Christopher Jones founded Lost Prophet Press in 1992 and published the literary magazines Thin Coyote and Knuckle Merchant: the Journal of Naked Literary Aggression for many years. His most recent books are the poetry collection Swamp Yankee: A Book of Verse, and Exploding Fellinis: Chronically Distrubed Tales, a collection of stories co-written with Kelly Green. After many years of dire servitude in the Southwest, he now lives with his family in West Saint Paul, Minnesota.
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.
woke encased in a crusty, cruel dream hangover which has gripped me by the dripping guts I can’t even pretend to stand up straight, bent with the weight of what I cannot remember
forgotten demon dreams have filled my night leaving me sleepless before dawn unsettled, dreading the day to come for no better reason beyond its threat to be the same as all the others nothing worth the effort except being alive itself, which reason grows more tenuous with each day
dreams have killed the night now they are encamped on the doorstep of the morning mustering to ambush the day
M.J. Arcangelini , (b.1952, Pennsylvania) has resided in northern California since 1979. He has been writing poetry since age 11 and has published extensively in both print and online venues & over a dozen anthologies. He is the author of 6 published collections, the most recent of which is PAWNING MY SINS, 2022 (Luchador Press).
There’s one particular Star in the night sky That I know is my star. I know it’s mine because It’s faint and flickering Like a candle burning Near its wick’s end. Once a mighty presence. Now more a memory. A memory engulfed by a sea of memories Tossing and turning On the tides of an Ever ebbing mind. In the end, you just sit And television is your Only friend. Others Can’t be bothered With the likes of you. Their own stars are Shining and rising with The moon and need Tending before they, Too, begin to flicker.
Daniel S. Irwin was born, raised, and is back in town at Sparta, Illinois. His card reads: Artist, Actor, Writer, Soldier, Scholar, Priest. He has won awards for his art, acting (over 100 films and 30+ stage productions), writing (nine books and work published in over one hundred magazines and journals world-wide), retired military (Air Force and Army), graduate of Southern Illinois University/Carbondale and has attended four other universities), and is an ordained Dudeist priest with a Ph.D. in Divinity (not bad for a heathen). Once worked as a medic in an institution for the criminally insane…but didn’t notice anything strange about the inmates. Latest on-line work can be found on Horror, Sleaze, Trash Magazine and Beatnik Cowboy. He would love to move back to Europe but fears the plague.
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.
