you approach, you talk, you laugh
all in the name of a wishful
thought that it’ll lead someplace else;
the drinks are expensive, watered down,
you endure it all in the name of finding some company
for the cold, lonely nights;
you become a blank face in the crowd,
another mindless machine performing the programmer’s commands.
the awful, overpriced drinks are
profits for the man sipping on his 40-year-old scotch in his office, laughing
when young girls get to their knees for a minimum wage job.
every night, the same scene;
on the other side of the town
the bars are almost empty,
all tables for one,
green beer poured constantly while patrons
count coins for the next round.
no women, no flirting,
only those who have to work in the morning and
cannot get up unless the beer is already poured.
silence has been lost,
music was murdered,
the poets are all dead.
writers hide in mansions and penthouses
caring for nothing but how to survive.
under a bridge sits a woman that used to be gorgeous.
on the park bench sleeps someone that was meant to be a nuclear physicist.
both indulged to different vices, discovered the beauty in the ugly,
embraced reality and it nearly obliterated them.
nowhere to run,
blankets made of snow,
lambent smiles from inside worn-out cardboard boxes.
COME TO MY BAR GET DRUNK GET LAID LIVE ENJOY THE NIGHT
a beer poured,
dark empty room,
the stained, blue couch crowded,
way too many ghosts crammed on it;
whispers from the bed,
the toilet has been flushed; there’s no one in the bathroom.
another beer, a cigarette; I’m out of blow and dope.
noise from the staircase, new neighbors;
I miss the one that used to bring me coke for free.
no lights, no sound. only the keyboard and it’s not moving.
a blank page, yellow notepads,
everywhere empty bottles,
dirty needles on the asphalt,
beer cans fished out of trash cans.
COME TO MY BAR GET DRUNK GET LAID ENJOY LIFE FEEL LIKE A MOTHERFUCKING MOVIESTAR
there are no drunks left,
the bars feel empty;
no one to pour a cold beer,
the bourbon bottles remain empty.
a single needle in the corner,
angels have abandoned their posts;
they all dance and flirt and drink watered-down gin and vodka,
flags were raised, the traffic’s crawling,
they all storm a place where tomorrow is proclaimed a certainty.
doors and windows locked,
the blue smoke suffocates the residential ghosts
and they finally shut up.
last sip of bourbon
COME HERE WHERE IT NEVER GETS DRY WE HAVE THE BEST DRINKS THE HOTTEST CHICKS THE COOLEST MUSIC COME HERE IT NEVER GOES DRY
time for the last trip,
all fueled up, the needle still in the arm,
mind going numb, the body’s soft,
only the soul remains alive, and it’s all that matters in the end.
a final drive
down the alleys, across dark street corners;
speeding down the highway, away from the call.
time to find new bottles, new countries,
new bars to drink dry.
DON’T LEAVE YOU’RE MINE YOU’RE ALL MINE
WE NEVER GO DRY HERE
THERE’S NOTHING OUT THERE
a single tree,
the empty needle in the arm,
a bottle in the lap,
it’s all finally fucking over.
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.