Monday, 10 December 2012

Mr Tosimatsu is boating across a black river.
Bodies in articulated angles drowned by morning.
The tide casting over those too weak to stand.
A small boy, Toshio, Hersey closes the book, 'Hataya-san told me to run away with her... Kikuki's mother was wounded and Murakami's mother, alas, was dead'.
It is perhaps a na├»ve voyeur’s standard reaction to question the whereabouts of young children in fact literature, but what became of that small boy of the Nakamura's? The child with the same name as the ghost-boy who could simultaneously haunt an American carer in Tokyo, and the end of the bunk bed of a child who saw a horror film too young. The pop culture ghost who stole my things and pierced through the lens of my over-active imagination. And was thus able to break down the walls surrounding my childhood bedroom utopia. Did Toshio Nakamura become a survivor, those the Japanese term Hibakushi too? Short of breath, I catch the words that fail, a dice with a face lost. Soldiers bloody-backed, climbing out of specially                                  dug                                                                                                     holes. 

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