Written by George Gad Economou
staring at the night sky over a tall glass of bourbon,
picturing the nights of yonder,
when things still didn’t make sense but
someone was sleeping on my bed while I typed
the night away.
the bourbon tastes differently, there’s no dive bar scent
on my clothes, and my cigarettes are just the same, stale.
broken wings of fallen angels in my closet,
mementos from days I scoured the alleyways
darkness all around, no light but that of the flashing page,
the words insist on appearing, deriving from a place
called inferno, my own liver,
the bourbon feeds the beast some more,
incomprehensible dark thoughts become reality;
the neighbor from across the street undresses and my gaze
momentarily falls on the hard rock body and firm, round breasts, blurred by two
thick windows, it’s all right.
back to the bourbon and the page, picturing different nights
in a different place. reminiscing the years it all began,
when 20 beers was the bare minimum for survival
and the sex was intense. now,
it’s all gone downhill; I drink more,
I drink badly. wrong turn, I need to recapture the rhythm.
trading bourbon, briefly, for rum and coke,
trying to soothe the tense nervous system.
for a while, it works. I can go for a few more hours
and the neighbor just rolled down the blinds.
Text © George Gad Economou
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