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Barbelusion
where the fictionsuits are aliiiiive, I tell you...
Barbeliot
where the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherised upon a table
BarbeLethe
where oblivious posters drink to forget
Bar Belith
seedy, sordid sister–establishment of Tony Soprano’s Bada Bing, where Rothkoid will mix you the perfect dry martini, Cholister’s dogs keep out the riff raff, and occasional raids by the PC Police mean Ariadne’s been sacked and Sax is now our resident pole dancer. Rage has a little headshop in a darkened corner, in a world of her own, and the walls are decorated with poorly lit radiology prints of Stoatie’s sigmoid colon. |
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