The first murder I committed was of a bird, a sparrow. I fired from the hip. Phut, the air rifle spat. Phut, the little thing fell dead onto the pavement. Fuck, I was so elated. Such a sweet shot I thought. A Peckinpah of a shot, the kind we rejoiced in the Westerns we watched. We were hypocrites. We are hypocrites. The succulent violence of bullets balloon-bursting flesh that we sought in cinema, we don’t want for real.


  There is me-an-dering to the thought behind the poem Sea Change. It was ‘for’ someone and it was about something, but that became inappropriate. Later, I thought it was becoming a fable thing. It wasn’t. It started to get so heavily allegorical. And, yes, it kind of still is, but. Now, it is this. I stuck with the one thing. The other thing/s formed an oxbow lake. The ‘she’ is still she because it was ‘for’ someone.


I bought this book Our Words, Guerrilla Poems from Latin America (trans. by Edward Dorn & Gordon Brotherston, Grossman Publishers, 1968). It’s secondhand, of course. For ages, weekend after weekend, we had attempted to get ourselves to Skoob, but we always got waylaid (mostly by pubs and restaurants); one Saturday, we managed to arrive, and I found this book pinched into Poetry. It’s an artefact of the political idealism and Pop iconography of the Sixities.


On Sunday gone, I sat through a portmanteau film ‘Tokyo!’. It is not a great compendium of shorts, made by two French directors (Michel Gondry and Leos Carax) and a Korean (Bon Joon-ho). Each of its three stories is a response to some experience of Tokyo. I am not going to review the film (I would give it two stars out of five), but I will tell you why it was I watched it.