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?