Upon the broken back of Waterloo Bridge,
I sit with legs dangling over the edge. By
my side, a small bonfire blazes bright, fuelled by
magazines found in the Charing Cross Road. I
tear out pages, feed them to the heat and watch
their anonymous words being devoured by
ravenous flame. A brief burst of radiance,
fierce and hideous, followed by withering…
brown… black… wrinkled… ashes…
... The heat scorches my
cheeks, tightening the flesh into a rictus,
malevolent with primal fear. My eyes spark
and sizzle with savagery. Faces glare
back from the flames: Eldritch, ebon gods; lawless
as shrieking demons. I reject them all. The
wind changes direction, assaulting senses
with the foul stink of rotting newsprint, coming
from papier maché monuments that still
dominate Docklands. I survey the dismal
panorama of tumbled buildings. The Strand:
A wealth of flattened memories. Boarded up
arcades. Small cinemas full of wasted hours.
Faded, peeling advertisements for baroque
phantasies - extravaganzas! - too painful
by far to watch. Goods I cannot afford to buy.
Abandoned cars. Parasitic employment
agencies. I swallow and steel myself to
suffer. The wind changes again, as if it
has also grown nauseated. I fold a
cover photograph of a face, once famous,
into a paper aeroplane, then toss the
glossy dart over the abyss. It nosedives
down, far down, onto sunken blocks of rubble.
Grey concrete imbedded in the dark brown crust
of the Thames Dust Valley. Crash. A silent crash.
Tears. Silent tears. Ashes in my eyes. Ashes.
