MY Coke Fiend
she used to visit
at the most inappropriate times;
usually in the midst of the night
never caring whether
someone else lay
on my bed, couch, floor.
she always, however,
brought at least
two 8balls of pure cocaine.
she had good manners,
My Fey.
often,
she’d scare a good woman
out of my apartment,
mainly because she was tough,
and acted even tougher.
usually, though,
she was already loaded
and that was more than enough
to horrify some of the college students
I met in bars.
I never shooed her away;
she was MY coke fiend,
my friend, my lover.
when she came,
and after we had settled whatever
differences might have arose
with those already in my apartment,
we went for the blow;
four lines each, to warm up.
then,
we cracked a bottle of bourbon;
usually cheap and unknown brand,
sometimes, during good times,
Four Roses or Wild Turkey.
we drank,
and had nothing to talk about,
although we never remained silent
for more than 5 minutes.
her dream was to survive;
mine, to die.
she held my hand
when things got too dark
and the mist turned unbearable.
I kept her in my arms
when her heart was stabbed,
or when
someone tried to pull a fast one on her
(although, most who tried
had very bad endings in
their short stories unworthy of being written).
the coke was always the common bond;
after several lines,
after burning our noses,
and after emptying at least one bourbon bottle,
we went to bed
or remained on the blue couch.
they were heated, passionate fucking sessions,
we both sweated profusely.
usually, I was the first to give up
after years of drinking, smoking,
and the only exercise I’ve done
being lifting glasses of draft beer.
she’d kiss me,
let me catch my breath;
she often laughed,
warmly,
before going back down,
trying to resurrect my dying pieces.
there wasn’t much more in all this;
few months of madness
tied up to one name, one face,
and all those that came and left
in between.
for me,
it’s how life has been,
ought to have been.
short breaks of insanity,
amid the wider circle of sheer madness.
it’s what always worked for me,
nothing else ever did.
and so,
with an 8ball on my desk,
living in a faraway place,
having no idea whether Fey
is still alive or buried somewhere
unceremoniously and unmourned,
I remember those months of
wonderful moments lost
in a blurry haze
and raise a toast to her,
hoping she’s still alright,
still kicking ass,
and that she’ll one day read this
and weep a single tear of joy.
Even Cockroaches have Souls
in a rundown apartment we sat, boozing
another night away isolated from
the world.
we talked aboutnumerous things I’ve
already forgotten, except for
one tiny thing:
“even cockroaches have souls,”
she said when I tried
to step on one that was strolling around us.
I didn’t kill the fucker;
besides, it might have
had more things to live for
than us.
I had a long snort of scotch, then poured
some on the floor. it took a
taste, then stumbled away from us.
we drained the bottle fast.
angry drunk tantrums broke the silence of the night;
someone was chasing the same cockroach
I had shared a drink with.
I felt bad; a drunk kiss sufficed
to make me forget.
©2023 George Gad Economou All rights reserved.
Currently residing in Greece, George Gad Economou has a Master’s degree in Philosophy of Science and is the author of Letters to S. (Storylandia), Bourbon Bottles and Broken Beds (Adelaide Books), and Of the Riverside (Anxiety Press). His words have also appeared in various places, such as Spillwords Press, Ariel Chart, Cajun Mutt Press, Fixator Press, Outcast Press, Piker’s Press, The Edge of Humanity Magazine, The Rye Whiskey Review, and Modern Drunkard Magazine.
