by George Gad Economou



Corner Stool


there’s 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 you’re invisible, invincible and indomitable.

the barmaid sports the widest, most overwhelming and mesmerizing

smile and

pours you a fresh, frothy beer the moment the old one’s 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.


you’re 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 black line



A fridge full of beers


no sight more encouraging and uplifting—keep your inspirational

stories to yourself—all I need to feel like there’s hope in the universe,

that things will somehow, someway work out, is opening the fridge

and seeing 20-30 bottles standing there—early in the afternoon, the first three

drained and that’s how it goes—more to go, come dawn I’ll be passing

out on the floor, it’s alright, I just need the comfort of a fridge

full of beers, it’s only then the world’s not out to get me, at least I

don’t feel its grip—that’s what matters—simple things for simple men,

you shell out the cash you earned through backbreaking day labor but

goddamn it

you earned a night of serious beer drinking—the bars don’t need you

tonight, let them pour weak cocktails for other people—drink

the beers up, feel good, get uplifted—we need booze because the world

IS out to get us, feel its grip crashing

your windpipe—crack a bottle of icy Stella—feel its

smoothness and palatable taste—savor it—it might be your last night

of serious drinking—tomorrow they might ban booze again—there are

more neo-prohibitionists than drunkards—dire prospects, dark future—the

suits nipping on one cocktail all night won’t care if it’s banned—they’ll

drink tea and be fine—they banned smoking—soon, the dives shall

be closed—I have a fridge full of beers and tonight

I don’t care—tomorrow will be another story—tonight,

as long as there’s beer in my fridge and in my hand,

I am free—I salute you, my friend, and hope you’re drunk too.

you better be, because tomorrow they might call us criminals for

enjoying booze a little “too much”.



a black line



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, it’s not

about the game, it’s 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.



a black line



Memories of an empty needle


“don’t 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 she’d promised, she returned; he

failed to

recognize her smile. she was a stranger. so

was he—he’d 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

boarded a

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.



a black line



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

and meaningless.


a black line


More poetry from Winamop

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