Sinister: warning: long email with monday's piece of culture included...

[debbie]

      *---*      HAPPY BIRTHDAY SINISTER BABIES    *---*

WeeJay wrote;
For this reason I'll have to (a)
put off buying an album I can't afford which is TBWTAS until I get to Uni
and (b)
therefore ignore all mail about it until a similar time.
	Maybe I can get to some money, but that really was for university. I
can't spend that can I? I'd better bite the bullet and withdraw it.

Heheheh, that's what i did today at lunchtime in Fopp (with a free poster!)
Was the guy in the suit in front of me buying it on this list? Just
wondered. I also got tickets for the manics album playback on friday but i
can't afford to buy it now cus i've got to get my mum a birthday present
(and i don't think she'd appreciate a copy of the album...)

Anyhoo, down to business. Today i have selected for your enjoyment a poem
by Rimbaud, who is great, and admired by patti smith, richey edwards and
the like. I hope you are pleased.

'Novel'
We aren't serious when we're seventeen
-One fine evening, to hell with beer and lemonade,
Noisy cafes with their shining lamps!
We walk under the green linden trees of the park.

The lindens smell good in the good June evenings!
At times the air is so scented that we close our eyes.
The wind laden with sounds- the town isn't far-
Has the smell of grapevines and beer...

There you can see a very small patch
Of dark blue, framed by a little branch,
Pinned up by a naughty star, that melts
In gentle quivers, small and very white...

Night in June! Seventeen years old! -We are overcome by it all.
The sap is champagne and goes to our head...
We talked a lot and feel a kiss on our lips
Trembling there like a small insect...

Our wild heart moves through novels like Robinson Crusoe,
When, in the light of a pale street lamp,
A girl goes by attractive and charming
Under the shadow of her father's terrible collar...

And as she finds you incredibly naive,
While clicking her little boots,
She turns abruptly and in a lively way...
-Then cavatinas die on your lips...

You are in love. Occupied until the month of August.
You are in love. -Your sonnets make Her laugh.
All your friends go off, you are ridiculous.
-Then one evening the girl you worship deigned write to you!

That evening,... you return to the bright cafes,
You ask for beer and lemonade...
We're not serious when we are seventeen
And when we have green linden trees in the park.

and if anyone's still reading and you haven't gone all squiff-eyed, here is
a wee poem by the delectable Simon Armitage who's dulcet tones used to
grace the airwaves of radio one when Radcliffe had his graveyard shift...

'ISayISayISay'

Anyone here had a go at themselves
for a laugh? Anyone opened their wrists
with a blade in the bath? Those in the dark
at the back, listen hard. Those at the front
in the know, those of us who have, hands up,
let's show that inch of lacerated skin
between the forearm and the fist. Let's tell it
like it is: strong drink, a crimson tidemark
round the tub, a yard of lint, white towels
washed a dozen times, still pink. Tough luck.
A passion then for watches, bangles, cuffs.
A likely story: you were lashed by brambles
picking berries from the woods. Come clean, come good,
repeat with me the punch line 'Just like blood'
when those at the back rush forward to say
how a little love goes a long long long way.


ug, sorry for the lengthiness, but i felt compelled to share...

love,
debbie xxx

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