Written by George Gad Economou
a flashing neon sign of a martini glass attracts the right kind of people,
the ones that need a drink, parched from life and the shit thrown
at them on a daily basis; you walk in, see the jukebox in the corner,
the teeth-missing bartender wiping the counter,
wild-haired beasts hunkering on teetering stools. home.
traveling back in time, you don’t care about the outside world,
the bustling streets, the rushing crowds; you sit down, order
a beer and a double bourbon, you fire up a cigarette,
and take some quarters to the jukebox, looking for Hank, Merle, and Jones,
maybe Alan Jackson and Jimmy Buffett.
you drink, smoke, no one stirs; the neon light repels the squares,
the youngsters looking for dance clubs brimful with wobbling people.
it attracts the downtrodden, the ones wishing to escape, to disappear,
to light the world on fire and vanish into the dense smoke
breathe in the strong cheap booze and inhale the cigarette.
the flashing neon signs exist because we do, and we exist
because they do.
Text © George Gad Economou
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