Those First Nights

 

Written by   George Gad Economou

 

always inconspicuous nights, talking about Auden,

sometimes Dylan, Buk, Faulkner, Hem… the

great drinkers—and brilliant writers—instead of those

that wrote soberly and produced false masterpieces that spoke

nothing but falsities.

 

they never saw it coming; when the first bottle

was drained and the second cracked in manners of seconds,

 

they were always surprised; “how much will you drink?” is the

collective question of the army of whispering ghosts,

 

and whenever I reach the first dry bottom,

I hear the chorus in my head—I shrug it off and go for

what I hope will be the bottom containing all the

coveted answers.

 

sometimes, we’d share a joint—some were even down

for some good blow—yet, when the glass-pipe

was procured out of its hiding place in the closet,

 

they’d all go nuts: “what’s this?” they’d ask,

and sometimes I hear the synchronous question in my sober nightmares.

 

no response, what to say after all. I just fired it up,

dragged long—all too eager to chase down blue dragons through

burning meadows.

 

it always ended badly; sometimes, I’d drunkenly fuck their friend.

other times, I’d punch someone. on occasion, it was because

some friends of mine—pushers, junkies, strippers—would come by

unannounced, seeking for a fix and a chat.

 

hardly any of the women I’ve known enjoyed the company I kept;

it was all right. now, I’ve lost all my contacts, stranded in

an isolated beach violently hit by the roaring ocean,

 

no one comes knocking at 3am seeking for the comfort

of the spike or of my embrace (or both, in the case of Gina).

 

permanent midnight; though sober for a while—and loathing it—

I’m still in it, unwilling to escape the mist that’s kept me sane

for so fucking long I can’t even remember ever living outside of it.

 

the clouds above my head darken,

the brewing storm rumbles,

 

I smile and crack a bottle of cheap wine.

 

 

Text ©   George Gad Economou

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