I met a man at your party, who said he held a key that could open the latch of any door, anywhere in the world and watch the red mess living creates hatch from its own detritus and then lock it inside again, letting it punch-pummel cold walls, its voice unheard as its vowels slit themselves from stale rooms as he drank low-ball whisky chasers while casually talking to me— in the way he’d touch me later and slide his tongue over my mouth keying my breath with kisses’ silence to smother me with his history and his story sucking at almost all I had to say.
Jenny is a working mum and writes whenever she can amid the fun and chaos of family life. Her poetry is published in several printed anthologies, magazines and online poetry sites. Jenny lives in London with her husband, two children and two very lovely, crazy cats. You can read more of her poems at her website: https://www.jmiddletonpoems.com
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.
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.
Send in a riot of head-busters body breakers mind-fuckers I yell for them curse throw dishes blow speed limits nothing happens no one shows
What’s fiercer than me and yet it creeps along the sidelines where I cannot see it oozes thick and real as the E N D I want to be filled with something apocalyptic I want every tear drop of Lake Cocytus I ask the demons to step out come at me!!
Silence is deafening demons don’t show sinning doesn’t awake any recognition in their dimmed minds I’m full of madness kissing the Reaper with Ambien before bed who will send the demons in to thrash my life epically turn it upside down and burn an opening into the corners of my mind so darkened with corruption even Lucifer would be sick at a glimpse
Donna Dallas studied Creative Writing and Philosophy at NYU’s Gallatin School and was lucky enough to study under William Packard, founder and editor of the New York Quarterly. Lately, her work can be found in Horror Sleaze Trash, Beatnik Cowboy and Zombie Logic among many other publications. She recently published a novel, Death Sisters, with Alien Buddha Press. She also currently serves on the editorial team for Red Fez.
Editor’s Note:
“Death Sisters is a wild fucking ride! I highly recomended reading this book.” —J.D.C.IV
