Literary Yard

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‘Lost Drunk Desires’ and other poems

By: George Gad Economou

Photo by Lucas Pezeta on

Lost Drunk Desires

visiting whorehouses without caring to get action, too
broke to afford special services, yet

wishing to breathe in the rough atmosphere,
yearning to taste again the essence of joints I
once frequented more than home—I felt nothing,
amidst my haziness I peeked behind the smoking mirror,

encountered the terrible reality. sobered up real fast,
facing the grim monster of reality. the night
was nothing like those of yonder
when the girls knew me, the pimp bought me good vodka,

and the night was spent talking to customers, exploring
their reasons and motivations—most had none, only needed
a cheap fuck to drain their blue balls.

it was alright, then; lost as I was, I was
one of them. drinking hard, partying harder,
abusing every substance under the sun… now, it’s gone,
few Four Roses are the pinnacle of the week.
no more empty bottles on the floor,
a sea made of glass daily to cross.

perhaps, it is alright, as some would say;
saving my body for a longer existence.

I see no value in boozeless nights, in frigid mornings
of coffee and stale cigarettes while sending out
my CV to motherfuckers looking for cheap labor to
bleed out then throw away like a used condom.

going low, reaching deep… searching;
for what?

the nights grow longer, darkness pertains the room,

it once more snows within and without.


Dark Eyes Gone

getting drunk, like always, I’m thinking of
you thanks to the music that accompanied our
love story having an ending no
publisher would accept—my letters to you
have been published, readers say they hoped for
a happier ending. where are you now, I wonder,
without giving a shit.

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

it’s all right.

the music that fuels the drunken night is the same
I listened to when I ached for
you, when I lied about being sober. I’m sorry,
babe, I was NEVER
sober. I always drank, I always shot junk.

I listen to the same songs that evoked deep
emotions way back when, when I thought
would replace the grand
ghosts haunting the nights.

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


Peregrinating Corpse

often—especially now that I’ve been forced
into a cruel sobriety that makes no sense—I look back and
realize I died almost five years ago. as I neared the age
of 26, I should have had pulled
the trigger; I should have had OD’ed (again), since
there was no one then to drag me away
from the Bar.

five years dead, perambulating about with
no meaning nor purpose, scribbling lines that
get me nowhere. no employer hires me,

I’m dead, after all. I don’t exist, almost
no documentations, no money,
no prospect for the future.

five years ago, I’d have at least gone
with a rich literary work for future
generations to ignore. now, I’ve
got absolutely nothing.

not even death feels right; a man gets
to go on his own terms when he
lives on his terms. otherwise,

it’s cowardice. I don’t wish to
escape but to go out in a

for five years I’ve been dead—no one’s mourning for
I masquerade it well—and the double shots of tequila only
clarify things further.

life ought to be a short, insane ride; once it goes
a minute over the limit, it becomes dull and
worse even than an eternity lost in
nothingness. in death, at least,

you don’t have to deal with others. in life, even as
a roving corpse, you still have
to suffer human communication and that, my friend,

is what hell is all about.


Past the Expiration Date

27 Club; I failed in more than one way. today,
I turn 28—there was once a time
I never thought I’d make it past 24.

all the abuses, the vices, the broken hearts and bleached livers,
thrown in a bonfire of youthful dreams; Chatterton lived
11 fucking years less than I yet accomplished far more
than I can ever hope for. it’s all right;
it took Buk 34 years to start making it.

I light a cigarette—it, too, has failed to kill me, like
the bottle, the spike, the glass pipe—and stare into
the blue smoke while wolves howl and a ghoul whale
peacefully swims around its lake.

the thunderous lightning rattles the town to its foundations,
moments so far gone, when I was too deep into the bottle, searching
dry bottoms
of Tennessee whiskey for answers to questions unuttered.

nights of junk, staring outside the window at the falling snow, recalling
fallen love, a graveyard, the ceremony during a rainy Sunday afternoon.

long gone; everything lost. I’ve gone over the expiration date.

I taste bourbon though I drink coffee, and an
elephant squats down on my chest, sitting deep.

not letting go. mocking stars guffaw,
a woman in a sundress struts under the window and
for a moment I
feel fine.

it all comes back. the bleakness of permanent midnight,
the desire to stay within the mist. another enhanced cigarette
is lit. even that doesn’t make
much sense any longer.

fuck it, the new expiration date is 30; one day,
I’ll wake up and be 50, still having accomplished nothing,
still hoping for a second chance I’ll never be given.

time to go to the bar, who cares if it’s only noon,
and start searching dry bottoms for answers.

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