And I looked , and I thought , can it be ? Can I consume time like a beetroot , or consommé ? Is the icon imprisonable in a plasticky print repeated and million times and hung in kitchens where sushi is prepared or maachh – bhaat or in fish and chip shops ? Do icons like to be worshipped with vinegar in salt sea air food stalls or eaten with ivory chopsticks in family dining rooms ? Is life mine to live ? Can a volcano live in ice encased cones like a hot chilli ice cream or will love steal into my heart like a mountain reflected in a still lake ? Does a living passion die or can music still explode into war bombs fading slowly like fireflies turning into dull green prickly insects in growing day light ?
Morning breaks to unfinished haiku and promised novels when the heart crumbles into butter- biscuits in beige milky tea . Gauche geckos dart back into shadowy retreats with mouthfuls of fat mosquitoes replete with four o’clock warm sleeping human blood , while eyes seek familiar scene-hooks to tether the restless souls lurking in glinting glass windows
Of Fuji , Lake Syouzin