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

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.