LUKAYO.COM

Category: Art

  • Throwback Thursday: Being Fey #2 (2004)

    Image Description:

    The cover of the zine is a picture of a person with cat ears and tail, curly black hair, purple and black arm warmers, black jeans, striped suspenders, black sneakers, purple socks, with a tiny panda on the person’s head. The title is “being fey #2” and “VERSES / VERSUS”.

    The second picture has many beings– a curly-haired Asian person wearing fishnets and a skirt, with several spirits (a short-haired face with glasses, a partially-shaved face, a person with a tie, a person with long hair, a black cat, and a panda). They are facing away from a white person who has glasses and wearing a black vest, with a dragon spirit on their shoulders. The dragon and the panda are reaching for each other. The title of the picture is “Hex and Verd”.

    Wanna see the rest of the artwork and the full pages from this zine? Better yet, want to commission me to draw something for you? Click on the link to become a patron. For as little as $1/month you can support healing work among my communities, and the indigenous Elders that mentor me.

    https://www.patreon.com/posts/22142796

  • Throwback Thursday: Being Fey #1 (2003)

    Content Warning/Trigger Warning: questioning reality/schizophrenia mention/casual saneism

    Image Descriptions:

    The cover of the zine is an abstract art piece done in charcoal with shapes that look like claws, spirals, eyes, stitches, tails, wings, etc. The text reads “being fey Issue *1 {one}” and “an experiment in self-aggrandizement”.

    Title page of a comic done in black ink and charcoal. The main picture is a bespectacled pale-skinned figure with a goatee and short spiky dark hair sitting at a computer on top of a next of tentacle wires, with a shadowed winged reptilian silhouette looming behind them. There is a small panel close-up of the person’s eye glancing to the side over one of the lenses of their glasses. The title is “Issue #1: Steam”. The thought bubbles read: “I can feel it again, watching me… gah. Everytime I turn around, or look at it directly… it just disappears. Gone. But I KNOW it’s there.”

    Four panels. The person is leaving their apartment while the shadowy figure hovers above them, follows closely behind, and at one point is snaking a tongue into their ear. The person ends up facing a closed door, with a shot of their undercut/partially shaved head. The thought bubbles read: “Only a matter of time… before. I… fuckin’… snapped. I had to make sure I wasn’t schizo.” In a speech bubble, the person is saying: “Brad! Open up! I need to talk to you. There’s this thing that keeps fol–“

    Two panels. In the first panel, the tall bespectacled person in a black trenchcoat is staring down a second, smaller person with long pale/white hair, pale skin, bare foot and in a frilly dress. They are having a conversation on the second person’s doorstep. The conversation is as follows:

    • “Yes?”
    • “!!!”
    • “Can I help you?”
    • “Uh, I musta gotten the wrong house…”
    • “Are you looking for Bradley?”
    • “Yeah, are you his little sister or something?”
    • “No silly…”

    The last panel is a close-up of the second person’s face as they say: “I AM Brad.”

    Below the panel is the words “To be continued…”

    Wanna see the rest of the artwork and the full pages from this zine? Better yet, want to commission me to draw something for you? Click on the link to become a patron. For as little as $1/month you can support healing work among my communities, and the indigenous Elders that mentor me.

    https://www.patreon.com/posts/22142123

  • Throwback Thursday: Mnemosyne’s Carcass

    Artwork from Mnemosyne’s Carcass, a zine I published in 2005 with my original illustrations and some creative non-fiction rambling.

    Image Descriptions

    The first scan is of the cover and back cover of a black and white ‘zine/chapbook. The cover is an inked drawing of a pale woman with pale hair. The title is “being fey #4” and the subtitle is “MNEMOSYNE’S CARCASS”. On the back cover is a poem in heavily stylized font. This is the poem:

    “This is for Mnemosyne
    the Goddess of Memory
    whose sullen carcass lies in my
    mind
    riddled by the carrion birds
    of elusive Time
    so that my Ever-Present is
    assaulted by the stench
    of her rotting immortality

    here’s to you, Mnemosyne!
    for leaving
    only broken bits
    of me
    to remember.”

    At the bottom of the poem there is a logo of an eye bursting out of stitches and the words “NEKUSIS PUBLISHING”.

    Wanna see the rest of the artwork from this zine? Better yet, want to commission me to draw something for you? Click on the link to become a patron. For as little as $1/month you can support healing work among my communities, and the indigenous Elders that mentor me.

    https://www.patreon.com/posts/21843836

  • Throwback Thursday: Sticks & Stones

    Image Description: A black-and-white ink drawing of two dark-skinned hands holding each other. The hands are framed in a diamond/square, where each side of the diamond/square is made of different things. On the bottom, the left side is made of a long stick and the right side is made out of stones, rocks, and pebbles. On the top, the left side is made out of a sword (specifically a tabak/machete from Bicol, Luzon, Philippines), and the right side is made out of a robotic arm. The font has the title “STICKS & STONES” twice, following the borders of the diamond/square. Lukayo’s signature in English and basahan/baybayin is inside the frame, near the side made out of stones.

    Content Warning: sui* ideation, bullying, violence

    Sticks & Stones (Original 2008, Updated 2018)

    [sung in the original “sticks and stones” rhyme]
    Sticks and stones may break my bones
    And words can cut and hurt me
    But if I know I’m not alone
    Then my strength won’t desert me
    [/end song]

    She is sitting in a bathroom stall, holding her insides in
    Cradling her guts in her arms, waiting for the slaughter to begin
    She knows it’s too late
    They’ve got her surrounded
    There’s nothing left to do
    But let the crowd in
    And take her
    Down

    He’s standing by the door, getting ready to gear up
    He puts each armor plate in place, helmet down, fear tucked
    Deep inside metal and machine
    They can’t touch him here
    Covered up, unseen
    To face them
    Down

    How did she get to this place? She wonders.
    It began with a swarm, of dead flesh and stark hunger
    Ambushed, slammed, pushed—she started fighting
    Drew her sword, steel flashing bright lightning
    Cut them to pieces but still they kept coming
    And now she’s grown tired, tired of running

    How did he get to this place? He wonders.
    In a suit of mecha, marching down the street like thunder
    They launch missiles at him, but they bounce off his shields
    Damage done to the outer core, so he adjusts his data fields
    The enemy gathers their forces, amassing might and clout
    He has to come out sometime, and so they’ll wait him out

    All alone she kneels, the blade pressed to her skin
    Cuz she’d rather die with dignity than let any of them win
    She’d rather let her blood run out and cut off her own head
    Than let them make her just like them– unrelenting, cold, undead

    And the tanks, the jet fighters, the bombs and the blasts
    Hound him through city rubble, shields failing at last
    In one final attempt, he seeks refuge in the forbidden
    Hoping they won’t follow, hoping he’ll stay hidden

    And she comes out, a warrior, ready for a final sacrifice
    And he climbs out of his robot suit, confused and wide-eyed

    She says: “What the hell are you doing in the girl’s washroom?”

    He says: “Why are you standing there holding a knife to your wrist?”

    And they look at each other and see the bruises, the blisters,
    His broken glasses, the trash in his hair, the scrapes on her fists

    And they look at each other, and slowly, so tentative
    She reaches out her hand, and he looks at it, contemplative

    She whispers, “Don’t worry, I’ll protect you, I know how to fight.”
    But he shakes his head while he squeezes her hand tight.

    “I know what’s outside, and what’s waiting for us
    It’s not like the movies or anime or the comic books
    Sometimes the grown-ups don’t come, sometimes we’re left on our own
    Sometimes there are too many zombies and robotic drones
    And I know we’re just kids and we’ve done nothing wrong
    We just look different and sing and dance to different songs
    But sometimes you have to stop running,
    Sometimes you have to stop fighting
    And hold your head high
    Sometimes you have to be the example,
    by ignoring their lies

    Cuz sticks and stones may break my bones
    And words can cut and hurt me
    But if I know I’m not alone
    Then my strength won’t desert me.”

    And with that, they walked hand in hand, outside.

    Wanna hear the rest of the poem or get a larger version of the art piece? Better yet, want to commission me to write a poem and draw something for you? Click on the link to become a patron. For as little as $1/month you can support healing work among my communities, and the indigenous Elders that mentor me.

    https://www.patreon.com/posts/21682579

  • Throwback Thursday: Scars

    Image Description: A black-and-white ink drawing of an eye with dark sclera emerging out of a wound with three stitches on either side. The word “SCARS” is superimposed on top and faded, with Lukayo’s signature in English and basahan/baybayin under the “R” and “S” of the word “SCARS”.

    Content Warning: allusions to death, sexual assault, self-harm, and bloodplay.

    Scars (Original 2008, Updated 2018)

    We push our boundaries, reaching for a sky full of stars
    Until we burst open, skin sprouting scars

    Like trophies
    And only lovers & doctors
    mothers & morticians
    Traced by hand and stethoscope and lips
    See these bodies go out with more than they came in with
    Bodies full of scars till we become subway system maps
    Each tendril of hard, healed flesh an underground tourist trap
    Staring down long dark tunnels of memory
    Hopping on that train of thought & theory
    Speeding all the way

    All the way to the end of the line
    Past the “Slow Down” and “Just Stop” signs

    Pushing boundaries, reaching for a sky full of stars
    Until we burst open, skin sprouting scars

    Like loathing
    A monster in human-skin-clothing
    Awkward in my kilt and ironed-out-white-blouse
    Because every boy was going to be my redemption
    Every boy my ticket out, every boy
    Had a height and a depth like a mountain
    So full they almost supernova’d right there
    In the locker-lined hallways
    And smoke-laced, booze-stained parties
    Their explosions forcing inside me all the way

    All the way to the end of the line
    Past the “Slow Down” and “Just Stop” signs

    Pushing boundaries, reaching for a sky full of stars
    Until we burst open, skin sprouting scars

    Like armor
    Because what doesn’t kill us only breaks us stronger
    And she is crying as I hold her close in the candle light
    Bedroom door locked as tight as her fingers around that knife
    And I’m wrestling with her pain, I’m pleading “baby, please let go”
    And one night she’ll toss the blade across the room in a fever
    Another night she’ll kiss me hard and ask me to do it with her
    Players in an Anne Rice-ian fairy tale fantasy
    Not satisfied with hickies of violets and daisies
    We had to go all the way

    All the way to the end of the line
    Past the “Slow Down” and “Just Stop” signs

    Pushing boundaries, reaching for a sky full of stars
    Until we burst open, skin sprouting scars

    Like forest fires
    Evidence against the two-faced and the liars
    While we rage against family dramas or corporate spires
    Fueled and sparked by our half-healed criss-crosses
    To keep fighting, keep fighting against our losses
    Because every wound made must be given time to close
    Every fissure in our fleshly fabric is as much a lesson as a blow
    To our pride, to our hubris, to our ego, to our core
    And if that’s not the point of dying,
    then what the fuck are we living for?
    We have to go all the way

    All the way to the end of the line
    Past the “Slow Down” and “Just Stop” signs

    Pushing boundaries, skin sprouting scars
    Until we burst open and finally
    reach that sky full of stars

    Wanna hear the rest of the poem? Better yet, want to commission me to write a poem and draw something for you? Click on the link to become a patron. For as little as $1/month you can support healing work among my communities, and the indigenous Elders that mentor me.

    https://www.patreon.com/posts/21260746

  • Throwback Thursday: Self-Portrait

    [Image Description: A black-and-white self-portrait of Lukayo wearing a baseball cap and shirt that is falling off one shoulder to reveal the strap of an under-shirt. They have long hair on one side. Half of their face has facial hair, and the other half is shaved. The drawing has the word “SELF-PORTRAIT” at the top, and their signature in English and basahan/baybayin on the bottom.]

    Self-Portrait (Original 2006; Revised 2018)

    Ako si Lukayo

    And I am searching for the equation in the centre of the dream
    I am unraveling the thread of modern mythological seams

    Sino yan?
    An anti-hero unsung
    Sino yan?
    A faith healer just begun
    Sino yan?

    An ideological disaster blasting capitalism faster
    Than ricocheting bullets from a verbal Gatling gun

    Ako si Lukayo

    I am a construct of your bias, experience, and dreams
    I am a congruence of light and sound that insists I’m heard and seen

    Sino yan?
    Known by many names
    Sino yan?
    Burned by social flames
    Sino yan?

    Your entertainment one-stop, on a soap box with a joke dropped
    Between phrases carved from fire that heal as much as maim

    Ako si Lukayo

    And I am making poetry my temple so that I can be redeemed
    I am a voice, a vision, or an SJW laser beam

    Sino yan?
    An artist just for fun
    Sino yan?
    A trickster on the run
    Sino yan?

    A 33-year old catastrophe, no apathy or atrophy
    But tired of this poem so this intro’s finally done.

    Wanna hear the rest of the poem and get a larger version of the new artwork I drew? Better yet, want to commission me to write a poem and draw something for you? Click on the link to become a patron. For as little as $1/month you can support healing work among my communities, and the indigenous Elders that mentor me.

    https://www.patreon.com/posts/21101395

  • Fresh Friday: Niyog

    Image Description: A black-and-white ink drawing of a coconut tree. The roots of the tree are entwined with a giant humanoid skull and a skeleton of a serpentine creature with wings. The word NIYOG is off-centre, with the “I” being represented by the trunk of the coconut tree. At the top left corner is Lukayo’s signature in English and in basahan/baybayin.

    Niyog

    There was no grave for me to weep over.

    His ashes were ensconced in the home of
    a woman who I had once asked “Who are you?”
    in the waiting room.

    She had said “His mother” but
    his photos and stories told me otherwise.

    I held my tongue,
    the feel of his dying body still imprinted
    in my arms as she took
    his remains away from me

    But what really remains?

    Did Bathala ever ask this,
    weeping over the grave of
    Galang Kaluluwa?

    What is my grief compared
    to a god’s infinite loneliness,
    knowing that the only being
    ze ever loved lies buried
    beside zir enemy?

    I’ve buried no enemies–
    unless you count the faces
    I’ve seen in my mirror,
    past, messy, dangerous selves
    laid to rest
    in the soil of my memories:
    my brutal behaviours
    intertwined with our first date,
    my tantrums and his kisses,
    my terrors and his perseverance;
    from this, our love grew.

    They say Bathala knew immediately
    when, upwards, out of both graves,
    with the winged and serpentine body of zir adversary
    and the round, brown head of zir beloved,
    that a new being had been born
    meant to care for and challenge
    the humans Bathala would create
    to populate the empty Earth
    the same way Galang Kaluluwa
    had cared for Bathala when ze was alive,
    the same way Ulilang Kaluluwa
    had challenged Bathala when ze was alive.

    Sometimes I tell my life’s story
    like a ledger of losses,
    more challenge than care:
    broken childhoods, dysphoric genders,
    stolen tongues, dead lovers…

    I shy away from sympathetic gazes
    — not out of pride, but confusion.

    Can’t they see that it’s the losses which forged me?

    Each a transformation unveiling a new connection.

    My Ancestors’ blood pulsing within.
    Their hands.
    My hands.
    Weaving new legacies.

    The Dead fuel the Living.

    I remember this, always
    when I search for what remains
    of Ulilang Kaluluwa
    and Galang Kaluluwa:
    oil on my tongue,
    incense in my hair,
    wood in my grip.

    Together, their bodies, and
    Bathala’s tears
    created the first
    coconut tree
    to shelter us and feed us
    to remind us in their silence
    that even from the deepest grief,
    even from the starkest death,
    grows life,
    grows the sacred.

    Wanna hear the whole poem and have a larger version of this new artwork that I drew? Better yet, want to commission me to write a poem and draw something for you? Check out the link below and become a patron. For as little as $1/month you can support healing work among my communities, and the indigenous Elders that mentor me.

    https://www.patreon.com/posts/20946725

  • Fresh Friday: To the Waters & the Wild

    New song and artwork!

    Fun fact: This song actually came to me in a dream from my Ancestors. I was watching a music video in the dream, and I was shocked to discover that the video was of myself, performing this exact song with a pop punk band. When I woke up, I remembered most of the words and the tune, but had to figure out the chords and title for myself.

    The title comes from this quote:

    Come away, O human child!
    To the waters and the wild
    With a faery, hand in hand,
    For the world’s more full of weeping than you can understand.
    – W.B. Yeats, “The Stolen Child”

    Image description: An inked portrait of a being with facial hair, darkened lips, ear and nose piercings, stylized eyebrows, a shaved undercut, pointed ears, wearing dark feathers. Above the portrait are the words “To the Waters & the Wild”. At the bottom of the portrait, hidden the feathers, is a signature in English and Bikol basahan: “Lukayo”.

    —

    If you want to hear the song, click on the link to become a patron. For as little as $1/month you can support healing work among my communities, and the indigenous Elders that mentor me.

    https://www.patreon.com/posts/fresh-friday-to-20845767

The site will be down Friday, June 12th from 8pm until Midnight EST for webhost transfer and maintenance.

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