03-31-2016, 05:23 AM
[SOFT EDIT]
The Pub Where I Was Born
From what I've seen
of this place that pretends to be home,
love's a shot of Sambuca to oblivion:
empty but chatters like it's full.
Here, connections conform
to a 3 mile radius of oedipal options,
where a simple, stupid, drunken choice is made,
and pettiness* falls for desperation—
here, in this place that pretends to be home.
*i decided against substituting 'pettiness' for 'apathy', because 'apathy' sounds too innocent and passive for the, one might say, mise-en-scene i'm aiming at.
[EDIT]
The Pub Where I Was Born
From what I've seen,
of this place that pretends to be home,
love's a shot of Sambuca to oblivion:
empty but chatters like it's full.
Here, connections conform
to a 3 mile radius of oedipal options,
where a simple, stupid, drunken choice is made—
here, in this place that pretends to be home.
The Pub Where I Was Born
From what I've seen of this place,
this grim, dismal place that pretends to be home,
love's a shot of Sambuca to oblivion—
empty but chatters like it's full,
dead while a jukebox beats like a pulse,
a going train stopped in its tracks.
Here, connections conform
to a 3 mile radius of oedipal options,
where a simple, stupid, drunken choice is made,
and pettiness falls for desperation—
here, in this place that pretends to be home.
The Pub Where I Was Born
after The Pogues
From what I've seen
of this place that pretends to be home,
love's a shot of Sambuca to oblivion:
empty but chatters like it's full.
Here, connections conform
to a 3 mile radius of oedipal options,
where a simple, stupid, drunken choice is made,
and pettiness* falls for desperation—
here, in this place that pretends to be home.
*i decided against substituting 'pettiness' for 'apathy', because 'apathy' sounds too innocent and passive for the, one might say, mise-en-scene i'm aiming at.
[EDIT]
The Pub Where I Was Born
after The Pogues
From what I've seen,
of this place that pretends to be home,
love's a shot of Sambuca to oblivion:
empty but chatters like it's full.
Here, connections conform
to a 3 mile radius of oedipal options,
where a simple, stupid, drunken choice is made—
here, in this place that pretends to be home.
The Pub Where I Was Born
after The Pogues
From what I've seen of this place,
this grim, dismal place that pretends to be home,
love's a shot of Sambuca to oblivion—
empty but chatters like it's full,
dead while a jukebox beats like a pulse,
a going train stopped in its tracks.
Here, connections conform
to a 3 mile radius of oedipal options,
where a simple, stupid, drunken choice is made,
and pettiness falls for desperation—
here, in this place that pretends to be home.