Hello there. What a lovely weekend meeting the sinister gang in London. In a desperate attempt to top Tag's ink polaroids I was forced to devise a new form of technology. By simply sellotaping together a red pen and a green pen, taking the picture, and then reading it while holding appropriately-coloured Quality Street chocolate wrappers over each eye, I developed the first ever 3D ink polaroid (patent pending). This allows you to make out the stunning depth in this picture of the group of us rampaging through Covent Garden at closing time blowing those funny unfurling party kazoo thingies. If we had a recording you would be able to tell that we were actually paying homage to the weird-beard improv jazz people we had been sharing the cafe with. I look a bit thoughtful in this one, because I'm worried that the expanding gorilla which Swannie brought me in lieu of Sea Monkeys, and which was supposed to grow to twelve inches when placed in water, will never grow up. Anyhoo, here's the Monday poem, almost on time for a change. It's by the Irish poet Paul Durcan. It's from his 1993 collection, "A Snail in my Prime", which is published by Harvill Books. Paul Durcan My Beloved Compares Herself to a Pint of Stout When in the heat of the first night of summer I observe with a whistle of envy That Jackson has driven out the road for a pint of stout, She puts her arm around my waist and scolds me; Am I not your pint of stout? Drink me. There is nothing except, of course, self-pity To stop you also having your pint of stout. Putting self-pity on a leash in the back of the car, I drive out the road, do a U-turn, Drive in the hall door, up the spiral staircase, Into her bedroom. I park at the foot of her bed, Nonchalantly step out leaving the car unlocked, Stroll over to the chest of drawers, lean on it, Circumspectly inspect the backs of my hands, Modestly request from her a pint of stout. She turns her back, undresses, pours herself into bed, Adjusts the pillows, slaps her hand on the coverlet: Here I am - at the very least Look at my new cotton nightie before you shred it And do not complain that I have not got a head on me. I look around to see her foaming out of the bedclothes Not laughing but gazing at me out of four-legged eyes. She says: Close your eyes, put your hands around me. I am the blackest, coldest pint you will ever drink So sip me slowly, let me linger on your lips, Ooze through your teeth, dawdle down your throat, Before swooping down into your guts. While you drink me I will deposit my scum On your rim and when you get to the bottom of me, No matter how hard you try to drink my dregs - And being a man, you will, no harm in that - I will keep bubbling up back at you. For there is no escaping my aftermath. Tonight - being the first night of summer - You may drink as many pints of me as you like. There are barrels of me in the tap room. In the thin daylight at nightfall, You will fall asleep drunk on love. When you wake early in the early morning You will have a hangover, All chaste, astringent, aflame with affirmation, Straining at the bit to get to first mass And holy communion and work - the good life. Trousers xxxxxxxx The Poetry Society Website: 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 -----------------------------------------------------------------------