Wednesday, April 05, 2006


An over-trod and painful west London Street, lusting after fire and destruction, desperate for death. A fifteen-year-old boy torched every bus in the Westbourne Park bus yard. Why? All things, it used to be thought, contained the element Phlogiston. “Phlogisticated” substances were those that, on being burned, were “dephlogisticated.” The ash of the burned material was held to be the true material. The stink of unreleased Phlogiston rises from the filth of London’s labored, street and avenued entrapments. Like ancient grasslands cities too need to be raised from time to time. Short of regulated, lung draining flares of necessity, intense, startling bursts of concentrated inferno will rise like tremors from the earth. Flames have shaped the city of London many times in the past and it feels as though the volcano is about to violently erupt once more, reducing again to its true material; materia-prima to feed the atrophied spirit of the lost.


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