Aisle16: we drink the poem

Blind Whitman Slim: The Last Poet Barman

Ian McLachlan: The World’s Last Barman Poet

I am The World’s Last Barman Poet,

apprenticed to Jean-Thomas Cruz,

half-French, half-Spanish wizard

with vodka, lime juice and thesaurus

via a backpacking trip that didn’t

work out, small misunderstanding –

Not drugs, talcum powder, see?

The times I hated Jean-Thomas,

all his prattle about the holy spirit

of cocktails, the preparation

a kind of sacrament, and of course

the importance of abstinence,

when he was tapping my girl

in his hotel suite every chance

he got. I lay in the room below,

wall fan beating its sultry drum,

alert to the trochee of bedsprings,

him, between thrusts, shouting: Twist

of dark rum! Whiskey! Orange juice!

Until one night I added a good slug

of hydrocyanic acid, thus became

The World’s Last ... you get the idea.

Candida Albicans: the bar sluts last moistened towelette

I am the bar sluts last moistened towelette

foil-wrapped refresher vignette

she puts her head in the door & even

if there's nobody she knows

she doesnt leave

but sticks around,

probably for the ones she really needs

 she thickens the voice & he knows 

shes hassling punters ordering spritzers for "wasp whores"  

imbibing bribes she'd take

The Daytona Beach

The Anus, singed by Bleach

The Vagina Sanga

The Backend Rammer

If it weren't for me mopping at her gusset

It'd be a stodgy russet  (she occasionally bleeds juice and froth...)

The Pink Squishmitten

The Cameltoe Goth

She dredges the trench be with my wet-one

The Liced-Lips

The Kandida Albicans

The Caustic Chasm

The Microplasm

The Slipperysore Slot.

A Fling-a-ling.

                       "A FLINGALING?!"

Poet barman

you tried everything you got

but my bar slut's gonna get loaded & hit on you

no matter what

Legs are open. 

Lenchen Elf: The Last Bawdy Suet

The distance between here and there

runs length of bar, optics at half measure.

Squint, accordingly, sharp cut of your hair

asymmetric to hide the eye. Fag pinchclenched

behind your back, hot gaze toasts rare steaks,

blueblooded skirt and flank, sparsely seasoned,

seared by your stare as they flex over tables,

make the break. You steer your interest to rump.

Meanwhile, scrape up carbonised leavings

griddled and scorched, burger bun shaped,

all hands to the beer pump,

dreaming of droit de seigneur.

Salena Godden: Cockcockcockcocktail

i am the world’s last barman poets cock

i am the cock that hangs flaccid and limp

between the legs of the world’s last barman  poet

what an appalling cock

more a winkle or a pee-pee

than a cock

if you know the difference

and believe me

i know the difference

i don’t know what i did to deserve this fate

its embarrassing

i’d self harm if i could

i’d pierce my own ballbags with knitting needles

i tried to drown in my own urine

twice

 

more to the point

i would like to have sex

with a girl if possible

this would be a good thing

then i could grow big and hard and be

a dick or even

a shlong or a whopper

 

he tells chicks he is the world’s last barman poet

the world’s last barman poet?

what does that even mean in real terms?

world’s? last? barman? poet?

at least i know i am a cock

because

i am a cock

 

but, this?

this is a turn off even for me

i physically contract

when he gets up on the bar

and starts with the: I am the worlds last barman poet schtick

he is under some illusion

this will seduce babes to drink cock

cock cocktails and lose their inhibitions and

remove their clothes and their skanty

panties to permit me to

twitch away inside them

these hot dark holes

he whispers and whimpers about

in his wet dreams

 

i see americas finest cocks

pissing away great opportunities

to get some juice and some heat and some love the cock time

 

the cock

cock cock

cocktails

he makes 

are
 so strong and potent

they are killing the cock

 

do you know

i’ve seen the greatest cocks of our generation

shrink under the influence of cockcockcocktails

shrink? and i mean recoil and disappear

 

i see americans getting stinking 

on everything stirred or shaken

these cockcockcocktail drinkers prop up this bar

talking big talk

about cock tail this

and cock tail that

and cock tail

cock

 

sex on the beach
 and schnapps made from peach


velvet hammers and alabama slammers

slippery nipples? what slippery nipples?


show me the pink squirrel or a brazillian

what i wouldn’t do for a sucks fizz

a screaming orgasm and a death spasm

right on the end of my singapore sling

your ding a ling? my ding a ling

dontcha wanna play with my ding a ling?

 

mister

worlds last barman poet?

- my bell end

what I wouldn’t do for some face to face fandango

a joystick joyride or a dirty dongle

the standing tiger crouching dragon

even some tea bagging

but instead we just go home alone

and its you

mister worlds last barman poet

you, with me in your left hand

watching ‘top gun’ or ‘rain man’

kelly mcgillis works us up

dustin hoffman finishes us off

until i juice and froth

into your crusty sock

 

americas cocks

we unite and we are revolted

at every flavour of rejection we got


this cocks a gun and its hot

but if you want to get loaded


just order another shot.

 

 

performance notes:

this is to be read aloud to people familiar with the tom crusie movie ‘cocktail’ and the orginal performance poem ‘i am the worlds last barman poet’. 

ideally this should be perfomed to an audience likely to be happy to be seen in tom cruise face masks, not essentially, but probably.

 

please perform this poem in a wig that resembles katie holmes – dark chocolate, glossy, shoulder length very straight hair. think tom cruise but with auburn girls hair. please note this piece works well when delivered in a french or latino accent if possible. if this is not possible - dead pan english – as though delivering a letter of condolance or you are stephen frye.

 

dress code: think rebellious and revoltionary. you are the cock, sound like you love cock, have time for cock and understand the cock and its frustrations. please remember all cocks are french  or latino sounding, throw in the word beouf! go crazy!  combine french resistance (a black beret) with a frida kahlo (mono brow) and a fat cigar!

 

and finally when intoducing the poem you are permitted to say the author of this poem is ‘freeda koch’ but this is your choice, i found it doable to be ‘freeda koch’ without ever revealing the real name of the narrator that poccessed me to write it - freeda koch – i was ‘freeda koch’ for a day and now its your turn! for warm up excercises before your show say this 7 times: “free the cock ! viva cock !”

Media plugs

Last Barman Poet project is mentioned on the Mercy Podcast today, broadcasting from the Liverpool Biennial. Its a really good show and you should listen to it:  http://bit.ly/dkFFET


Last Barman Poet also appeared in a few broadsheets over the last week: The Independent and The Guardian. Thanks! If you've stumbled across this page though one of those newspapers, perhaps you'd like to write us a version yourself? My email address is RossGSutherland@Yahoo.com


We've decided to keep the project rolling after the live event this Wednesday. We'll just keep accumulating poems and see where it leads us. Maybe it'll end up being a christmas book?* Something you can give to barmen / poets / friends / barman friends / poet friends / barmen poets / friends you don't like / people you don't know who aren't barmen or poets.  

*In the extremely unlikely circumstance of this happening, we'd get back in touch with all our contributors. 

The videos

John William Brown: I'm Your Last Crude-Crap Barman Poet

I'm your last Crude-Crap Barman Poet,
I will make you my Rum-A-Dum-Dum,
I will serve you my Snaked-Rectal-Blue:
You won't know your throat from your bum,
I say this with pride for it's true: 
You will die when I serve your sweet cocktail,
You will sing out my praises
While pushing up daises'
With a song and a scream and a wail.

I'm your last Crude-Crap Barman Poet,
I can shake any thing when I'm pissed,
I'm known for my smooth Slam-A-Wanger,
And can stow it where it won't be missed:
I can give you my raging Head-Banger.
I can serve you my famed Ding-A-Linger 
And this I insist, 
With a flick of my wrist,
You will sing like an opera singer. 

I'm your last Crude-Crap Barman Poet,
Few are crapper than I who persist
But I stay here creating new verses
And new cocktails that just don't exist.
Meanwhile, as Tom Cruise rehearses,
Let me serve you my best Shangri-La.
Give it a spin.
(If you want me come in -
Leave your backdoor open to the bar). 

-John William Brown