Monday, September 11, 2017

"The Ghost of Elle Macpherson"

Dear Elle, 

As your name implies, you have many manifestations. You are a letter; you are a woman; in France, you would be a pronoun. In Paris you gobble up your steak tartare, the beautiful raw yolk of an egg curving on the verge of spilling out all over that beautiful meat. 

Oh, yeah, that's it, baby. 

Who would have thought you were also an Australian? 

And you gave me my first boner, though I did not know at the time it had a name. All I knew is that, like rock and roll, I liked it. It was Scott Cochrane who told me it had a name: Boner. We used to hang in the suburbs, watching Top Gun, RAD, and Def Leppard videos. 

I thought Def Leppard was a band composed of disabled people. This was on account of the word "def" in their name (perhaps that was the singer) along with the presence of a one-armed drummer and the band name spelled in a manner symptomatic of a learning disability. "Pour Some Sugar On Me" was perhaps a sexual ode to the placebo. 

At the time I thought, "I don't really like this... But I suppose it's impressive, considering they are disabled." I was more into the impish athleticism of Gowan. 

Shall I compare thee, Elle Macpherson, to Def Leppard? You have both your arms, and, as far as I can tell, not a single flaw (but what hides behind those grains of sand sticking to your perfect breasts?). 

I remember the first time I saw you. It was in a magazine called "Elle". Puberty is a confusing time for a young man, and this didn't help. 

Anyway, what I want to say is, "Thank you for the warm and lovely boner, Elle." It was my first. When I compare it to my most recent boner, there are many superficial similarities. But, ever since I divorced your feeble replacement, Laura, they have lost their beautiful simplicity 

Yours, 

- Nigel Tewksbury

Wednesday, July 17, 2013

Madness returns


In 2007 a volcano exploded. Out spewed A Season in Hell. A whirlwind, composed of booze and Tatiana, followed, and, when the dust settled, I looked in the dirty bathroom mirror--lit, weirdly, by a desk lamp--and saw a thin grey cat. Part aesthete, part recluse, but cursed with a sandpaper tongue. 

Six hours a day I run, but can't escape confusion. Tired and twitching I dream of murdering aliens--brutally--a smashing of their spaceship, a slitting of their throats--but the world is angry with me because such brutalised bodies are of no use to science. Well, what I can say... I was caught in the moment. 

Last night I confessed to my girlfriend that I had sex with an elf. But it was purely psychological. 















I tried to write a saga but could not make it sensible as my reality is fragmented and backwards. I blame those little green messages pretending to be red. Instead of work I dream of being alone in volcanic landscape, the meaning deepening knowing there is no one to share it, except, perhaps, for some hidden folk in the moss and rocks. 

They demand no explanation and invite me to the party. 

There's little in the taste to distinguish the vodka from water and the madness has returned worse than ever. It does that. Between two worlds on a tourist's bus, Dante's midlife crisis is called to mind. All I can say is Alexandra Palace belongs to the people and Massari seems unaffected by the economic crisis. And I wonder why parting is full of ice and fire. 

Saturday, June 1, 2013

I know a girl who looks like Robert Plant


Dear H, 

It's 3:00 in the morning, centre of the abyss--man I've got the spins. My bed is a winter, and there are mirrors everywhere. I am a blue whale cruising the 8th dimension. 

I've come from the asshole of existence and spent some time on the straight and narrow. Full of terror and wherewithal, I was married. We had a child and a sofa. It was comfortable, but then things got crazy. 

I was on the sofa, shagging your darling Edwina like a dog, instead of writing to you, you twat, you idiot, you piece of dog shit, which is how I think of you. Oh, and my wife... 

Remember when I cut the tip off your finger with the little saw on my swiss army knife? I chopped it up and ate it and snorted the dust of your nail. We were brothers. I told you I knew a girl who looked like Robert Plant. A botanist. 

Then I was shagging Edwina in Paris and composing a note to you in my head. We went to an orgy on Noah's Ark. Helga was there (remember her?). I mainly watched while drinking tea of opiate. 

Hello Satan. Let me cook you breakfast. No no no, I insist. 

But what I really want to say is: Fuck you. I hope you die. Your reign of terror will shrivel and expire with a pathetic little mouse-squeak. 

And I, screaming and squawking, will be reborn as Nigel Tewkesbury, hatching, fully drunk and erect, from a celestial Cadbury's Creme Egg. 

I am yours, in death, love, and intoxicants, and Oxford, remember Oxford, always remember Oxford. 

Sincerely, 

N. Tewkesbury