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

Andrew Marshall: I am the last will and testament of Katie Holmes

Why didn't you help me?



-Andrew Marshall

Crispin Read: The Antepenultimate Barman Poet

I am the antepenultimate barman poet
I had a scene in the bit before the fat yuppie on the stairs
Bryan also read a poem
but both ended up on the cutting room floor
which was a shame in a way because Bryan’s one was quite moving
if a little naive
and mine was the only screen time I ever had, apart from showing my penis to Cagney out of Cagney and Lacey in the opening credits for season 2
and Tom stole my snazzy / Kamikaze rhyme

the cunt

-Crispin Read

Alan Parker: The Final Barman

We're drinking together Premium Lager and Ale We have sex on the sofa No beach in Stockwell Stella and pork scratchings are to blame for me being stuck to the ground Will I ever be able to see my penis again? It's the final barman the final barman Ohh We're dying of cirosis and still we want more 'Cause baby deaths near us, last orders at the bar With So many free barrels of beer it's hard to drink coke (to drink coke) I'm sure liver tastes better anyway The final barman, oh ho It's the final barman The final barman The final barman (The final barman) Ohh It's the final barman We're drinking together The final barman We'll drink some more It's the final barman (The final barman) Ohh, it's the final barman Yea

-Alan Parker

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.


-Ian McLachlan

We've peaked

Last Barman Poet: Live!

29th September 2010, 7:45 doors: Bethnal Green Workingmen's Club, Pollard Row, London, E2 6NB. £5.

Homework: An Evening of Literary Miscellany presents

The Last Barman Poet

Homework's residents will be curating this live event, presenting their favourite versions of Tom Cruise's poetic opus.  Many many special guests. There's a few versions we've been holding back on for the live event, too, including a copy of a rare bluegrass record, a Bourne supremacy remix, and a glittery cover by Bridgett Aphrodite.  


Support from Forward-prize nominee and massive ledge, Luke Kennard.


We're also going to put ourselves into the Guinness Book of Records for the most people to simultaneously recite a poem. Pity its such a shit one.


We're still collecting new versions though! Send through your responses / covers / youtube links to RossGSutherland@Yahoo.com


Venue website: http://www.workersplaytime.net/
Homework myspace: http://www.myspace.com/homeworkldn

Rebecca Ward: The Basque Llama Poet

I am the world’s Basque Llama poet.

I see Spain drinking the life from our region,

The Spanish getting high off the back of our pack animal legion.

I am Pushmi-pullyu

Wearing  separatist wool,

Como te llamas?

ETA bomb alpacas.

I make explosives from spit and ‘rabia’,

An Andes trekker

Cum vehicle wrecker.

I make Spain loco and scared,

The rogue camelid

With the tiny head,

The Basque Dalai

Con ándale,,

The castanet-or

With a detonator

I am devoted to Sabino Arana, even though he wasn’t no llama

But if you want less subversion and drama,

Why not give a badger a hammer?

-Rebecca Ward

Lizzy Dening: The Last Barman Ferret

I am the last barman ferret.
I squeeze fabulous cocktails from my furry teats.
Old men get stinky on the fluids I secrete.
The sawdust from my cage, the schnapps made from mange,
The crepuscular grooving,
The cardboard tubing!
I made things with spit and fuzz, I eat red squirrel, even though they’re my cous-
ins.
I make drinks that pack a bite
Fellas- do you know who’s nibbling your ladies tonight?
The sable-tipped dick
in that Dawson’s Creek chick.
The pine martin fling, the ring-worm-aling.
Britain, you wana see the neat little harness I’ve got,
But if you want a hob-goblin thrill in your jill,
I’ll be up your trouser leg like a shot.

-Lizzy Dening

Andrea Porter: The World's Last Drink in HD

I am the barman pouring the world’s last drink.

Here the desiccated focus on realities.
Hollow-eyed tune into the final empty.
Adjust high definition on the full glass.
Catch the close up on the dead glass.
Two shots of hydrogen to one of oxygen.
The magic of reaction, the sole interaction
that moistens the lips, squeezes the pips
out of air and nothing, something to bring
to the bar of the departed but the party starts
before the ghosts arrive. Nothing to survive
this last open throat, the last pour live.
Turn the tap, watch the phantom gush,
Zoom in on sand, listen to the hush.

-Andrea Porter

Tom Taylor: This is what I think of you, "last barman poet",

This is what I think of you, "last barman poet",
You never actually rhymed anything with 'poet'.
Being able to do so is the test of a true poet,
Because it hard to do so, even for a poet.
I can only conclude that, actually, you are not a poet.
Certainly I am not one myself, but at least I am aware of this.


- Tom Taylor

Daniel Derrett: I am the world's briefest barman poet

That's it.




-Daniel Derrett

Scroobius Pip: The Last Binman Poet

Ross Sutherland: The Last Batman Poet

I am the last Batman poet

I see Gotham through a black rubber cowl.

In my fists, I hold the last chance of salvation.

And so I uncap the pen, 
let it all out.

I am the last Batman poet.

I am reciting a satirical poem about corporate greed,

my colossal shadow slapped against the coffeehouse wall.

“Big bankers,” I say. “Big balls, but big wankers.”

I punctuate the end of the piece with a smoke bomb.

“Hey,” says a young man in a bookshop,

“I saw you read last week. You were good.”

“Thanks,” I say, and detonate another smoke bomb.

I am the last Batman poet.

I destroy my enemies from the inside-out.

I am influenced by Justice, Physical Prowess and Gadgets.

I also like 
George Oppen.  

I am the last Batman poet.

The Joker is on the news again.

Five train guards have been slit ear-to-ear.

I make a note in my moleskin:

“Five train guards slit ear-to-ear,”

A week later, I add beneath,

“like macabre, blood-filled Zippys.”

Another poem is beginning to take its shape.

A crime is an image. I arrange them on the page:

The Blood On The Streets,

the Shrapnel, the Creep.

The Shattered Skylight, the Arkham High-Five.

I write poems with such intense political urgency:

Gotham Stop Filling Those Coffins,

10 Reasons Why Commissioner Gordon is Stupid.

I am self-publishing my next pamphlet in September,

The launch is going to be on the roof of the Von Gruenwald Tower.

There’s a free glass of wine if you get there early.

Gotham, I promise 

to sign every copy that I’ve got.

And if you live in fear

of the ruthless

and the bullet:

You’re gonna like this book a lot.

Zoë Fiander: The Lover of the Last Barman Poet

The world's last barman poet

who mixes like Mephisto
has corrupted me with pisco.

He has stuck me in his slammer
and with his velvet hammer
he has nailed me to his heart.

God, if you've seen the sliver
still remaining of my liver
then could you let me know?

-Zoë Fiander

PRESS RELEASE

PRESS RELEASE: ARCHAEOLOGISTS UNCOVER SCRIPT SO SHIT THEY TRY TO REBURY IT

Today, August 14th 2473*, a paper relic was found at the site of what used to be Hollywood. Underneath a fine earth-layer of pornography and sperm, my team and I discovered a fragment of a script. In the past, scripts were written on paper.** This script section for a Touchstone movie 'Cocktail' hasn't aged a day, largely due to all its corrosive attributes being redirected to the minds of people whoviewed the movie. Former President Tom Cruise is rumoured to have starred in it, giving an Oscar-winning turn (or so his diaries claim) as "the last barman poet". According to our expert, the term "barman" was slang for 'upbeat dwarf'. 

This script can tell us a lot about 1980's America. Quite what a "cocktail" is has been opened to debate. Some historians believe that the word is a substitute for "movies", as "Dingaling", "Attack of the massive (?) cunts" and "The Pink Squirrel" were known to be hits for Cruise in his mid '60s.

"Loaded" then could mean an appreciation of Cruises movies. Hence: "But if you want to got loaded / Why don't you just order a shot?" (If you want to watch a Tom Cruise movie/you should shoot yourself). Quite how the final line "Bar is open" should be read may forever remain a mystery. One theory is that he means there's a queue to shoot yourself for watching Cruise movies.*** 

A few hours after its discovery, our resident art historian attempted to digitally recreate what the scene may have looked like but was tragically had a heart attack whilst working on a section of crowd hairstyles.**** What we can gather from the recreation, however, is that shit and shoes were definitely flung down from the 3rd tier balcony,narrowly avoiding the diminutive actor/dictator. 

Prof. Dan Tastic PGCE BE P.E. BYOB, head of archaeology at whatever university will take me, really. There is so little knowledge left.

*approximated date. All clocks stopped during the great explosioning. 

** or so Lionel Ritchie told us after he was defrosted and before he was killed again.

***as did tragically happen at the premier of MI7 in Denver, April 2nd 2016.

****God, Cruise did that. What a total wanker. 

-Ju shardlow

Tim Turnbull: The Last of the Carmen Poets

(to the tune of the Toreador Song by Bizet)

I am the last of the barman poets

and very fond of playing furry quoits,

I shake my shaker

while trying to make her

insensible so I can have my wicked way.

A splash of bourbon or a dash of gin

with chloral hydrate makes a Mickey Finn -

Ha ha, how devious

she remains oblivious

thinking she is safe because she's sure I'm gay

or just a harmless little circus dwarf,

a sort of cocktail making smurf

but I'm a man with man-sized appetites

look in my trunks and you'll get such a fright

just look

and see,

oo-er missus

it even frightens me

I am Tom Cruise and not a little troll

I have a tool like a flag pole

I can even wrap it round my neck

in winter if I feel the cold.

but I'm very glum you see

the girls don't fancy me

because I look like Shrek.

- Tim Turnbull

Claire Sheridan: Clerihew

Tom Cruise
Mixes booze
And says a thing
About a Ding-a-ling.

- Claire Sheridan

Writing lesson

Tom Cruise tallies a few
more neurons among
the morning's toll,
his forehead lolling
on the bar.  Thunk.
In a word,
he is drunk.

Roger Donaldson's beside himself,
could shit bricks bigger than
the latest '88 cell in his hand,
hopes the producers understand:
"Tom's too shitfaced to stand.
There's just no fucking way
this poet scene
is getting shot today."

But booze-soaked Cruise
knows what to do:
a quick strategic upchuck
projected on the floor,
from deep up his sleeve
he retrieves a miracle
feat of sobriety, lugs himself
aboard the bar,
hauling ass, haphazard
as a forced rhyme.
He slurs the lines:

You want poets?
You want poets??


- Colin McSwiggen