My Soul Has Been Circumcised

I have been here sitting still in my church for three hours and can hear the crickets giving a pulse to the night. A moth beats itself,  to what almost sounds like death, inside of my beside lamp shade.  My breast on fire and blouse on the floor and  I still see that there's snow in his eye and his eye and his eye and also in his. I have seen how the great root of night has grown into their souls so I don't mind much that I have rendered a few hearts along the way as it all felt natural to me; I have the heart of a translator. A translator who has tried to render into common usage the high commands of pure energy, free energy.

I cannot help this and I cannot help them. The lost ones. I cannot help that. I cannot help it and  I blame it on the alter as it seduced me to become its magnificent slave. It says here's my stop. Right here and you know what to do, it's been given to you. It was a gift from the living. Here's my stop and my back grows full of flowers just as they grow silent in your tomb. And my body isn't covered in shame. And several days later I had four stanzas of eight lines each for the four hearts, which certified to me that I had received the Holy fucking Spirit. No thank you...yes, my soul had been circumcised with the wine of love. I, unable to weep, stretched my arms wide knowing that I no longer needed Roman nails to go into his open palms or mine in order to stay alive.  I and we no longer needed that. So this is for the ones that are dead to the longing, dead with hope, dead with the spring. You keep writing carefully sentence after sentence to make your meaning clear because I won't. My dress still has a thousand eyes painted on it like Indra but the art of my longings are over and they are never coming back.

Lay an aural of bouquets, an aural of  gardenia and thistle on that alter as it was the alter after all that seduced me into being a butcher of words, the butcher of hearts that the black ribbon of love has fastened around my neck and to this day I sit still in my church, this church that yes, I can still call mine and, yes...with all of this and all of that I can still love you.

Words & Photo © Wendy Rose Watson

The Giver of Worlds

the silent life giver of worlds, what is most important is the nonillusion. morning breaks, the wild reds, the deep blues, hands full of flowers, the chanting birds, my hands run through my hair and i ask myself again...why does hate exist why is the battery of the human heart on charge and why do we as a human race give in to hate, to gossip, to the small mind, the mind not of our truselves but to the mind of the nucleus that it seems to be plugged into, that mind in the box that calls to all the sleeping and how, how do you shut that mind that is not god thought OFF. i know how....that gift is called NOW.

the wild reds and the deep blues are thinking of you and yes it's okay to shove your foot down the throat of the flea that infects, do it ...do that blood sucking pin pricked entity justice now, turn your head while rising your voice and look to the light as darkness has been too far and too long...you owe that to yourselves. yes. this is the gift called NOW.

The Butcher of Love

Only do things that feel good to you as I genuinely think no one’s going to be fucking interested in you and you surely aren't going to be interested in yourself or others, otherwise. We are what we create and evolve to be. Bring the haunt on and kiIl the butler; be the butcher, the butcher of LOVE.

Words©Wendy Rose Watson 

And I Wear This Coat of Arms

My favorite things: A pack of wolves, the flight of birds on their winged migration. Womens voices that are not afraid of shaking...till death do us part! A pack of loose leaf tobacco with a bit of fire to start the smoking, the burn. Soldiers of love. The fragrance of honey, wood, orange and amber entwined together. Frida Kahlos' passionate handwriting.  Songs of Love and Hate by Leonard Cohen. A black dress with a soundtrack. Black mascara lined with pink tinged thoughts. A hell of a capture without setting a trap.  Thinking, saying "Thank You" to those who are thinking.  A light in the darkness. A darkness in the light. Ecstasy not produced from a tablet, because I know it lives within. The garden. The conjuring from my own penning. Raindrops on roses, I am the rose and I've felt the rain, here it comes again.  Maps of courage and the lingering of love inside from all the in-betweens yes, these are a few of my favorite things. (S)he who sees the colour. (S)he who wears the colour with great unease, but with the certainty that all is guided by the “golden section"...yes, these are a few of my favorite things.

Words © Wendy Rose Watson