by George Gad Economou
theres no more reassuring spot in a bar than
the corner stool, facing the lined up bottles like
soldiers ready for the final warn-ending charge.
everywhere around you people chirp away, nipping colorful cocktails.
in the corner youre invisible, invincible and indomitable.
the barmaid sports the widest, most overwhelming and mesmerizing
pours you a fresh, frothy beer the moment the old ones dry.
straight from the tap, ice-cold first sip, foam soaks the unkempt mustache.
the stool next to you remains empty, occupied by the ghost of a former love
and on occasion you catch a glimpse of a phantom cowboy hat, a nod
from those that were and never again will be.
trading beer for bourbon, chasing one with the other to hunt down
lost dreams. last call always looms in the air,
you order another round, no one yells the two most dreadful words
in every language of the world and you fire up a cigarette, chasing
the smoke down with beer, and the beer with bourbon.
youre alive, in the best spot of the bar, and no one around you knows
why your grin is broader than of those that supposedly have everything.
A fridge full of beers
no sight more encouraging and upliftingkeep your inspirational
stories to yourselfall I need to feel like theres hope in the universe,
that things will somehow, someway work out, is opening the fridge
and seeing 20-30 bottles standing thereearly in the afternoon, the first three
drained and thats how it goesmore to go, come dawn Ill be passing
out on the floor, its alright, I just need the comfort of a fridge
full of beers, its only then the worlds not out to get me, at least I
dont feel its gripthats what matterssimple things for simple men,
you shell out the cash you earned through backbreaking day labor but
you earned a night of serious beer drinkingthe bars dont need you
tonight, let them pour weak cocktails for other peopledrink
the beers up, feel good, get upliftedwe need booze because the world
IS out to get us, feel its grip crashing
your windpipecrack a bottle of icy Stellafeel its
smoothness and palatable tastesavor itit might be your last night
of serious drinkingtomorrow they might ban booze againthere are
more neo-prohibitionists than drunkardsdire prospects, dark futurethe
suits nipping on one cocktail all night wont care if its bannedtheyll
drink tea and be finethey banned smokingsoon, the dives shall
be closedI have a fridge full of beers and tonight
I dont caretomorrow will be another storytonight,
as long as theres beer in my fridge and in my hand,
I am freeI salute you, my friend, and hope youre drunk too.
you better be, because tomorrow they might call us criminals for
enjoying booze a little too much.
it's all about the game
for a quick buck millions bet
on 22 fuckers chasing a ball
around. the players earn millions or
peanuts, the army of
dead try to capitalize on them, make
a quick dollar by placing
bets day and night on matches taking place
from downtown London all the way
to the tiniest Indonesian village, hoping
for the right final score and some money
to cover the expenses. with cheap
beer, and cheaper cigarettes, they scrutinize
the statistics, studying the game, placing
bets, trying to master the process and
bring the big prizes
home. hem had his bulls, buk
the horses. for me, its not
about the game, its about
the players, the dead, melancholy
eyes staring at results on glistening
screens hoping for the
right teams to win. a world relying upon
miracles, I observe
those struggling to live while incorporating
my shortcomings on the blank page that
deserves a pen dipped in infernal flames.
Memories of an empty needle
dont forget me! those were
her parting words when she
boarded the airplane, flying
far, far away. he returned
to the bar; ordered bourbon neat and spoke
not a word. they had spent
few months together, now
she was gone. he twirled his finger: another lowball
of bourbon, a shot of gin. a combination to
kill the heart, eviscerate the thoughts, annihilate
emotions. soon, he found a free line
to snort, more needles were bought (or stolen).
like shed promised, she returned; he
recognize her smile. she was a stranger. so
was hehed traipsed into
a different realm. she tried
to bring him back, her kisses
did not suffice, the glow in
her eyes went unnoticed. he
drank, shot, snorted, and smoked. in his
swirling world there was nothing, in her world
everything was refulgent. how could
you forget me? those were
her new parting words when she
different plane flying to the same destination.
he stayed behind, not the same; another
shot in the arm, the new became old and
he finally remembered.
the falling leaf
down it spirals slowly, dancing with
the breeze, the gentle rain
pushing it to the ground; it ignores
the heartless pavement, the freezing cement.
a soft landing, it turns moist in seconds. condemned
to be blown away by the caprices of the wind,
to see other places and other times without
perception nor thought, just a directionless
existence doomed to be too short
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