©Studio1013: September 2011

Friday, September 30, 2011

#3ournal: finally in bed. living single reruns staining the television. ears kissing the voice of contralto, K. Ferrier.

#3ournal: watching The Orphan. stomach full a la Wendys. listening to a taped lesson for this saturdays lesson.

touch of fall in the air. still reminding myself that im in my spring! a cup of green tea and beautiful sunset.

#3ournal: reminding myself im in my winter. houses blurring, in a car. I will not fall to depression!

#3ournal: weekly investments into voice lessons will pay off! small beginnings of sinus headache. im in my Spring!

Thursday, September 29, 2011

[3ournal 9/29]

#3ournal:

images of trucker men, cold nights & such.
last day of the work week.
vulnerable in my nature, music playing.

#3ournal:

heading to bathe.
teal colored boxers hanging out wash that must be washed.
he lounges in bed on the phone.

Wednesday, September 28, 2011

[3ournal entries...]

vocal warmups, mahlerian deliciousness.
work today and intend to be nice.
can't wait for the evening teach.

-September 28-

dreaming. strange images & scenarios.
faces and words like: 'antiquain.'
the life of a seer.

-September 27-

surfacing from under sleep.
meditation to continue in the Word.
work today...thankful anyways.

-September 26-

in a fast movin car.
musing over the word that's delivering my soul.
resuming the weeks' routine.

-September 25-

pinot grigio thoughts and nancy wilson.
running into memphis blues-reunion.
antwerp, belgium sounds good.

-September 25-

[gogyokha]

endless rows
the joys of walmart
would love to find
a man...$9.99
ring him up!

you, with that
far-away look; have become
closed captioning to the
world around us
my translator.

in morning I will
pry loose floorboards of
your soul, smear
myself with your dirt
hum your primal tune.

©Studio1013/2011

[one line sentences...]

with pessimism in my mouth, stylishly wearing insecurities. #monostich

castrate wild mornings to enjoy eunuch evenings uttering soprano twilights. #monostich

you, an eddy boyant in my murky waters. #monostich

can you feel my funky sensation? #6wordstory #GwenMcCrae #1970s

seeing this world through defiant eyes. #6wordstory

isis, gowns dividing egyptian heavens. #fivewordstories

the cacophony of your mouth speaking mysteries. #sevenwordstory

[senryu]

we made love in
tanka. our limbs intertwined
we smiled haikus.

this masoleum of
wind harboring our pulses
such is love.

sleep interrupted, bathing
the grit of weariness washed
pondering amid suds.

i will yawn songs
too ancient for the contemporary to sing
notable melodic mysteries.

finally to close my
eyes drawn into Mahler's world,
soul will rest.

stringing ecru laughter
around our necks, offsetting
this autumnal gown we wear.

let our footsteps
mingle among the fallen
leaves of bright orangeries.

i know, yes i know you
this you painting wild,
beige mornin's cerulean.

-she thinks-

broad shoulders fillin
my area, my room door
blk man-panther, skin sings.

-she thinks-

jazz joint, upper
east 4th-smoke, vibes and
me in his sultry pore.

passionate magic
you planting kisses along
my twilight stomach.

white porceline thigh
his lips brushes them;
she quivers, a peony.

posted myself
across the pages of
your novel...read me.

i have woken
entangled in the sheets
of Lady Wisdom's bed.

yeah, my girl
walks like spun
gold, from the womb of life.

my ears are like
cisterns, pour your words
to my depths.

I have seen red
dawns in your skin, clapboard
thoughts hiding your intent.

and the police came
orgiastic, smiling
crucifixions and impalements.

and we with our
taupe laughter and amber
glances, live this colorful life.

after midnight pondering
rules of consecration must be
adhered to.

flaccid waters unable
to stand against your
soot-stained mind.

a life planted
in the structure of one long
alto saxophone moan.

-haiku-

silvern rain drops
accentuate the beauty
of this taupe-hued earth.

am i,
'cause you're the ordained
stutterer of day?

-voicelessons-

resurrecting this voice
belly of earth to the labia
of sky....singing.

-haiku-

wearing autumn leaves,
shall we dance the
length of sunbeams?

night opera
his eyes playing
wagnerian orchestras.

we're eating tacets
alto moans to cole porter'd
backing...these moments.

the grit and grime of
faceless encounters, nagging
itches, please scratch them.

murdered common sense
old, warehouse; garden district...
world recovers not.

old cemeteries
you, medium man con'jrin
yesterday old love.

©Studio1013/2011

Tuesday, September 27, 2011

Photograph's Name: Age & Life (Troy Davis Rally)
Photograph's Birthday: 21st of September, 2011.
Photograph's D.N.A.: 35 M.M. Film, I.S.O. 100 (Un-cropped).
In Times Square at the Troy Davis Rally. A baby is introduced to my lens, as I defocus the protesting signs just enough so that you can read them but not allow them to be super-influential. The protest & the philosophy of Life comes into a core of presence as a man fights for his Life & a baby has the potentialities to greet Life and its meanings, who knows, perhaps be a part of the future that helps continue or discontinue the death penalty? As a component of being a Photographer shows LIGHT towards being a Photo-Journalist, my opinion or intellect is of no importance, therefore I let the Photograph speak.

Shaun Arts.

gogyohka
(forAge&Life)

ebb and flow of time...
with cries one has entered this
world...with tears one leaves
this world and still the pace of
life flows: what was, is, and what is will be.

©Studio1013

Photograph's Name: Aftermath 101.
Photograph's Birthday: 27th of September, 2011.
Photograph's D.N.A.: 35 M.M. Film, I.S.O.: 100.
On 125th and Broadway, a flyer of protest lives on a traffic control box. The green, the "Control" letters embedded into the traffic light box over top of the flyer are ingredients that produces the mind into wonder. Even the white lines that paint the streets run into this Photograph with no stopping. This flyer lives on that box currently, even though such a newsworthy case has dwindled down into almost zero coverage. Usually, flyers are ripped off of the poles or boxes (evidence of such can be seen with the white paper left over of previous flyers) that they once laid that back onto; however, this flyer goes untouched as we see the 27th of September evolve with its hours.

Shaun Arts.

senryu
(fortroydavis)

eyes enhanced by glass...
seeing the injustice while
others moved blindly.

tanka
(fortroydavis)

seer, saw your innocence
saw the lack of sight of the
people around you. speaking
truth-flames to the end...
and they still haven't seen.

©Studio1013

Thursday, September 22, 2011

senryu

the pleasures of this
caananitish religion...
endless but deadly.

[tanka (confessionsofamasturbator)]

accumulated

too many images of

livin' souls for my

pleasure...holdin' them captive

release...just one stroke away.

II.

was it enough? to

continue gazing at these

images of sex

everywhere; NOW addicted;

constantly feeling remorse.

III.

didn't realize it

was all witchcraft...didn't know

i was holdin you

pris'ner in the recesses

of my imagination...

IV.

makin' you do the

things you'd never do in life...

countless times i raped;

and exploited you within

a mind darkened by ripe lust.

tanka

(forthesexuallyliberatedtoday)

the eyes of my face

now darkened with the soot of

sexually

depraved images used to

inspire more and more 'free' sex.

tanka

indifferent to

truth about sexuality...

thought i was grown, thought

i knew me more than the one

who created me...how wrong!

tanka

sorry i became

the cult temple sodomite

sellin' my 'wares' to

any man woman who'd take

me...thinkin' i'd find freedom...

tanka

so you sleep around?

you enjoy spreadin yo mouth

partin' yo thighs for

ev'ry false, but seemingly

free taste of 'love?' oh, how sad...

-sedoka/senryu/sonku-

sedoka

my man...i cannot

settle for the merging of

my viola your oboe

in this orchestral

fuge of lust. he glances thru

me as his hands pull out moans...

Dear Society and WorldView:

senryu

taking off your skins...
... searching for something less con/
fusing to wear well.

-Gen. 1:3-'Let Orrin BE!'

senryu

divided walls

box me in, somehow i

slips thru the cracks.

sonku

let us re/

-turn to our

blue days, our

moments where

we loose our

tumb'lin souls

in the winds'

fervor yeeeeeeeeeees!

sonku

this feeble breath

shared between

us two-this loss

of day-light.

senryu

(forlust)

gaping wide mouth. this

cavern of limitless 'good-

feelins...' deception!

senryu

castigated my-

self-left me in sackcloth and

ashes, i weep tears.

-Faceless-

Faceless...

pounding the wet

cement of life...

ossified remains a mental

storehouse...the

floors bare.

every treasure has been

sold; some

given away all in the name of

'freedom.'

how much have i given

just for the taste of finding me...if i could

just have another pair

of eyes peer into this mass

of my life and lable it...call it something-

give it a catagory a lable...

hey man! calling you to take on your

adam responsibility and name me!

come and name me

name me...i said

name me damn it!

give me a lable...something...

to the young man with no face, no name, no definition...just form and void. to the young man adept at wearing the skin and faces of others..the one skilled, circus-style, in servicing the needs of your emotions; his discarded in the corner of life.

he comes back to the same room night after night; having drained himself fulfilling the sordid, selfish, unrealistic desires of others...he comes back to what...the empty darkness of a nothingness living and pulsating...breathing and extending its own pseudo-comfort; but in reality providing nothing but a vamperic bleeding of whatever flows in his veins. to the young man whos's mental treasuries are in red-level deficit; yet he continues to give...give what? great black chameleon of a man...living...living...living...or something...

-choka-

(maturelyfleeingthelustsofyouth)

to say goodbye to

youthful lusts that plague the young...

to say goodbye to

the gratification found

in dark corners; the

sound of moans and incessant

touching that robbed us

of a breath so dearly held-

to say goodbye to

what i felt has defined me

for more than twenty

years; yes...to say goodbye to

memories: nasty,

dank happenings you wouldn't

tell momma...those toe-

tappin', soul and skin lappin'

transgressions we would...

excuse me; i would glory

in. the quivering

feelings of: 'i'm gon' get caught'

actions i freely gave my-

self to. the nameless

faces; i sold myself to

for more than a life-

altering release; at least

thats what i see now...

the need to fill stygian

voids best left un-filled

by the myriad of forms

i'd lain with. their breath

blown in my paper thin veins

beggin' to be real;

beggin' to do more than live...

ummm...those days...those times...

those moments that i often

cold-shoulder'd, passed for

the fueled flames: dark lust;

talkin' this burnin' this most

savory burnin' i

would have to turn that loose? have

put that aside, have

to strip myself of this skin...

youthful lusts dethroned...

now treking towards authentic

Me...now living maturely.

-choka-

(forwalkingawayfromsomethings)

to put aside what

ive grown accustomed to-to

merely move beyond

who i thought i was...this thing,

often painful and

besides that; to see the old

*hymns, hear the old strains

of what appeals to lust-drunk

flesh; that wants to be

held, wants to be comforted,

needs that moment of

freedom, of release, of day

light between two forms

dancing to the melodies

of vulnerable

symphonies...to put that and

then some aside...a

supreme sacrifice...i tell

me: "go on...do it..." tears fall.

-tanka/hymku-

tanka

this loud-soft fury

i carry in my bones, i

dress and comb my hair

with; this be ignored by you.

you keep tellin' me: 'its good.'

tanka

in bright pagantry

of color i return to

strip myself of the

me you wanted, i naked;

now introduced to my skin.

tanka

over 20 years

i done ran as another man...

done lived too many

other lives, now at 30

i shyly court the REAL me.

tanka

built life on ev'rything

but obedience. led an

existence based on

sacrifice...approaching age

30, now i sober up!

hymku

getting to know

myself. get/

ting comfy with

meeting the ME

you thought of.

the ME ive ran

away from

for many days.

hymku

this cycle

lost images.

hymku

lost my sight, lost the time

to enlarge

myself in you...guess you

don't care huh?

Monday, September 19, 2011

*2 of my haiku poet-persona's
-Sage Kentii
-Rag Utana

sage kenti awaits
dawns' pearl hands
lifting days' sun cup.

sage kentii's voice
kindles dark flames near
evening's mausoleum.

sage kentii wearing . ephod, attends altar . temple of evening.

sage kentii's eyes . washing his NOW . with the waters of tomorrow.

sage kentii's footsteps on . his lovers' threshold . black lightnings cloaked in winds.

sage kentii, coming near
his lover a bundle of
whitewashed mornings & clear sun.

sage kentii beginning
his morning-talk in
his lovers' breath.

sage kentii resurfaces . from gazing into . the face of deep sleep.

sage kentii kneels . stone rosaries from his . mouth drop to the floor.

Rab Utana whispers . in evenings ears . she births aurora borealis.

©2011-Wordchestra Publishing

one-lined haiku [monostichs]

to evening, i. worship, prayers being . quietly uttered snores.
i, wayfarer . lost in the folds . of nights' black gown.
my nakedness clothed . in chic night. . the beginnings of fall.
in the cathedral of . night singing dark 'hallelujahs' . accompanied by rain.
...evenings' campfire . silence relays tales; . 1000 yr. old happenings.

old priests' hands . bone-like, smoothing the . wrinkles of life.

the old woman . knee-highs frayed, . remembering yesterdays.
yung sistah, summer addict . on her back, $50 . experiencin love.
old weathervanes, prophets... . seers speaking/seeing these . confused seasons.
living in the white . powder of life, snorted up . the greedy nostrils of time.

took leave of this moment. lost in your eyes.

-haiku/tristich-

in the womb of night
hands massaging swollen
evidence of nature.

mastering the silence
emitted. looking over to shadow
your sleeping form.

forgiving this early
morning wall seperating
our greetings.

in one instant i
watched you wearing the bones
of ancestors; now their tears.

morning prayers. he,
my bulwark; stirs lightly...
the moment when all is well.

grew weary of your terra cotta
excuses; to much ebris
to clean when they hit the floor.

amid this metropolitan
jungle; bodies move yet
lonliness walks.

his old fedora on
the floor; half eaten sighs where
we lie entangled.

Rab Utana peforming
funery rites
mumified evenings.

late afternoon sun
obscuring my face; printing
that moment in light.

green grass and cloudless
skies the fundaments
of good days.

toxicology report:
he blew his salient dna into
my paper thin veins.

the rigid discilpline
of progressing against the
force of day.

stradivarius strummed day
with the promise of hearing
viola toned evenings.

feet making no noise
along the carpet of silence.
tonight's mood: reflective.

made me be honest
about my feelings...wearing them
along my shoulders.

when no one and
nothing can make me
sever me.

long laps in my mind; running toward tomorrow.

in bondage to your thighs; fettered by your whisperd love-emissions.

kitten mewing husband seated near the fence evening bows to dusk.

©2011-Wordchestra Publishing

-haiku/tristich-

sage kentii's lover
frequently licking afternoon from
his his lips.

pale breezes stir
the darkened cloak of
my depression.

seeing you
through the spring rain
for the first time.

Rab Utana reads
scrolls old and dusty speckled with
ancient gods and light.

Sage Kentii moves toward
his lovers' smile...
the look of acacia leaves.

Rab Utana walking through
the ziggarats' garden
contemplation of beginnings.

the taste of things
that falter when you
step into my room.

-8 haiku-

(SenseiNeoPoetry)

pre-fall afternoon
young philosopher creeps
brings his heat in my veins.

young philospher
appealing to my nature...
my papyrus rises.

what he gave was
word-food to my mind-
release to my libido.

shogan neo kamikaze
the misconceptions, the worldview
all to really see...life.

blk samurai, my zen
warrior walking soft words that
hari kari bland notions.

nerd presented this
rise in me...him
cast against a stove.

all things masculine
like silent earth chants mingled
in my indian winds.

papyrus prince...study
in the beauty of maleness... ripe
scent of knowledge on your lips.

-tanka-

in his eyes antiquitous
sunsets and walks among
fragrant hyacinth; dust of
persia coats his feet; he's smiled
1000 pyramids; left himself in time.

-haiku-

papyrus prince
blowing your breath among
the reeds of mankind.

blk samurai...my bushido
carrier..walker of early morning mists
and chanter of zen awakenings.

laid in his arms
we against plaid sheets and
pulse-beating evenings.

wanted my noble shogun...
wanted my mouth on his blade
feeling his temple rites.

staring at him staring
at me eastern seduction wrapping
silent tendrils around me.

in him the echo of
seasons dancing across
waxed floors of time.

almond eyes holding
dark waters prisoner and still
i'm poised to swim.

hmm blk samurai i
hold images of you in bondage
later food for my releases.

Wednesday, September 14, 2011

one-lined haiku (provoking thought)

i appeal to myself to just give it all a rest. give it all a rest and conform. its so much easier.

"Now exiting the Doors of Religion"

"The scriptures are not precepts for mastering, but a Journey for taking!"

Taking the Journey of the scriptures; you, being led by the Wind of Yahweh will be introduced to the authentic you and most importantly Yahweh.'

"I don't like my commentary; the commentary of the scriptures speaks for themselves."

'what is life without the journey through the scriptures?'

-ones that inspired me.-

"Scriptural understanding is a journey, not a destination."
"Only he who believes is obedient and only he who is obedient believes."
"Understand this, if the Torah of God is abolished, then Psalm 119 is the biggest joke of the Bible." Psalm 119

Tuesday, September 13, 2011

[one-line haiku]

leaving an inheritance to my children will be my gateway to immortality.

a composer of twilights that range from dull to brilliant.

this fast paced life has the potential to rob one of their ability to rest.

sanity is next to impossible in this fast-paced existence.

death conquered by birth-new children to fill void left by the elder.

often saying through whispers, the universe is animate.

sat back on feet, oriental thoughts of Tai'ping and tea along Manchu carpets.

studious over a dissertation of mahler cool nights...then again not so cool.

and the earth was filled with tears cold skies turns its back.

hadn't scribbled any words that were remotely poetic.

the masturbation of this soul amounted to self-negligence.

and he wanted what i had i wanted to give him me...why.

ran across the busy interstate now at the casino gambling the remnants.

unraveled cells in your presence, my fire kindled; your fire consumes mine.

between my thighs the rigid marble of stained honey...his bass notes ignite.

Wednesday, September 7, 2011

[thispraiseandthings] one-line haiku (monostich)

[thispraiseandthings] 

the question becomes: 'Who's Will is it Anyways?'
when the physical representation became me. sh'kinah sits upon me.
and we made what was simple; difficult in our attempts to not do it.
man: the only species looking for loop holes in the law of Yahweh.
they called obedience 'trivial semantics.'
ignorance our mouths shouting: 'we're not under the law...' what does a kingdom run off of?
hyssop grounded into the soul....cleansing.
said you lived under the wrong fear.
exchange your pagan gods for the faceless one.
not having His image made the people uncomfortable
they created a god they could see.....jesus became the posterchild for: God.
ironic, he always said; 'i'm the SON of God.' we still call him Father.
found it foolish that a god needs a god a father needs a father.*
so whats my obligation? the willingness to walk.
carrying the morning glory in the creases of my lips.
when the ox was yoked; he roams in order.
when they became well versed at trading gods.
into the temple white marble tall columns my heart bowed.
ointment rubbed commissioned enter inner and remove the idols.
they came, ripe figs ready to be savored in the mouth of He.
temple, collumns of sweet incense and their mouths open singing daybreak.
shoulders were asked to support His weight-kohathite!
scavenging that word hidden in the heart-treasuries has grown roots in soil.
makin' my grain and drink offerings count. waving them before high priest.

*(John 20:17)

[itsjustlife] (5 sets) - one-line haiku (monostich)

[itsjustlife]

one

i have walkin cellos between my thighs quivering violas between my lips.
my blood dialect-hardest language to translate or speak; get me a tutor.
slowly evaporating-the not-so-easy distinguishing of lies...i'll abandon my own lips.
greatest favor done to me ignorning what i thought i saw knowing i couldn't see in the first place.
mid afternoon front desk plunking away noting impressions of my life.
he was plucking up weeds in the bush of weeds.
the hotel sat crouching away from the busy interstate...real scarry like.
you were the imaginary fleck of something i brushed from shoulder of my life.
can you blame me for running?
holding more memories than my womb is ready for.

two

back in the day when we puffed just 'cause we were cool.
saw erykah sangin' about life cast in this retro glow....smooth.
didn't make much sense at the time...but oh well.
impatiently waiting for the cold to greet me with stiff kisses.
hey, hey now mannnnn diggin yo woodstock-ian manner and hendrix-esque words....hmmm come forth.
mean spirited the dog in the neighbors back yard and ms. macy sits dejected.
fresh days...lakefront the place of high steppin, some fresh teen joggin his privates at this chick.
headin over the high bridge, the high arch of me reachin for that heart.
would you really care if my feet hid your laughter?

three

at the desk plunking, then came the vietnamese man chasing inspiration from the door.
was too serious about life, so serious until you lost your bowels.
old country road living...dust high flying and still we fickle.
had this dream of being at studio 54 dancing to A Taste of Honey.
the seventies were a great decade because i wasnt there.
stationary wasn't really your strong suit. said as warm coffee is poured.
look, tired of demanding you give me your love...i let sylvia striplin say it.
the best relationship we had was in my mind and via web chat.
unsightly because i said so!

four

crab cakes gone, lets stop in an alley and have sex.
is that right? you like being sweaty?
animal instincts in full gear...pride-land the back of a chevy.
prim and proper; never meant to say male musk is an aphrodesiac
animalistic grunts replace cultured tones...who cares.
6:22 the volley for something.
at some point the words for prayers became groans...moving from land toward water.
15 years of pregnant pushings...realization i'm merging.
sun against adobe walls, lone man urinating in the dark.
phone on the other side of the station...that far away glance haunts.
intrinsic worth left on the shelves of Tiffany's.
other side of the game...never saw its face.
i could be yours on the off chance you present me with autumn.
papyrus reeds in your hair and meandering river nile in yo arms.
stoic palms littering the avenue to your soul.

five

he kissed me with wild abandon empty sifter of dry whiskey.
washing dishes thinking pagan thoughts.
if i walk upright i'll rightly walk up.
listen, it never had to make sense...i'm a poet damn it!
read read read read read read read read read.
strippin my skin of self-fabrications...this thing has become too tight.
boarded the train headed for the sunset stationed between your thighs.
too nasty was hidden beneath the floor-boards of 'choirboy.'
forensic eyes staring seeing saw your leaving long before it happened.
asphalt mornings converge into high noon tea with the sky.
having sons at the outset can't see cause the sun done grew down.
voidless soul like evenings spent up in smoke, empty.

[tanka]

indian chocolate
boy man, swag and sex
he wlks, incense
trails...my earth cries
out for his words.

©2011 Wordchestra Pub.

some various 2011 moment one-line haiku (monostich)

he was like a cat, bringing dead mice he killed. unsolicited acts of devotion.

the little moments of pain came immediately. they came in warm sunlit afternoons. they came in her steps.

disoriented, his discordant moan lost in the crowd of silence.

facing a rising sea of corruption-the bigwigs dance upon plush floors of bones and trampled veins.

of that ancient ilk recognizing no other aristocracy except self.

the gilded maggots feeding on the corpse of this Venetian state.

cup of steaming tea, thoughts of opera in Guyana.

the love/sex the friction of a lone moan outrunning red noise.

meeting in sacred groves fertility cults litter your lips, you pagan one, on crescents I run.

encarnadine laughter eyes seeing beyond seeing. pores speaking rank words to evening.

to adorne the soul with blood chandeliers, you arrive midnight covers the peak of my knees.

boy spoke palindromes, waist deep in excrement of this foolish world.

good looking, sex appeal indecent but nice. in his laughter sour gravestones and greedy sepulchres.

facing myself, image seen through soot-stained mirror...years of self-fabrications.

baby...we don't have boyfriends' only manfriends or man-panions'...laughter over dinner.

liberation, acceptance that where i am; the sum-total of decisions i made; i'm to blame. #LIBERATION

09-07-2011

[3ournal]

perusing the structure of music.
tea and monostichs.
falling asleep to mozart/gluck arias.

[3ournal]

playing custodian to the people.
tea and quiet reflections.
reviewing my music, seeing MET opera stage.

sequence - 'Fingers' On a Blues'

watching him uproot the remnant of rust. How tedious and sad.

facing myself, image seen through soot-stained mirror...years of self-fabrications.

after eleven cravings. his shirt litters my floor, my regret his lips.

good looking, sex appeal indecent but nice. in his laughter sour gravestones and greedy sepulchres.

woman's liberation, grasping her breast with hands stained by predators...you call that liberation?