Piker Press — Weekly Journal of Arts and Literature
May 11, 2026

Acidic Nightmares

"the scent of bourbon lingers in the air..."

Acidic Nightmares

the scent of bourbon lingers in the air
promises made    broken    once again the same old story commences
escaping for good    like all the other times that were deemed failures
looking for the new in old places    scavenging the streets of childhood dreams
abandoning what once was new and turned rotten quick
leaving behind the ghosts the whispers    the monsters are due to follow no
  escape
smelling bourbon    have a blow for your nose do it   DO IT
chasing dragons in razed meadows    a broken butterfly net
a needle in the arm    no one to bring me back from the Bar this time around
that’s alright
moments that never pass    years gone by with the snap of the fingers    altogether
  gone
forever
empty glass-pipes    broken bottles on the floor    flames in the forests
one last sip    the promise of every night    the beginning of each day
emptiness nothingness    follow the road speeding on the highway
monsters a dense forest the mist the voices the shadows    yet again high on acid
leave me alone    I’ll follow the trail of fire    finding the cabin the only
  remaining dream
sipping on bourbon and it’s morning once again
the sun never shines only the clouds hovering idly above
it’s raining it never stops    a frozen sea a river made of coal
blood on the walls    look the other way
brain-matter scattered on the floor    RUN
somewhere out in the world there’s a place to call HOME
nowhere to be found    throwing a molotov-cocktail and it’s all over
finally    behind prison bars freedom lives    go
walking running    no place to stop no breaks it’s all gone
freedom lost    emptying needles and burning glass-pipes
another sip one of the many last    another bottle empty one more opened
pour me a strong one no ice this time
only the blow the bourbon the acid

a cigarette lit    blue smoke wherein hide all the long-gone smiles of forgotten
  yesteryears
a new day comes    a plane takes off    not a single soul landed
touchdown and there’s nothing left standing








More by George Gad Economou → More poetry → Full issue →
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