Tomorrow I'll set Henry on fire

I was lightheaded in a basement. A chatty blonde walked me home. I kicked over street signs and thought it hilarious. I was disinterested in all she said. 

On my mobile there was a green message from my asshole brother. Still alive and kicking?

Yes... But I awoke in filth, with my dick inside a puppet. 

Tell mother not to worry for I have it under control. I suppose, now, you think you're better than me. But you have not experienced Henry. 

Do you know a good cleaner? One who doesn't judge? I'd prefer it if she can't speak English. I want to share experiences. My filth tells a story. 

Oh birds of paradise I'm so disjointed with no career prospects but songwriter or blogger. And it's too late to start a career. 

So I will search for a method of turning fire into ice. 

Bee Wee and the Death Rattle Hum

Good Friday was spent comatose on a beach... 

TOWIE screams through consciousness. Magical pagans. An explorer turned dull. 

I've been sleeping with Henry, my ventriloquist's dummy. He sees my eyes half open and whispers to me: "Nigel. I want to die."

The wind replies: Bee Wee and the Death Rattle Hum. A new act, appearing at a haunted basement near you. An erotic puppet show of manners.

Made out of wood, Henry plays a prick. But he does well with women on account of his perpetual hardon.

Henry recites to me a line: "I'd shag her, but angrily. I'd marry her, but hate it. I'd push the fat one off a cliff." To bring it home, he does that thing with his eyebrows. 

Bravo. 

Opening night. In the audience, more otiose than a slug, I dream of orange girls and God. Stretching and stumbling through eternity, they have always been the stuff of the universe. 

Consensus deems the play weird. At the after party, I make eyes with a pagan and pull her passionately into a closet. She pulls down my trousers and starts sucking. We are disrupted by a click. 

Henry cocks his Baretta. A buxom puppet screams. 

Dark coquette

I did not set myself alight. I'm not that kind of guy. So I'm sleeping in a slow cooker, my pillow a chicken breast. Look at me: I'm lean. My meat falls off the bone. Call my mother and tell her I'm succulent and flirting with a French girl circa 1923. 

I prefer a dark meat. 

Dear Friend and Brother, 

Hell is a sauna and my spirit bleeds electrolytes. The dark lord is a personal trainer barking out commands and eating chocolate cake and icing and ice cream. I did not mean to fall asleep. And now I'm sick and longing for the dreadful alarm clock noise. I didn't think it would be so dull at the centre of the world... in the middling eye of the vortex. 

Monotony whipped me to submission. And now I'm you. And I hate you. 

We've always ridden the wave in and out of consciousness repeatedly waking up in filth. We've been known to break a plate and put our fists through walls. 

I've enjoyed the whole process. 

- NT

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I crawled like a baby. In a tunnel I crawled like a drunk. 

In a field I woke along with mild euphoria. I did not want to return to the mess. A cigarette enhanced everything, as it does. 

Lost in smoke rings, I thought, Intensity put me here. I remember: I stormed out of the party and ran away. Don't call me a taxi. Storming and running is how I choose to live. I am, and always will be, a rather difficult child. 

But I've tired of my noisy aesthetic of throwing tantrums and toys. Have you noticed? I haven't sworn once today. I'm trying not to be a gimmick. 

I vow to renounce--no, to reduce--my grunting and groaning, but never to make sense. 

My dark, French darling, I adore you, but I must tell you I'm trying to change. I'm trying to go lighter. Do you have a Caucasian friend with a little evil in her soul? 

Henry

I'm sick and tired of this crazy-ass seaside town. It's no place for a gentleman and badass like me. (But you're a gentle lamb, even with those socks). Hello, Brighton. The slow clomp of my cowboy boots along your streets is drowned out by the football chants of your boozed-up Brits. I know you have pagan roots, but, in these modern times, it's just tacky to do it so overtly. So please do shut up, and if you're going to be slutty, for god's sake be thin.

Hello you hazel girl. I'd like to steal you away. But then you go on about the weather and baby that's not cool.

Let's go to Pret and eat prosciutto ham. And you're fooling around with that half-assed man and all because he's less frightening than me. I wish you'd embrace The Chills.

I've never met someone so god-damned fit yet so fond of cows. You wear them on your socks. How weird. Yes, I do, I do like tea--pour me some of that fucking black darjeeling because it gives me the tingles when I do it right.

Do you feel it? Or are you stupid?

I didn't say that last part... We're having of those hot-shit mornings. It's bright around the edges, but darkened at the core. Like that little wooden chap in my closet. I have introduced you to Henry, haven't I? My dummy? My darling, darling dummy?

Bimodal after-party blues

I should tell you, before we do this, that there's black hair all down my chest. Now don't be surprised if you dig it--it's a cue that you're a starving artist, which I'm into, sort of, that is, until I see the bill.

I don't look like a model, but I've been told that I've got depth. And now you've got the hiccups because I revealed to you the low-point of my life--the funny one, I mean. Not the real one. That one hits too hard.

Now be a dear and fetch me a bottle of water... and a can of peaches if you can.

I see you've got the hiccups because I told you how I crawled upon the pubic ground in the space between two toilet stalls. I didn't mention that I could have escaped easily by opening the door. Then you would realise that I like, for no particular reason, nothing more than a good, dirty crawl.

I am a pig, but lately I've found that some chicks fancy that.

Can I be so bold as to ask if you are "some chicks"?

My God I wish you'd finish your wine because I'm on this bimodal sleeping pattern that leaves me a wreck every sunset. And I've run out of things to say. So I'll gaze past all the pretty girls with my eyes stretching miles and miles and miles and miles.

I notice there are many, many girls here--usually around the age of 24--who are prettier than you. I gaze. Sexy, awkward, I really can't tell right now. Am I awaking the starving artist? It exists in every girl. But I would appreciate it if he stayed asleep until after you've purchased your round.

Now you've got the hiccups and I'm drunk and home alone. But I'm happier than a handsome model because yesterday someone called me a little rebel monkey. Oh, oh yeah... It's really quite late, but as I'm awake in the fucking predawn, I'll text you a message to remind you of our mortality. I have an idea (ouch!). For our first proper date we can see King Lear and maybe slit our wrists.

Have you read the play? It's dark.

Dinosaurs/Blue Whale

I saw a child wet himself upon encountering the animatronic T-Rex at the Natural History Museum. I nearly wet myself too. He was scared of it, and I was scared of him, and all the others of his ilk. God they make such noise... But the big dinosaurs don't frighten me. It's the little ones that do it. They are devilish, familiar. I fear they might run up my trouser leg, and, for a few reasons, I don't want that. No no no.

The blue whale was disappointing. Yes, it was big, but I had built it up too much in my mind. Plus it's not right to be hanging from a ceiling.

Happy fucking birthday you old dandy asshole

"How was your weekend?" She asked--a perky Lancashire blonde with crooked, rotting teeth.

I was moody. Do fuck off, baby, I thought.

"It was bad," I slyly replied. "I spent it croaking up reality. It's left me with a hell of a god-damned hangover."

I thought of sleeping with her, but she was young and scared of men like me. And I realised I was too beautiful and that she thought me too strange.

The Croak. I should have written it down. I intended to write it down. The great, collective Croak! A round-table discussion on the net hosted by Matthew and Mark-O preaching the gospel of bitches and pizza (good stuff, bitches and pizza). They dance all night to the tunes of DJ Unpronounceable and they forget to write down the moves (thrust-twist-thrust!). And there they are, forgotten to history, going to hell and waste.

The Croak. The song of the Holy Tramp. Too beautiful, too weird, too strange for a pity Lancashire babe to understand. To her it's a garbled mess.

Happy fucking birthday you old dandy asshole! Exchange my party toy for some whisky. To celebrate the occasion I've purchased a MacBook Air. The Dell was hurled out the window in dramatic fashion. Inspiron my ass. I am anew.