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.