Thursday, 30 September 2010

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
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
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
he makes 
 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
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?
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 !”

Monday, 27 September 2010

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:

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

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