Hallo spaceboys What a lovely weekend, spent stalking oddball popsters in glasgow and edinburgh. No sightings, unfortunately, but meeting various members of the scottish sinister contingent more than made up for it. Anne, Keith, Paul and Linda: you rule, obviously. Being 500 miles from home obviously meant i was delayed in getting the pweekly poem together for yesterday, but this morning i trekked through the snow drifts to find a lovely internet cafe, so that you all need not be deprived of your weekly fix. this week's poem is by a scottish poet, appropriately enough... Don Paterson won the TS Eliot prize earlier this year for his collection "God's Gift to Women". This poem is from his first collection, "Nil, Nil". Don Paterson Heliographer I thought we were sitting in the sky. My father decoded the world beneath: our tenement, the rival football grounds, the long bridges slung out across the river. Then I gave myself a fright with the lemonade bottle. Clunk - the glass thread butting my teeth as I bolted my mouth to the lip. Naw... copy me. It's how the grown-ups drink. Propped in my shaky, single-handed grip, I tilted the bottle towards the sun until it detonated with light, my lips pursed like a trumpeters ----------------------------------------------------------------------- . 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 -----------------------------------------------------------------------