Home sweet home Latest site info Poetic stuff Serious stuff Funny stuff Topical stuff Alternative stuff Shakespearian stuff Musical stuff
  click here for a "printer friendly" version

by George Gad Economou




Rolling down the hills


rolling down the hills of forgotten yesterdays, lost

in barrels of rotgut where children drowned and women cried

the open highway a neon sign flashes somewhere too damn afar

gunning the bike rushing to the end, the edge VISIBLE

I’m coming the doctor rides beside me two hogs bringing back

angelic destruction here we are back cower away rush to

your basements the neon sign brighter closer nothing around it

just the fucking sign no bar no dive no honkytonk no strip joint

where are the others? they’ll arrive soon patience and some PCP

can fix it all doctor’s prescription washing the drugs with wild turkey

(101, motherfucker!) and the world makes sense the edge

remains uncrossed just one step one wrong tilting of the chair,

it never takes much just one second one moment one goddamn

right decision to counter the thousand wrong ones of a lifetime spent

without purpose speeding down the highway no one around not

even balls of hay just the air the desert the road the melting asphalt

are we here yet? no, but it’s right over there and right over there

often means millions of miles away beyond the borders of

a neighboring solar system but we gun it nonetheless it’s all

there’s left the speed the air smashing against our faces

the rush of the chase of catching the right neon sign the one

pointing to the dream and the desert turns into an icy apocalypse

then into razed ruins of massive cities and the metropolises turned

into shack-infested ruins and sharks walk the land

elephants swim and rhinos fly the ballet of the dead has

arrived one functioning kidney the price of admission

gunning it away with a case of beer drunk and high on speed

speeding away from the carnivals of the breathing corpses of the

melting men the fires die down blue flames in the air mushrooms

resurface the drunken man in the corner still begs for nickels

the neon sign flashes its dying light and the voice of god compels us to




a line, (a short blue one)



Crazy Drunk


it can happen to anyone; especially us drunkards,

if we stumble upon some money on happy hour.


still remember some of the winos I shared vino with

during winter nights in a park in Denmark; they’d

screech and yell at strangers, suddenly

storm off, or flip the bird to the sky (at God or

whatever they believed in).


at the time, I was more of a calm drunk; with sparse outbursts now

and then.


free bar at the 10-year reunion of my high school; several gin and tonics

in, they got me good.


not in a good mental place—though, I never truly was—

and eventually I lashed off; stormed off a place we went afterwards

with people I hadn’t seen in a decade, for reasons unknown.


nearly kicked the door down when I came home. wherefore,

no one will ever know.


crazy drunk; I’ve been there once or twice lately.

drinking’s the ultimate way to discover the real you,

the monsters lurking in the shadows, tormenting you

during sober times.


perhaps, I scared some old classmates off;

maybe, come next reunion, they’ll steer away.


have a few new numbers in my phone; not sure to whom they belong.


maybe, eventually, I’ll get around checking it. maybe not.


sinking tequila in the dead of the night; all alone in

the dark room, feeling right at home.


drunk, but serene drunk.


it’s people and being away from a comfortable

floor to pass out on that gets me mad.


hopefully, someone will open a free bar in my living room

sometime soon.



a line, (a short blue one)



Green Flames


green flames leap through fissures, great cities turn

into lush jungles, ancient forests become

abandoned stone ruins—skyscrapers fall, sewers are

elevated to the clouds, gutter rats fire up

Cuban cigars—yellow plumes of smoke shoot up to

purple clouds washing away blue blood from

cracked sidewalks—lonesome man on a winding

highway, wild-haired and wild-eyed, with a shotgun

takes down all adjectives—brothers from other lives,

morose nights under exploding stars—one last night,

homes burned down,  banks exploding, the high men

go low, down to the melting core—burn it down!—

burn it up!—knock it back, throw it down—flames leap

through fissures on former avenues—planes float, ships fly—

children play, men cry—pacifists bleed, soldiers drink—when the

first spaceship landed no one looked up—throughout galaxies love

was sought, it resided nowhere—“pour it strong, Jim”—the end comes!

the cry of the madman in the corner—rum to raid banks, bourbon

to conquer the thinning highway—growls, here they come—we’re

dead—no one

gives a damn.

a line, (a short blue one)



there’s always another drink


there’s always another drink, it’s what

makes life worth living, every breath worth

drawn; that fresh, cold, tall drink at the end of the rainbow.

when all you get is shit served as gourmet overpriced meals,

you get that new fresh drink have a swig at it and feel alive,

the world suddenly and inexplicably makes sense when it didn’t

five seconds ago. there’s always another drink, at the end of

the darkening rainbow or at the disposal of the bored dull bartender

you have a swig at it, feel alive, breathe, breathe it in then fire up

a cigarette, breathe, live—the rainbow’s dead but there’s another drink




a line, (a short blue one)



What’s up with poetry, man?


in the corner of the bar, hunched over a stack of cocktail napkins;

country from the speakers, only two other regulars hunkering in their booths

over cold cheap draft beer, and Jim pretended to count the bottles.


the pencil moved over the napkin like a menacing tornado destroying

cities and countries and even planets, a destructive force not even

gods can stop; felt good burning down every little cottage and every

phallus shaped skyscraper without remorse nor guilt,


destroy, destroy, dest

roy, des




the call from below, the agonizing cries of the butchered—fry, evaporate,

liquidating companies and the unemployed fill up the gutter, all the

good mattresses and sturdy cardboxes taken, move over motherfuck

er it felt good


good tall highball, gin and tonic, slice of lemon, two ice cubes,

the magic pencil on fire, napkin after napkin more razed battlefields

mass graveyards of young dreamers that never saw life never felt a kiss

the soft womanly touch under the red of dusk


nothing produces stronger lines than weak love—the cold embrace fuels

the line, the sight of a man that lost it all scraping by for just one cold beer

away from the snow a picture worth far more than purple flowers

in orange meadows


fires rage everywhere, reddish leaping flames masquerading deformed

faces and bodies and long legs and toned abs and long blonde hair

and green eyes and hazel eyes and blue eyes all shining glistening

through the leaping flames fissures all around the earth crumbles

shatters through the walls nothing stands but tall cement walls built

when you were a baby and the gods unborn wine’s poured in some tavern

by the sea a toast from the great ancient drunkard Timocreon

he sings his lost ballads Euripides begs his gods to appear to save the day

forget it



“what’s up with you and poetry, man?” Crazy Linda asked, once more

trying to bum off a beer and a kiss—“not much,” I shrugged, the pencil

didn’t move away, the gaze still on the lines a drop of sweat

some blood, draining the gin and tonic going for bourbon

time for some wine of the soul and more napkins are ordered alongside

a cold draft beer some strong Four Roses and the pencil goes back to work

not destroying this time



ers’ Mar



rs’ M






Maker’s Mark



crazy, insane, madness

madness nothing else matters


the dream the top-shelf orders without having to sell a kidney


“why do you write poetry? did you become a fag?” she insisted

“no, damn it!” I slammed the counter, Jim’s feet left the sticky wooden floor.

“poetry’s power, it lives inside booze. ask Dylan, Buk, ask them all,

even Kerouac had it in him. you drink, the words

make no sense, but the world does.

and, in the end, it’s what we need.”


she slithered away with her drink, I smirked, drank up,

ordered another round.


napkins came, worlds were destroyed,

putting it all down for the future generations never to find.



a line, (a short blue one)



Fires in the Sky


sparrows on fire soar through purple

clouds of sorrow down the cruel pathway of yesterday where one

poet drank eighteen whiskies, murdered by a damn dumb quack then

legends born and warnings formed the nightingales on windowsills s-

it crying out roars for lost tomorrows the deathly and deadly warning of

morose nights to come down that a-way we all went dry tobacco wet martinis

in our flasks and pockets galloping in our broken down cars the neon signs we

crossed were out no hope in the air as the flaming sparrows came down to

the edge of the sidewalk hitchhiking rides to other times we offered

they refused

we cried and drank and passed out in the freezing desert day the nights

too hot to handle we sweated buckets and wet martinis can only do

so much we had nothing else we swilled them down we drowned

phoenixes may rise from their ashes we do not we did

not  we knowingly entered the madness unleashed beasts buried since

Plato’s and Timocreon’s time farewell world new beginnings final

preparations and the roadtrip’s long and one-way.



a line, (a blue one)


Rate this poetry.

Copyright is reserved by the author. Please do not reproduce any part of this article without consent.


© Winamop 2020