Saturday, 4 October 2014

Tuesday 30th September, The Lamp Tavern/ Own Way Home


ar aeih ewer
shakes a reed

a mouthful will arc

    a brazen lung a
    hard hands' cup

Bust sums spool from fixéd mouth

Strings are hurt taut and in love

    a wooden lung a
    hollowed head anew

Tuber splits roots inkling
there to where so sheer

Rust antler stabs before anaglypta blue

so the Ought Not of musick hollers bright
as it should

    geologic roars
    popped air

    kicked wood

fingering a piano's guts
to silver

Scale was broke with
blood rich trembled pitch

blown down eye/ear holes I am
glad to be an animal with
tiny bones inside


Man/dog shrinks
in ticker stripped
with halogen
Piss streams in
shelter Steely flats
of the reservoir
Are there owl eyes
Sheet metal billows
and so poplar sings
as odd angles do


  1. Reminds me of Ann Truitt's sculpture paintings... but grittier... much more visceral and gritty.

  2. Love the way this breaks down the barriers inside/outside as it seems can on rare occasions still happen deep in the spooky roaring atemporal own-world night...

  3. The Lamp looks a cozy spot indeed.

    And some lovely history to go with it...

    "It was a pub in the 1911 census, not named but George Phillips was the manager, and he and his wife and 8 of their 9 surviving children lived there as well. You think it's cramped now?
    It looks as though it was converted at some stage from one of the terraced houses that filled this area, almost all now gone and the area is light commercial.
    I used top work in Barford St in the early 70s, and used the Lamp a few times. It was owned by an Irishman who ran a scrapyard further down Barford St (towards Moseley St) called Kieron or something similar. It seemed to be open 24/7 from when he took it over till when the licence was taken from him, if he wasn't there you helped yourself and left the money on a shelf behind the bar!"


    "The lamp never went out of beer nor punters and never closed when mrs owens owned the lamp way back in the seventys and eightys
    i can tell you that as i knew the owens from when hey started to take on the pub scenes and bulding there empire of pubs and she stared to get people to run it for her
    and pay them wages she was a very god bussiness woman and she knew how to run pubs and ruthless with people she would only employ experience people whom was a tough character and honest but she would get peoplle whom was known around the ciruit of he trade and the subject of kerion i also know he also worked for another old friend leaving there and that was for liam occonor at the blarney stone abit wet behind the ears but he done his best worked hard he end up running a couple of pubs for liam"

    A duck can become a rabbit easily enough late o'nights... though I did once learn that decorating one's wallpaper with a duck/rabbit was not a thing much approved by landlords in Brightlingsea. The weather being harsher and the pubs even more cramped..

  4. Just yesterday a Nobel Prize was given out for the discovery that there are location-coded brain cells that allow the unit to find its way around, and which are the first to go when the brain starts falling apart.

    I think I may know a bit about that.

    In any case, I thought, Dunc's poem ought to be getting a share of that prize.

  5. Red, had to look up Ann Truitt's work. That kind of structuring always has a pull for me.

    Tom, you would like the Lamp very much. A proper Irish pub, no fibre glass shillelagh or Irish themed pan pipe music. You'd miss it if you didn't look hard. Cozy is right.

    If anyone's location coded, it's me: Brummagen to my toe tips.

  6. Yes, I've seen the photos people have put up.

    The variety of drinks of various kinds per cubic inch of barspace would have to be some sort of world's record.

    "...if he wasn't there you helped yourself and left the money on a shelf behind the bar!"