Sinister: working overtime on the seduction line

[Stacey Shackford]

hullo lovelies!

After several long years away, I have broken down and rejoined the list. And
it seems so lovely! We appear to have loads of talented, creative writers. I
must admit to being a wee bit intimidated. I spend my life writing about
criminals, victims, degenerates and everyone in between, and at the end of the
day i don't have much of anything creative to say. But I enjoy cuddling in bed
with my laptop and reading lots of pretty sinister posts.
I don't have much important to say really, but I was so excited to be exempt
from nursery status that I felt compelled to post something! First things
first. Everyone seems so ill! I hope John John dear is not the only
sinisterene toting around flasks of soup. I get worried, you know. And there
are far too many sinisterenes chatting their nights away and not sleeping
*ahem stoo and ken*.
Mummyness aside...
As means of introduction... I am Stacey. I am 23 (24 on Feb. 26, if you'd like
to send prezzies :). I first joined the list in 97/98. I think I was number 80
or something (is that possible???) and left when I went to Greece to study
archaeology. I never came back - to the list that is, I'm back from Greece. I
currently live in Massachusetts and work as a crime reporter (if you hadn't
figured that out already, add that to my list of sinisterene concerns).
I'd like to be able to reflect on the good ole days of sinister, but honestly
I don't remember much. :) I remember miss erin lewis, the angel from
California who made me my first copy of Tigermilk, back when it was still the
most hard to get and coveted item ever. Is erin still around? I owe her a
prezzie. I remember the first crush list - it was managed by some poor
unsuspecting listee, and St. Lucy or whoever got all the votes because of her
foxy photo. I remember my very first tape exchange, and Nick Dastoor and some
other boy constantly taunting each other. Great fun. Katrina and David would
feed our insatiable hunger for band gossip and patiently supply answers to our
neverending barrage of trivial questions.
Awww...
Anyway, I'm sure the list is much better now :) At the very least, it seems
more thoughtful and substantial. Yet still very cozy, which is what I love so
much about belle and sebastian fans. I have never met a listee, but I'm sure
that'll change soon enough. Enough about me already.
I heard the chirp of a poetry parrot earlier and thought it sounded lovely.
Mind if I feed it?

Seniors, by Mr. Alberto Rios (not me! unfortunately :)

William cut a hole in his Levi's pocket
so he could flop himself out in class
behind the girls so the other guys
could see and shit what guts we all said.
All Konga wanted to do over and over
was the rubber band trick, but he showed 
everyone how, so nobody wanted to see
anymore and one day he cried, just cried until his parents took him away
forever.
Maya had a Hotpoint refridgerator standing in his living room, just for his
family to show
anybody who came in that they could afford it.

Me, I got a french kiss, finally, in the catholic
darkness, my tongue's farthest half vacationing
loudly in another mouth like a man in Bermudas,
and my body jumped against a flagstone wall, 
I could feel it through her thin, almost
nonexistent body: I had, at that moment,
a hot girl on a summer night, the best of all
the things we tried to do. Well, she
let me kiss her anyway, all over.

Or it was just a flagstone wall
with a flow in the stone, an understanding cavity
for burning young men with smooth dreams - 
the true circumstance is gone, the true
circumstances about us all then
are gone. But when I kissed her, all water,
she would close her eyes, and they into somewhere
would disappear, whether she was there
or not, I remember her, clearly, and she moves
around the room, sometimes, until I sleep.

I have lain on the desert in watch
low in the back of a pick-up truck
for nothing in particular, for stars, for
the things behind stars, and nothing comes
more than the moment: always now, here in a truck
the moment again to dream of making love and sweat,
this time to a woman, or even to all of them
in some allowable way, to those boys, then
who couldn't cry, to the girls before they were
women, to friends, me on my back, the sky over me
pressing its simple weight into her body
on me, into the bodies of them all, on me.

Oh my, that was quite long! and a bit dirty, I'm afraid. Ah well. That's what
they made scroll keys for.
Night all. Be good.

~dahling

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