GEORGE GAD ECONOMU - POEMS

George Gad Economou holds a Master’s degree in Philosophy of Science and resides in Athens, Greece, doing freelance work whenever he can while searching for a new place to go. His novella, Letters to S., was published in Storylandia Issue 30 and his short stories and poems have appeared in literary magazines, such as Adelaide Literary Magazine, The Chamber Magazine, The Edge of Humanity Magazine, and Modern Drunkard Magazine. His first poetry collection, Bourbon Bottles and Broken Beds, was published by Adelaide Books in 2021.

​Burned-Down Ruins on the Sidewalk

burlesque theaters in street corners managed by 
drug-rings; in every bar someone’s
getting fucked,
always. 

we desired a change, delivered
a wasteland new yet 
so damn 
familiar. wishes 
upon long dead stars; 

vast emptiness everywhere, 
pitch-black, we tried 
to run;
once. we 
failed.

nothing we could 
do but wait for the longed 
for salvation from 
below. 

could we have 
run?  the eternal 
question, the one answer causing
sleepless nights; the train 
plunges forth,
unstoppable force.
we hid, we waited;
we failed.

the merry-go-round 
begins one out of its
infinite turns, we remain 
impatient passengers, children in a 
world of terrors; the night grows 
old, the stars die, there’s still 
something under
the rainbow of a 
faraway shore 
on a faraway island; perhaps, it even 
glows on a faraway planet.
stranded, and we smoked
our junk.

​

Dead is the Hope
​

two and a half long, long, years; staring at the sky,
no hope lies beyond the blue smirking moon. 

with some rotgut and a cigarette, I try to recapture
the insanity that used to be normalcy.

I can’t.
two and a half fucking years, battling with the sex stories;
hoping for some instant monetary gratification.

I can’t fight the style (stream of consciousness is unacceptable
in bestsellers, use commas right, proper sentences, simple structure

even an imbecile will comprehend). I can’t fight the subjects.

hard drinkers, drug users, hopeless men and women creep into
the page that is meant for bored housewives
and virgin men. 

two and a half fucking years; approaching now fast
the age of 29, the age the great outlaw died. Hank, I’m coming, 

I see a honkytonk down the lost highway. 

the sex stories do sell, not enough to warrant rent and 
weekly liquor store raids. perhaps, in a year, 

the bank account will have grown satisfactorily. perhaps, not. 

it’s tough to work on these stories. I guess, 

the hope was for some quick success, and the alter-ego would perish silently.
it’s struggling—not as bad as me, though. 

and I still write; we really enjoyed your piece, but it’s not for us.
do send more work! the usual rejection slip, sitting under
cold margaritas coated with blow and gin and tonics without tonic. 

what do you expect? you liked the story, the themes will be the same.
the writing will be the same. it’ll be about the people from Aarhus, 
from where I drank heavyweights under the table, from when
I injected and snorted and drank everything under the blue moon. 

I’ll send more; till I get the yes from the New Yorker, from Atlantic,
from one story. don’t worry, you’ll get more. 

two and a half fucking long years; almost ignored my real writing 
for the sake of the sex stories. and now, I’m juggling both, trying to 

figure out where I’ll be a month before my 30th birthday;

somewhere far, far away sipping on drinks in a dive, 
or, 

under the dirt, sharing rotgut with Hank and Charles? 

either way, the dream’s dead, hope’s dead. 
I stare at the blue sniggering moon and the mocking stars have
the same tale to tell: perhaps, after death what you covet the most
you’ll get. 

I light a cigarette, sigh, feel Emily’s phantom touch on my shoulder. 
nothing makes sense, not even wrestling can take the pain temporarily away. 

I’m still here, not for long. another poem finished, few more lines
closer to the end.

​Where’s the final drink

​where’s the final drink—when the world doesn’t make
sense drink some into it, pour a tall one, make it strong, if the people
in your life cry foul kick them out, drink them silent nothing
better than sitting in the early morning with a cold one, listening to music, staring
at the sun showering the city, listening to the bustling noise of cars and conversations
drinking in the quiet you’ve got nowhere to go, money just enough
for next month’s rent and the underbridge looks too far away it’s just
the distant dream of some gruesome future fortified wine tastes
somewhat good when you’ve got nothing else, landlord won’t come knocking
this month it’s all that matters you won’t sell your poetry, forget getting an agent
for your novel, pipedreams of other lives, grueling nights amidst snarling
mongrels chasing down rabbits riding on acid trips through mauve fields made
of rotten snow

​Eulogy for a Fighter

two days under the 
Athenian heatwave—sun roasting the sidewalks, no shade
from cropped buildings and cement trees—breath drawn, exhaled,
small balls of fur coughed out—tongue dry, whiskers down--
chest heaves, chest 
falls—too long the pauses between breaths—moments of
darkness, sun’s up, heat, nightfall—cool air under
rustling leaves—nothing in the horizon—no helping hand--
silent cries—muffled coughs—sun comes up—the sidewalk
heats up—body’s cold, life ends in
the same spot it 
began.

Dark Eyes Gone
​

getting drunk, like always, and I’m thinking of
you, thanks to the music that accompanied our
love story that ended badly, no
publisher would accept it—my letters to you
have been published—readers say they hoped for
a better, happier, ending—where are you now, I wonder,
I don’t give a shit.

I’m drunk,
like you never wanted me to be. I drink, I think of you,
because of the music blaring through my speakerphones,

that’s all right. 

music in my ears fueling the damn drunken night
is the same I listened to when I ached
for you; when I lied about being sober. I’m sorry,
honey, I was NEVER
sober. I always drank, I always shot junk.

it’s alright; I cry NOW, four years later,
whilst I listen to the same songs that evoked deep
emotions way back when, when I thought
you 
could replace
the great ghosts haunting the nights.

you failed, it’s alright,;
I just drink, babe, and I feel
fucking fine.

​