ON ART AND THE WAY IT NEVER ENDED (BUT IT DID)
This is the end of my life in art. At least I have found the man I was looking for. It is Spring. It is the Spring that I have waited for. In my head we are living in a suite on the fifth floor of the Chateau Marmont in Hollywood. He is more handsome than Clark Gable or Carey Grant. Except for the fear of losing him I have no complaint. I have not been denied the full measure of beauty. Nights and mornings we kiss each other. The feathery palms rise through the smog. The curtains stir. The traffic moves on Sunset over painted arrows words and lines. It is best not even to whisper about this perfection. This is the end of my life in art. I am drinking Eye of the Hawk, a drink I found in the local grocery here. It seems to be the full measure for me right now. I have not been denied the full measure. It happened as I approached my forty- second birthday. Beauty and love were granted to me in the form of a man. He wears silver rings of death on each finger just as I have instructed him to. I am happy with my luck. Even if he goes away I will say to myself, I have not been denied the full measure of beauty and yet when he lowers himself onto my mouth I feel such a measure of doom. There is a pyramid upon my breast. I want to change blood with him. I want to stop staring. I want to promise myself something. I want his death. Six-Seventy and five. Ruined in Los Angeles. I want to die in his arms and leave him. I was always ready to drive him to the nearest airport and say goodbye. He started his exercises today, he knew he'd need some muscle. Everyone except I knew he was in pain. All this junk about the gangsters of love and still today I become emotional whenever I put on my lace blouse and he comes again into my arms and there is no death because he is my image of beauty and in a flash all the words were rearranged and double-took just to suit us just like second hand clothes, a sacrificial child and an ordinary face like mine, mocking everything called Hollywood. And I really should start pouring hard turpintine on my liver again...but I won't.
Words © Wendy Rose Watson
Art- Family of acrobats with monkey, pablo picasso, rose period
Tuesday, April 15, 2014
We cry out for what we have lost. We embrace the containing words. Two hundred tongues and sixty six white violets for all memories that were not a blur. And no one knew where the night was going and no one knew when it would end. And no one knew what would happen next not even the howling wind. And I have begun to long for you and how you kissed my body ripe because I remember that the night has no terrors for the one who lWe cry out for what we have lost. We embrace the containing words. Two hundred tongues and sixty six white violets for all memories that were not a blur. And no one knew where the night was going and no one knew when it would end. And no one knew what would happen next not even the howling wind. And I have begun to long for you and how you kissed my body ripe because I remember that the night has no terrors for the one who lays down wearing white. So I have kept nothing for myself, Mary Magdelene was not a whore. Beauty is everywhere distilled out of hard times and it thickens the faculties of my sword. And this is not a memory of what I deserve nor a story on the wages of some war. It's the perfection. It's the destruction. It's the bloom. It's the fade. It's the rose. It's the woman. It's just me ripping my heart out again. It's just me and my confident effortless allure. It's just another blurred memory. It's just a root as I praise creation joyously and Mary Magdelene was not a whore.
Words © Wendy Rose Watson
Friday, April 11, 2014
Long live the creative expression!
Long live individuality, emotion, love, poetry, prose, mystery, forgiveness, and retribution.
May you find yourself, and when you do, may you be happy, fulfilled, kind, and full of love.
I have a book coming out in 2014 and will be away from these pages
You may find me here: http://www.facebook.com/churchofthevictoraincult