Sinister: A Tuesday Poem from the frozen north

[someone]

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
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.             Listen, this is pish, I think I'll leave
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