[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