Project Tokyo

Ok so I have taken on Project Tokyo... Take a look at

pr0ject-t0ky0.blogspot.com

Consider Yourself Swallowed

Bee hits window. Slides down a bit. Trace of sorrow remains at impact point. Repetition ensues.

---------End Of Reason---------

Fictional Experiments With Swear words

Fingers contorted tightly around hair damp with blood. The clean lino flooring feels cold as you pull your fisted hand down from your head and close to your body. The rain batters hard against the window to your left hand side. Repeated under the hushed humm of the extractor fan you ask “why?”

“oh fuck this shit!” you shout. Throwing your weight as you rage. Hands flung in the air and stress leaking from every crevice in your body The internal monolog of your life to date  echoes in the stereo of your mind. Your ears banging. “FUCK!” swearing for the sheer sake of it. This moment becoming more intense than you had first thought it would be. “Sure, 11am in mono... Yep.. Uh-huh..” The phone sweaty on your right ear. This is routine. “fuck you and your details. Fuck you!” shouting in your ears alongside your internal monolog. “why the fuck do you have your cock out? And why the fuck is it online.???” Your mind wonders. “FUCK FUCK FUCK” shots of rage spill in your mind. “who was he to do this and why the fuck do I feel this way. I have no commitment to you and you have no commitment to me, it doesn’t feel this way though. It feels like your mind. It feels like I'm yours still. Geeze. This is messed up. I am sad. I am sad that I have this internal monolog and this “FUCK FUCK FUCK” shot of rage. “His name is Robert Paulson.” its a release.


Get your fucking ass out my fucking face. I hate this. You and your fucking tiny mind. I hate your fucking ass face. Was I asleep? Have I slept?  

Dirty little white boy

Your hands pressed against the grubby tiles. Your arms outstretched.

Reflections of a inner glow.

Your toes

Your toes outstretched in your muddy brown shoes. The stage seems vast in your presence as you grab up your arms to clench down on the cold metal of the microphone. You sleep like a kid with one hand stuck to the side of your face. This is love. This is love. Pulling the extra cord to the sky as you sing. The orange of your vest. The orange of your vest. Emotion flowing through the air as the notes you sing hang steady in the air. Held tight to the inside of you chest, reverberating in endless echoes. You’re like that doll you wind up as a child, the rusty door you pull with two hands. sit with me as we pull our covers into mountains. Your fingertips touch mine. We’re out to prove its not in me and not in you. We’d like to see some colour. Its due. Lying next to me and feeling you, I’d like to breath in colour.

Little words. (experiments with full stops.)

Did it not work out? Didn’t you love me like you use to. Did. That. Make. Things. Easier? This is an experiment with emotion and I have it sussed.