George Gad Economou – Cajun Mutt Press

Cajun Mutt Press Featured Writer 05/31/24

May 31, 2024 James D. Casey IV

Sobering Up

a small wooden pub with a beer tap on every table;
four beers in, I was already feeling the effects.

I pictured Emily sitting across from me, instead of the friends
I’d gone out with for a couple of beers; how we’d have broken all
the pub’s records
(they had a screen on the wall, the all-time record was 35L
by a group who knows how large),
how we’d have loved the ability not to chase down
bartenders more willing to flirt (or drink themselves to a stupor)
than do their fucking job.

few beers in, and my liver began protesting; growing soft,
losing my former championship shape. am I still
a pro, as a few bartenders used to tell me?
do I still have it?

the answer’s probably no, it hurts.
no more chasing the perpetual drunk while able
to function amidst the cloud of inebriation.

I sit sober now, too, recalling the hangover mornings
of pro wrestling and vodka-and-orange juice,
barely able to breathe, let alone walk,

and yet, I’d always find myself back to the bars come afternoon.
I needed the drink; I still need it, I just don’t have it anymore.

speeding towards the age of 28, just a couple of months to join
the CLUB, despite my being no musician, nor exceptionally talented.

I smell bourbon; the bar across the street, a fancy establishment
for Lamborghini-driving motherfuckers, is about to open.

I should go talk to the bartender about the possibility of replacing him.
could I work in a bar, without drinking myself to oblivion every night?

once, I just drank bars dry. oh, the irony, having to be the sober
man serving drinks to carefree drunks and rich assholes.

the coffee’s strong, I’ve nothing to do but dream of other nights and days,
early afternoons of tequila, late nights of bourbon.

I might be going out tonight too, with friends once more. and after a few beers in,
I’ll be ready to be tucked in and soundly sleeping. no more
aimless wandering through the dark streets, drunk, ready to fuck and punch.

lighting a cigarette, in the blue smoke once more I see
Emily’s eyes. almost sense her lips on mine. tasting cheap bourbon
and even cheaper cocaine.

love, I failed you; doing the one thing I promised I’d never do
the night before we went to the abortion clinic and lost it all.
I’m growing up, getting old as fuck; paying the price
of years-long stupors and failed love affairs that’d never replace
what we had.

it’s alright; I’ll just drink my coffee for now, try to make it
in the sex-novel business. soon, and certainly long before I make it to 30,
I’ll either be next to you in the Devil-dealing poker table,
or, in a rundown strip joint, drinking pimps under the table
and comforting dancers that are just too sick of cheap assholes.

Currently residing in Greece, George Gad Economou has a Master’s degree in Philosophy of Science and is the author of Bourbon Bottles and Broken Beds (Adelaide Books), Of the Riverside (Anxiety Press) and Reeling Off the Barstool (Dumpster Fire Press). His words have also appeared, amongst other places, in 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.

Cajun Mutt Press Featured Writer 12/22/23

December 22, 2023 James D. Casey IV

Bender Found

lost dance, somewhere in the
bottom of a bottle yet unopened lies the
rhythm that was washed away by
the cruel torrent of reality. as I sustain the
bender for another day, another week, or year even, I’m
struggling to kindle the old fires of passion, of when the
page was ravished nightly by the mad dance on the
keyboard that saw too many of them ruined
and tossed into the common yard of the apartment complex. the insanity
of years-long benders, where sanity was maintained by puffs from
glass pipes and inhalations from burning spoons. nothing
happens, I just get drunk, pass out, kill the hangover with a
rum/vodka/orange concoction, and move to
coffee, trying to edit the lines of inebriation hoping to
find the gems amidst the steaming pile of shit. nothing’s
there, with insanity gone I have
nowhere to go except for down, to the
place modern writers sit, sip Starbucks caramel coffee and talk about
character progression, diversity, inclusivity, and stuff like
that. I once almost punched a classmate in a college class for
trying to overanalyze Hem’s stories. it’s all about rediscovering
the desire to walk near the edge, to drink haphazardly until
you can’t even tell on which side of the canyon you’re on.

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, amongst other places, in Spillwords Press, Ariel Chart, Cajun Mutt Press, Fixator Press, Outcast Press, The Piker Press, The Edge of Humanity Magazine, The Rye Whiskey Review, and Modern Drunkard Magazine.

Cajun Mutt Press Featured Writer 03/06/23

March 6, 2023 James D. Casey IV

Beauty and the Pole

when Gina was on
stage, even the steel
pole got a hard-on. every
pair of eyes in
the smoky room was fixated
on her body swirling around the cold
steel, her brilliant (fake) breasts embracing the
pole, making the
onlookers wish it was their cock.
I was the only
one that never looked; I knew how
her tits felt around my cock. fucking
amazing. I just swilled
Four Roses (the joint’s owner brought it just
for me) and scribbled poems on cocktail
napkins. the other patrons would give up a
kidney to have Gina go home
with them. she would go
home with me, for free – well, she did
drink most of my tequila, but I’m a
bourbon guy so it was a
fair deal. those
years were
funny; I was mourning
the loss of true
love, yet found an effulgent
replacement in the arms of
a heavy-drinking stripper (she
loathed the term exotic dancer, made her feel like
she should be from India or the jungles of Bolivia). well,
I
lost her, too, and now I
drink alone, too broke to
go to new strip joints and find
new refulgent pair of tits to embrace
my withering cock.

Marking the Territory

we spent a week
locked inside my new apartment.
she wanted to fuck on every piece of furniture,
every surface, on the floor and against
the walls, even in the shower and on the toilet.
“I just want to make sure you have a memory of
me everywhere you look,” she had claimed. for a week,
we simply fucked, drank, then fucked some
more. until not an inch of the apartment was not soaked
with her memory, if not our juices. “why did you want to
do that? other than having a fun time?” I asked as we drank
some coke-coated margaritas. “just in case something
bad happens; I wouldn’t want you to
forget me.” “you know we’re never gonna
separate, right?” I asked, like the naïve motherfucker
I was back then. “as I said, just in case,” she said, like
a drunk, sexy prophet. without a word, I just thrust my
tongue down her
throat and we fucked
for the fifth time, on the foldout blue
couch. after the week during
which she ensured I’d see, smell, and sense
her everywhere in the
apartment, we returned to the bar and the dark alleys of junk and coke.
a couple of months later, she was gone; taken away
by the spike. she sure
made sure I could never
sit in that apartment without
seeing her whispering ghost. I stayed there
for seven years, because I could not
leave her behind. I wonder if the
new tenant was ever
haunted by the debaucheries and insanities that
took place between those four haunted walls.

Prophetic Drunk

“I’m sorry, George,” she said, one week before
she died. “for what?” I asked, half-numb from the
fifth of bourbon that swam in my bloodstream. “I don’t know,” she
said. she had just shot junk. I wrung the needle from her loose
grip and shot, too. I was hoping for
death. I only got a hangover enhanced by the fucking sickness. five days
later, she did a pregnancy test; positive. we rushed to
an abortion clinic. after the operation, we went back to my
apartment. she put a big chunk of brown heroin in
the spoon, heated it up, shot it. I was too dazed and confused to see
what she was doing.
overdose. I shot after
her, I chased butterflies in the dragon-infested meadows for
hours while her head rested on
my shoulder. once I came
to, I realized she
was gone. “I’m sorry, George,” she had said just a week before. did
she know? I hope she
didn’t; I just know I’ll be seeing her in my
dreams tonight, again.

George Gad Economou holds a Master’s degree in Philosophy of Science and resides in Athens, Greece, doing freelance work whenever he can while searching for a new place to go. His novella, Letters to S., was published in Storylandia Issue 30 and his short stories and poems have appeared in literary magazines, such as Adelaide Literary Magazine, The Chamber Magazine, The Edge of Humanity Magazine, The Rye Whiskey Review, and Modern Drunkard Magazine. His first poetry collection, Bourbon Bottles and Broken Beds, was published by Adelaide Books in 2021.

Cajun Mutt Press Featured Writer 11/30/22

November 30, 2022 James D. Casey IV

eternal infamy

we met a couple of days ago
in a dimlit dive; we chatted, kissed
goodnight—and she blew me in the
restroom. I cooked some dinner, she arrived with
two six-packs of tuborg and small bag
of pot. we polished some joints, drank some beer,
ate the decent dinner. we kissed,
she went down on me
again, then I reciprocated the favor. she climaxed, but
I was too tired to continue. we laid
down, she rolled a joint, and after a few
puffs I could get it up
again. come morning, she
left. I doubt I’ll
see her again; she’ll live forever, though,
in this lowly, loveless poem.

George Gad Economou holds a Master’s degree in Philosophy of Science and resides in Athens, Greece, doing freelance work whenever he can while searching for a new place to go. His novella, Letters to S., was published in Storylandia Issue 30 and his short stories and poems have appeared in literary magazines, such as Adelaide Literary Magazine, The Chamber Magazine, The Edge of Humanity Magazine, The Rye Whiskey Review, and Modern Drunkard Magazine. His first poetry collection, Bourbon Bottles and Broken Beds, was published by Adelaide Books in 2021.

Cajun Mutt Press Featured Writer 09/09/22

September 9, 2022 James D. Casey IV

Cold Fluorescent Lights

lying on the hard bed of an emergency clinic, IVs pumping
drugs into my blood to combat an allergic shock,

all I could think of was why hospital rooms
need to be so algid and bright. is it to combat
the darkness of impending death?

something to resemble the trite light at the end of the tunnel
impersonating hope? I didn’t
know,

didn’t care. I stared at the IVs pumping
transparent fluids into me, slowly,
drip,

drip,

drip

slower than death, an eternity of nothingness.
drip, drip, drip, I just
wanted out. I had simply flared
up a bit, my body had rejected something I ate,
I could breathe, I could smoke, but they
wanted to pump expensive drugs in
me to charge something extra.

the frigid, fluorescent lights bothered me more
than the itch that moved around my body, evading my
scratching fingers with more expertise than
glass bugs.

it’s how Hell must be:
white walls made effulgent by
fluorescent lights that never die out.

George Gad Economou holds a Master’s degree in Philosophy of Science and resides in Athens, Greece, doing freelance work whenever he can while searching for a new place to go. His novella, Letters to S., was published in Storylandia Issue 30 and his short stories and poems have appeared in literary magazines, such as Adelaide Literary Magazine, The Chamber Magazine, The Edge of Humanity Magazine, The Rye Whiskey Review, and Modern Drunkard Magazine. His first poetry collection, Bourbon Bottles and Broken Beds, was published by Adelaide Books in 2021.