Below the Banker's Lamp

She meandered down Merton Grove,

Towards Deadman's Walk,

Where debauched demon’s talk.

A secluded soul grimaced

At her satanist pursuit

Of John Milton.

Ghosts and ghouls,

The grotesque –

Warped upon her writing desk,

Dared her to 'dream by day' –

Beautifying the portrait of Dorian Gray;

Frivolously indulgent decay.

Under the sangria-stained moon,

She stumbled upon The Rose and Crown –

Shrouded in an obsidian gown;

A surviving student in this gaunt ghost town.

The building alight with the life of literature –

Renders minds richer

Of those

Opposed to the poverty of discussing scripture.

'Better to rein in Hell' framed the picture

Of the pubs founder –

Sir Aloysius Flyte.

His Auburn eyes flickered throughout the diabolic night.

Whiskey waltzed to whimsical conjectures,

Articulated as maniacal lectures -

By students eager to argue philosophy;

Intellectually engulfed by the Devil’s Sea.

They suffocate in the bourgeoisie

Of Oxford’s absurd.

A misaligned maple door,

Adorned in glass-stained folklore,

Whispered into the night –

Summoning those seeking refuge

From February’s penetrating plight.

Rumpelstiltskin glowed in gold-plated thread,

Promising enrichment upon admission

And greetings from Chulochnikov’s multi-armed magician.

The pub echoed in enchanted superstition.

Beguiled.

Yet, undefiled.

The Rose and Crown surreptitiously smiled,

Into the creeping crepuscular light.

Summertown’s gothic suburbia

Plagued this seductively sinister pub.

Here, muscle un-melted is graceful grub.

Satan Devours his son,

Consuming the etiquette of Sally Lunn –

A delicately endowed bun.

Refinery un-reconciled.

Tamora dines on her beloved child;

A Lunn’s savoury bun –

Traditional Piccalilli & Ham.

She, a sacrificial lamb

Awakes with the heart of a hexagram –

Blurred between the boundaries of

The Occult and unsanctified Satanists.

Ambiguity persists –

In The Rose and Crown.

This place,

A vulgar yet enticing clown;

Holds a soul of sadness,

And a comforting madness.

Eyes drown in dysphoria,

Smiles signal euphoria.

This pub,

The persona of

An uncanny dichotomy,

Strives to set specific souls free.

He left his nickel-brass key,

Knowing that only she would see.

Time twists in twilight.

Gaunt limbs,

Elongated by the shadows of Chirico,

Iced in Jadis’ cursed snow,

Eat as though Lowry matchstick men,

Born again

Into gluttonous

Glory.

Blood-stained cheeks

Occupy the eerie arcaded square

Of this pub’s bare

Patio.

Paved with wines from Bordeaux,

It shields the bewitching river below;

Lethe.

Obscured by oblivion,

She forgets why she is here –

In the Rose and Crown’s enchanting sphere.

The key was placed below

The basil-glazed banker’s lamp.

Within The Secret History.

His stare remains a mystery!

Summoning a cow’s shoulder laced in gristly –

Cartilage,

She tears open a Hindu’s Mother Earth;

A birth

Of base brutality.

Screams from the resident banshee

Echo

Into Eridanos;

A fluid chariot

Of tears.

Three boys grin,

Ordering her a triple gin,

In praise of her forthcoming sin.

Lips stained in death

Move incomprehensibly –

As she uses the key

To unlock her mind;

Moving into a realm unconfined

By intellectual integrity.

Dreams debased.

Unchaste.

She succumbs to the taste

Of Hell.