Wasted Hours

 

—Poetry by George Gad Economou, 

Athens, Greece

—Photos Courtesy of Public Domain

WASTED HOURS

all those minutes never meant to be reclaimed,
sitting down without a drink in hand

trying to write but in sober hours
how can you type?

the endless hours, the neverending nightmare of years
being thrown in green bonfires. it’s alright,
she says, as she embraces me from behind.

she won’t be shrugged off; ghosts are not afraid, nor hindered.
time to pour a tall one, just to get her off my mind,

the monkey in my back dances and cheers; nowhere to go,
Friday night and the streets are crowded with mindless machines.
artificial constructions of a perverted deity.

I drink them all away, drink them all to Hell,
eternal condemnation, it feels fine. another poker game commences
in Hell, someone plays my soul, and they have a losing hand.
tough shit, the winner’s got nothing to gain.

haphazard moments of drunkenness: breaking and entering;
destruction of public property;
driving without a license while drunk (and stoned);
back alley fights;
petty thievery… the list goes on and on and on…

it’s alright; I hardly remember them all, only still images
from blackout nights I never cared for to begin with. acquaintances lost,
all too many acquaintances never again to be seen, and who
gives a damn.

the lonely highway, down the road with only bourbon and a joint,
a couple of books, and a faithful typewriter to capture the spirit of the old.

every bar a pit stop, every strip joint a temporary home.

when death comes, I’ll say
“I came through the smoke!” without pride, nor joy.

 

 

 

 

9 AM

engirdled by empty bottles, used-
up syringes and traces of
broken pills and scattered blow, I recall when
someone would come knocking, impelling me to
hide the proof of how I’ve
lived for years. inside the crepuscular
bubble of emptiness, I feel
liberated.  I’ve stopped
caring, the fire burning my
soul is alive and well; that’s all
that matters.
shadows on the bed, on the couch, they’re
everywhere; on the broken glass surrounding
my desk phantom smiles reflect, upon my
lips I taste forgotten kisses.
it's alright, I have
another sip; all
gone, again, and I
breathe without a
leaden weight
crushing my chest. another night turns
to morning, can’t remember the last time
I slept. a timid knock on the
door breaks the
silence, another frozen ghost
perishes while I
sit comfortably within
the mist. time to say goodnight,
who cares if it’s 9 in the morning?

 

 

 

 

EARLY MORNING BOURBON

what kept me sane during lonesome winters
and mourning periods; suicidal thoughts flew out the fucking window
after glass number three and Jim Beam always knew the right thing to say.

pouring rotgut down my throat in a constant torrent of brilliance was the sole
way to survive the crepuscular days; without it, without the dives,

I’d be nothing but rotting flesh and disintegrating bones.

the bottles on my desk formed a formidable wall against
everything the world kept throwing at me.

in empty rooms, dimlit joints, and dark alleyways and parks,
bourbon maintained a balanced state of madness that kept me sane. 

 

 

 

 

WILD GOOSE

once, I tried to bet on soccer; I lacked
the patience and luck to make it.

gave it up. now, I’m betting my life

on sex-stories. the ones that still sell, that part of
literature (for lack of a better term) that alongside crime fiction
still make decent sales.

enforced state of sobriety, for only by dulling the mind and soul
do I have a chance to write something marketable.

need to eradicate barflies, dives, drinking, drugs, and sad endings
from the stories. they need to be inclusive, positive,
happily ever afters…all that.

I need a drink (ten, twenty, enough to murder me).

I settle with coffee and strong tobacco. having bet everything,
few months to break through, and find solace in a liquor store.

otherwise, it’s in other dives, some place far far away,
therein to wither while going back to the real lines.

I’ve forgotten my true works, the ones with the
encouraging rejection slips. as long as I stay sober,
hard as it may be,

and work on style and content, to make the works less
good and more profitable, I might

afford Maker’s Mark—if not,

I’ll just go back to rotgut and strip joints.

enough money on the side for a one-way ticket.

come next year, you might find me somewhere in
Alabama, drinking with Hank’s ghost.

or, in some booze-covered owned apartment,
shamed writer of some erotica bestselling story.

either way, I’m 13 months short of 30 (and of death).

it’s alright, if only I could have something better
than well fucking tequila.

 

 

 

 

RESTING PLACE

when I’m finally gone,
put me in a lonesome
cliff by the ocean; no tomb, no plate, no names,

no way for others to find me. let me rest there, overlooking the blue sea
becoming one
with the blue sky, staring
beyond the horizon into
whatever I never explored.

put a bottle of Maker’s Mark in my crossed arms, something
to offer the Devil.
it’s all I need, a place
for eternity to
dream of Emily and all the lost years.

with Maker’s Mark and the sea, happier
than I’ll ever
be while breathing.

in the darkness, no more blues, no
more sorrow, no more thoughts
about
the future, about the next
rejection slip, about the one
agent out there willing to risk it
all.

free, and as bourbon will kill me, let it
accompany me beyond death, too.
the one thing that
always stood by me, that lifted the
blues for so long, and

now that we’ve separated I sprint
down to the resting place.

_____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

It is the wine that leads me on, the wild wine that sets the wisest man to sing at the top of his lungs, laugh like a fool—it drives the man to dancing… It even tempts him to blurt out stories better never told.

—Homer, The Odyssey

_____________________

Currently residing in Greece, George Gad Economou holds a Master’s degree in Philosophy of Science, and he 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). His drunken words have appeared in various literary magazines and outlets, such as Spillwords Press, Ariel Chart, Fixator Press, Piker’s Press, The Edge of Humanity Magazine, The Rye Whiskey Review, and Modern Drunkard Magazine. Welcome to the Kitchen, George—and don’t be a stranger!

_____________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

 

George Gad Economou

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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