Hello again. It's a been a fair old week for that elusive pop/poetry crossover. First I read an article in the rubbish new men's mag, Deluxe, that the redoubtable Simon Armitage (older readers may remember him from the old Mark Radcliffe show) describes himself as a "huge belle and sebastian fan". Next I turn to the latest issue of Select, where they have made Paul Farley's first collection "The Boy from the Chemist is Here to See You" their book of the month. You may remember that Paul's poem about Keith Chegwin's appearance in Polanski's MacBeth was the inaugural Monday poem. Once again, where the sinister list leads, the rest of the media follow... On a couple of tangents, can i repeat my call for articles/interview/whatever for the new list fanzine "brouhaha"? Email me privately for details. Also, does anyone else find the new pulp lp a profound disappointment? I keep on losing the will to live half way through it. To cheer myself up I had to compose a list of my top 5 b&s related films: 1) Trust 2) My Life as a Dog 3) Billy Liar 4) Harold and Maude 5) When the Cat's Away Anyway, this week's poem is in honour of the new Farley book, which I urge you all to buy, and goes out to the sinister cosmichemusik/krautrock posse Paul Farley Velvets, Can, Stooges For John, in the hope he is still alive somewhere. An album is nearing its dead centre in the room where we camped with a Primus stove, lit by the glow of a one-bar heater. At that moment the page becomes a strain to read, and as quic as a summer can end with the drawing of a curtain he is there, in a past that squats at my shoulder, teaching me the litany of bands and a way to fold with three Rizla; there, the same slender plugwired hands that were gentle with charcoal those afternoons in the Life Room, but hard on himself with a shared needle. In the hope that he has turned the flame to one more item of luggage: has burned the phone numbers and names old as a habit, page by page: that he sees a world beyond the door's one-eyed, dilated view. There are burnished spoons in the drawer where I live now. I stole a thing or two and entertain the idea still, in light like this, then forget you like some character in the book that's slipped from my lap. You were so real then that I almost looked for those records you took, and put on that arctic winter again. ________________________________________ Stevie Trousers The Poetry Society: http://www.poetrysoc.com ----------------------------------------------------------------------- . This message was brought to you by the Sinister mailing list. . To send to the list please mail "sinister@majordomo.net". . For subscribing, unsubscribing and other list information please see . http://www.majordomo.net/sinister . For questions about how the list works mail owner-sinister@majordomo.net . Listen, this is pish, I think I'll leave -----------------------------------------------------------------------