dim dive bars, the sole places wherein I
discovered breathing human beings.
vivid discussions after ten beers,
crying over lost women,
discussing the lack of money,
drinking to forget the desperate search for something tangible and real.
even the fights, while vicious, always ended in
more beers and jokes until
we were all numb and unable to move a muscle.
I left it all behind; too exhausted from
sneaking out of lavish apartments and two-story houses
of married women that were looking for a single night of mad passion.
I live only to drink box wine and Four Roses during long algid nights,
reminiscing the rare good times in vain attempts to recapture the essence of
seven years that were thrown into a burning dumpster.
thirty-four years old, approaching the deadline. I’m
almost there,
Emily, I’m
on my way, hoping you haven’t forgotten the
promises. on a tombstone that marks an as of yet empty grave
that gets pissed on by a black turtle daily
it is already carved:
George Gad Economou: 28/03/1990–27/03/2030
crazy, drunk, bitter; never liked anyone,
only loved two. made life hell for those around him
and fought feverishly with the page, never winning
a single bloody battle.