job, make money, buy the luxurious car, the big house,
the beautiful wife, the delightful children.
excuse me while I gargle some Listerine to
wash away the vomit.

I read Aristotle, he was wrong; there are no real tragic heroes in life. 
I read Sartre; he was dead right—hell is other people.
I read Celine and Voltaire—I prefer the broke doctor than criticism of society
and the prevalence of providence.
I think there’s more spunk, fire, and life in a bluebird than in a regained paradise.
I’d rather chase the dust in the wind than ascend to the Empyrion for a Beatrice that
will be fucking horned angels and winged demons.

5 years, 25, 60;
what’s the motherfucking point?

angels weep daily, as they fall
asleep in dark corners, chasing the
dragons they released eons ago. 

another cigarette lit, more gin poured; 
dope cooked, blow snorted. 
bench, I’m coming. 

cold embraces during freezing winter nights, 
warm embraces during hot summer days;
nothing left to
do, done and out.

where will you be?
what do you want in your life?
I DON’T KNOW LEAVE ME THE FUCK ALONE

speeding down the highway,
acid in my mouth
bourbon in my thermos. 
cigarette in the lips, ashes, fire, burning down ruins and forests.

5 years, 25, fuck the 60 it’ll never happen.
26 years already—few months to go. 
one day, the bar’s door will fling open, 
eternal beer and bourbon,
no need to scavenge trash for 5 bucks for a pouch of cheap tobacco. 
no more cheap bourbon tasting like elephant piss.

I’m still here;
shouldn’t that count for something?

maybe not.
farewell, goodbye, no amen;
the world has already ended
we missed the promised explosions, 
the beast from under the sea didn’t even bother emerge, 
we did its job
and so it pours a tall one as it leans back on a blue, stained couch
haunted by thousands of ghosts and empty words that never were true.

The One Good Deed

throughout my  years of endless sinning, 
I might have done one good thing;

one thing to be proud of.

I remember, clearly, the glint in 
B.’s eyes whenever we sat down to smoke homemade ice.

after a few puffs, she turned into someone else. 

maniacally grabbing pieces of paper (white, yellow, stained, clean, whatever lay around) and creating pure magic. 

dragons, flames, roaring whales and elephants fucking. it was all
within the madness we both cherished—my glass writing was never
as good as her paintings.

for a long while, we both agreed 

we’d never fucking make it. we were damn right. 

I sometimes think of B.,
of how she might now be in some NY gallery, 

pretentious like the rest, concealing the true inspiration
behind paintings that have turned her into a millionaire. 

or, maybe (and most plausibly), she’s starving in some
other shooting gallery, in some other town—like I’m doing now, 

sipping coffee and smoking hash. reminiscing those wild nights
of passion and of sex, of painting and of creating. we killed
through creating—it’s the one art I might be good at. 

maybe, we’ll one day meet again, both well-established artists
having turned pretentious, complacent, and dull, 

in order to rekindle the fire in our souls through the only
efficient mean we’ve both known. 

most probably, we’ll meet in Hell—where a whole army
of whispering ghosts awaits my fashionably late arrival.

here I am, toasting the skies—to all those ghosts,
amongst which B. stands slightly taller, yet only by a close margin, 

and I hear all the soft whispers that haunted all too many
suicidal nights of dope stranded in hostile shores.