Sucking an Old Man Off in a Pub: A Manchester Poem by Jamie Lee

All this week on Noisey, we’ll be falling arse-backwards into the state of UK music in a special series of articles about scenes outside the capital: from club closures to brain drains to free parties to local legends. Follow all the content on our Fuck London hub here.

Poetry is one of the most unfairly maligned art forms. At school you're led to believe that it's all exhaustively damp couplets that feature pathetic fallacy, perpetuated by the GCSE anthology collections that focus on the most dire aspects of romantic poetry. But that's not the be all and end all of spoken word. Look closer and you'll find the likes of Allen Ginsberg's Howl, poems by T.S Eliot that feature lines like "And a pair of big black hairy balls / And a big black hairy penis", and the chicken-paprika-placed-inside-a-vagina rhythmic value of John Berryman's Dream Song 4. Basically what I'm trying to say is: poets can be, and usually are, nasty motherfuckers, who strike up some of the most interesting, ludicrous, what-the-fuck-did-they-just say verses in existence. Shit can be more fire than the most lit rap songs; and it's unfortunate that most people put down the form once they've desposited their secondary school years in the backroom of rarely-recalled memory.

Since it's Fuck London week on Noisey, and because it's always worth highlighting some good old poetry, ahead is a poem about a particular night in Manchester. It was sent through from a poet called Jamie Lee (who also happens to be the lead singer of existential indie band MONEY) with the above photograph and a short bio. Since it's always better to let someone describe themselves in their own words, rather than piss them off by unintentionally defacing their persona, what follows is a short description of Jamie Lee. Here it is:

Jamie Lee is, among other things, a writer, beserker and occasional catamite masturbating mainly from Earth. He enjoys…looking out of windows laughing maniacally, making little girls cry in the park, winking at old women at zebra crossings, when-things-go-awfully-wrong, facile generalisations about the human condition and the history of man, falling over drunk into the scenery: a table of people, take-away bins, a vase of flowers…the smell of drying urine, bungalows, abnormally large flies, holding cats that do not want to be stroked, the genius of the wretched, blood-coloured assorted jams, village cricket, the 'cantina in the early morning' and death.

And here's his poem: Sucking an Old Man Off in a Pub. Let's do this!

So I found myself drunk
in the tranny bar
in Manchester
at 3.30am
Or Tranny HQ as I liked to call it

We’d bring people in there
When drunk
- New ones -
See what they were made of
But tonight I was in alone
I went up to an Asian one
A monstrous
amount of make-up
applied
Thick as army camo
Orange
As a tellytubby
Big Eastern nose
‘Hello’ I said
posh as pyjamas
she looked up at me
‘I like you but I wont sleep with you’
even though
she had a look and a smile
like she wanted to be fucked
But I knew she was a lost cause
They’re sensitive you know
And more importantly they know the value
Of a bad reputation
But it’s a shame
To live like that
Really

So I was at the bar
And an old man
was sat next to me
He looked like Andrew Loyd Webber

Why not? I thought
And all I had to say was
‘do you want to go somewhere?’
what little complication
and he said ‘yes.
I own a pub down the road.’
God must be smiling on me
tonight
I thought
Because now the money was gone
And the thirst was on me like a fever
so we went back to his pub
an old place
with two of the barstaff
gay lads
and sat at the bar
drinking for free
‘this is brilliant’
I thought
‘What a wonderful life they lead.’
And the boys talked
And I don’t remember too much
No matter
But the boys were going on about
Some shit
On tv
And I was bored
So I started to touch
Loyd Webber
Through his denim dad jeans
And he watched me like
A dutiful son
And the boys shut up
And began to get their things
And leave.

When you scare the gays off
You know you’re in trouble.

Well anyway
One of them said to me as he left
Whispered in my ear

‘be careful…
…he pisses.’

I laughed
Thought
‘That was a funny joke’
But soon they were gone
And me and webber
Were at each other
Like hungry squirrels
Hording for winter
And soon we were on the floor
His snail in my mouth
Mine in his
On the old stinking carpet
Of a real pub
In the good early morning
Drunk to a perfect clarity.

(And the funny thing was
That we were both
Limp -
Imagine the scene!
Two drunkards
Sucking each others soft cocks
With just the dusty room watching us go!
And the city outside sleeps…)
And he’s northern irish
Was webber
So he was making all
These funny sounds
But then we were back
At the bar.

I sat on one of the barstools
And as I drank from my pint
I looked across the bar top
As regular as the post
Admiring the bottles
Behind
Lined up like a
Row of bikini clad women
In a beauty pageant
As he sucked my limp cock
And I drank my pint

And whilst he sucked me off
I remember thinking

‘…
nothing matters
…
nothing…
…’

and
in that moment
I have never known
such wonder
such heaven
as that.

but then
we were on the floor
again
my slug in his mouth
his in mine
and both of us
were limp
as a pair
of recently
washed
socks
but we kept working
when suddenly
like a Shakespeare
the ides of march
I felt the wetness
On my face
And the boy’s words
Rang in my ear

‘he pisses’

I laughed in my belly
As the water came
All over my face
And he made a funny
Irish noise
‘oh yees’
this was his favourite bit
not a bad party trick
I thought,
Not bad.

He gets me up
Leads me
Like a chauffer
To the toilet
And he gets me
On my knees
Next to the urinal
In the male stink
I’ve still got my pint
And he starts pissing
On my face!
This guys good
I think
He’s got style
What a scene
The best education
In the country
And now look at this
I’m laughing like a hoodlum
And he’s loving it
I take sips of the piss
Sips of the pint
And drink them together.

Then we’re on the floor again
And he’s suckling
Like a foundling
And then he puts a finger into me
And then he starts to lick it
Does the cheeky webber
And I think ‘ha’
I haven’t washed in days
And im hairy as a goat
And the haemorrhoids!
And I laugh again
So it pushes out
A bit of wetness
From me
And he loves it
A most royal match
He’s thinks he’s found the pissy grail
And now he’s keen.

But now its all over
Nothing’s happened
No one’s cum
We get a bit bored
And lie on the floor
With our trousers
Around our ankles
Spread apart
- a pair of drunk starfish
At the bottom of a drunk sea.

I look up
…
Fascinated
…
By the ceiling

Never seen
…
Such a beautiful
…
Ceiling
I tell myself.
I reach for my pint and
fall asleep
Clutching the legs
Of a barstool.

Next thing I know
Im being led
out the door

Into the most
Beautiful
Blinding
Sun

That it filled
The whole sky

And the bowing people
Are going to work,

and
the planes
are passing overhead
Drawing gigantic lines of cocaine
Across the blue.

And it’s THEN
that
I know

that
Im not just fucking around

But
That
The touch
Of brilliance

Is upon me.

So
I go home
And I sleep

Like
a bizarre god

Among
endless
Dissatisfied men.

Find more of Jamie's poetry at Pariah Press.