We used to Dream

even while suffocating under the sea of empty bottles,

we could still discover slivers of hope.

some dreams never faded away, like 

the lake house we never bought, 

the remote island we wished to call home.

fading remnants of another life lost

somewhere in shallow graves of young poets.

old questions about the future return and I

can only think of cases of beer and fifths of bourbon,

of times when crawling to the toilet to puke the hangover out of the system

was part of the daily routine.

we wished for everything; in return,

we got nothing.

a single kiss sufficed to annihilate the desolation; 

a tight embrace eviscerated all the rejection slips.

stepping into the shooting gallery

for the first time.

horror images from former lifetimes. 

dozens of poisons that failed to stop the heart. 

the men in white uniforms, 

the gravediggers, 

the mortician,

the priest,

the few attendants.

the heavy rainfall.

the yellow pages on the coffin.

death. 

Hunter went out in fashion;

Thomas Wolfe lasted just long enough to make it. 

Dylan and Edgar drank their minds to a creative oblivion.

I stand with a lowball of Four Roses and raise 

a toast to the fading ghosts, to

the blurry memories from the Bar.

no light, no music;

only dreams of a warm embrace I lost

too soon. 

strong vices, the burden of the one left behind.

draining bottles,

smoking, shooting,

giving it to the page hard for the last time

(every time can be the last).

a jogger in hot pants runs under the window, 

for a moment I freeze, 

breathlessly watching at the wobbling ass,

the tits bouncing up and down,

up

and

down.

she’s gone; momentary lapse

of the mind. 

love was not carried by the dove 

sitting on the windowsill;

the sparrow circling my head

carries no message from hell.

one day at a time. no future to look forward to;

only a bleak present to survive.

nothing left to be done but to drink and think of Byron

and how he faded away like

a candle in the rain instead of going out heroically in a battle.

George Gad Economou has a Master’s degree in Philosophy of Science, currently works as a freelance writer, and has published three novels and three poetry collections. His latest book isSmoking Rot Gut Drinking Junk (Anxiety Press). His work has appeared in various places, such as 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.