Flicker Even Inside The Wet Wall

Tender nights were the barrier to my blazing as I, ablaze, took my ready pizza and travelled the twenty yards or more to the neath of the Brooklyn Bridge where I, art as pure artefact, declared myself a bang (a lesser bang to be sure) and, for a brief moment, blazed neath that Brooklyn Bridge while passers-above wondered down at my blazing beauty. That is, I was a human torch. A man pyre.

But yes, my heat adventures had begun long before my lesser bang neath the Brooklyn Bridge. I was, all you grapple fans, the notorious dog sizzler, the legendary bum burner. That is, the tramp torcher. I could fly, I was lighter than air, I had complete control over the nature of fire, the elements were mine etc. I chose, however, instead, to squander my powers on a few cheap thrills.

In time, over time, after the initial burst, the bomburst, I learned to control my blaze, learned to tame my flame. I was, for a time, a man of mere embers. I boiled free-standing kettles, comforted cold hands, caused molecules to run, erased condensation from car windscreens, converted toilet seats.

And then the blaze. Flame on.