A few clips from the live event at Homework, held at Bethnal Green Workingmen's Club:
Wednesday, 3 November 2010
Friday, 15 October 2010
Martin Figura: Yorkshire Last Barman Poet
‘ow do
I’m t’Yorkshire’s last barman pooet
a reet Bobby dazzler
I see Wakefield suppin’t’fabulous cocktails
I mek tykes get stinkin’ on summat
I sturr and shek
t’sex on t’bus
t’Schnapps med from fuss
n’bother
t’Knaresborough nipper
t’Yorkshire Ripper
I mek stuff with abuse and broth
t’pink whippet
t’3-toed goth
I mek drinks so sweaty and jazzy
t’kazee
t’iced cuppa
t’ay oopa
t’chuffed
t’ecky thump
t’Scarborough snikket
t’pikelet
t’coal ‘ole
t’livin’ ower t’brush
‘appen y’reckon
yer a reight gud sooart
put wood i’th’oil
quit faffin’
git kaylied
Leanne Moden: The Last Dinnerlady Poet
I am the last dinnerlady poet.
I see the youth forcing down the fabulous tripe I serve.
The youth feeling queasy on something I boil or bake.
The leftover fish pie, the cauliflower surprise
The cold soup with the skins
The fishfingers from tins.
I make things with suspicious lumps
Unidentifiable meat, boiled cabbage in clumps.
I make meals so unappealing
The veg is grey with the sauce congealing.
Jellied sprouts with sauerkraut,
Gravy so thick, you'll need an ice-pick.
Kids, you're so tolerant of my inedible munch
Why not go into town and have a sandwich for lunch?
The kitchen is closed.
Michael Egan: The last American beat barman
America I am the last to give you my all and nothing
I see America drinking the human war I make
Americans fucking themselves with the atom bomb I shake
the angelic taking off of clothes
the sex full of tears in libraries
the insane demands
the perfect machinery
I make saints out of want
the sinister joker
those three-toed blossoms
I smoke Communists every chance I get
the closeted English rose
the Chinese lays
the unspoken raver of Amens
the vibrating visionary
the reader of time’s cover
the Marxist on the candystore corner
America you’re devoted to my national resources
but if you want to get holy
why don’t you just get down and get a job
all openings are barred.
Sunday, 3 October 2010
Thursday, 30 September 2010
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 !”
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