Sunday, April 22, 2012

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


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? 

Friday, April 6, 2012


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?