The Flower Inside of Me Refuses to Rest

I'm back gonna do, gonna give it my best and the flower inside me refuses to rest. So the seat of my soul can weave this new chapter to a higher awareness as being the flower. That being that was trapped within, a temporary movement or stillness and seeing the seed has been watered into this growth called given. Called being. There are new things to begin right here and right now. I for one can say that all awareness entered my unaware personality through crises as some sort of unspoken vow. I was not attached to and was apart from this thing and I call clear soul energy into my being. I had become seduced into the physical matterness of life -- that's not truly a part of me as that is not living. Then my flow was cut off by some broken measure knowing now this is who I the person was summoned to treasure. So I was cut off from source, the source of wisdom and guidence, cut off in many ways from the voice full of measure. Now to draw upon guide knowing I am destined to be, guided by light that shines from the key. The key that I searched for the one that was hidden, I found in myself finally able to listen. So if you are unaware of what dreams may come time to call the divine in yourself as the sum. That fire of love, it comes and it shines so trust in your vision and listen to the divine.  The keys to the kingdom they always arrive if your soul and your being can embrace the the strange blue note which is such a beautiful life. #AWAKE in THE seat Of the SOUL 

Words © Wendy Rose Watson 

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

Happy Birthday George Harrison

Happy Birthday 

(and onward journey)

 George Harrison
(February 25, 1943-November 29, 2001)
Love comes to everyone

 Not unsung

 And

 I remember the ponies in the distance 

And 

YOU

The beautiful gift bestowed upon humanity 

YOU

I know the day will come

When my sight of this world shall be lost.

Life will take its leave in silence

Drawing the last curtain before my eyes.

Yet stars will still shine at night.

And mornings rise as before.

And hours will still leave like sea waves.

Casting up pleasures and pains.

When I think of this end of my moments

The barrier of the moment breaks,

And I see by the light of death

Your world with its careless treasures.

Rare is its lowliest seat.

Things that I have longed for in vain,

And things that I got -- let them pass.

Let me but truly possess

The things that I ever spurned and overlooked.

-- Rabindranath Tagore, 1913

Words Are Sometimes Just Like A Hunter's Kiss

Lay her down in her gingerbread coffin
With cold blue eyes
Black heart so wise
Tea cups when the smoke gets in her eyes

Words from a lover
Like a moment of evil nursery rhymes
A jewel of a sweet water-killing
Floating on a lily of his lies
And
She asked him to ask himself to ask her again
With his eyes
And on the shores of easy
With a ghost-over voice
Buried in disguise
She asked him to ask her again with the words floating in his eyes

He said to her, 'i give you no choice'
Melting in the honey pot
Sweet lustrous divine
So she's the one astonished
She's the one that dives
She asked him to ask her again with his eyes

Like new grass on the spring
Wings cut off of the dove
She laid dry to sing this heaven above
New beginnings
In this coffin
New beginnings
How oh so, often

Mary, Mother , please Mother Mary forgive her for these sins
You're the one astonished
Calling for more...whispers in the grass
And
Violets of smoke pillar across your invisible floor
When all she can see right now becomes green
It ain't what it seems

Those spring filled days when this song played
Those spring filled days when wings flittered away
We weren't glued to the shelf
And their mornings weren't going nowhere else
So into Spring she fled....where she was long forgotten
No sin anywhere everything where nothing is forgotten
It begins in her like a lily flower forgotten
Just like a lily flower
just like a lily flower
Forgotten

No more lies
Daylight broke
And
No more green
The honeys been broke
And
Sometimes it takes a heart to break a heart
And
Sometimes it takes an ice cream parlor to throw it all away and sing
Glisten in the darkness
Sparklin like this diamond ring
That's been forgotten
Away on her wing
She's not forgotten
She knows what she sings
And
She's ready. for. that. break.
That break that begins again

So lay me down in a gingerbread coffin
And
Mold your cold-en four leaf clover eyes
With that deep black heart so wise
So wise I've been forgotten.
Those eyes filled up so with such great surprise
No more lies
Cause I've been forgotten

So you ride on your horse travelin there
And
This is your four leaf clover
A moonlight sonata cause she's so fair
She will not be forgotten
She has a song to sing
She rest her head on the green of Spring

The wind shivers west...and she's gonna find it
In you somewhere
She's got charms
She's got grace
An unconventional face to take you there
She'll win the race
Cause she's going down
To find her true love in the ground
And
A hunters kiss could never keep her away from this
Gimme A kiss
And
A hunters way couldn't keep her away from this
Give her a kiss

So believe me when she tells you blue
Believe her when she sings about you
And
Her bow is raised
And
She saw you coming from her gingerbread coffin
And
You left her lying dirty
While you were taking your time
Someone will find her floating soon again in their mind
But
Her bodies leaking through this grassy floor right now
And she's gone from here and left herself on these pages now
She's a gingerbread figment of your mind
Don't be kind
Cause she's always telling some sort of a story
She's one of a kind
She's a gingerbread coffin
A race you cannot run
Unless you've already been shot with the gun
And still
You should take the pill
For the gingerbread girl on the run
Cause she sleeps no more

from The Man and the Echo

While man can still his body keep Wine or love drug him to sleep, Waking he thanks the Lord that he Has body and its stupidity, But body gone he sleeps no more, And till his intellect grows sure That all’s arranged in one clear view, Pursues the thoughts that I pursue, Then stands in judgment on his soul, And, all work done, dismisses all Out of intellect and sight And sinks at last into the night.

Words © Wendy Rose

SYLVIA PLATH (October 27, 1932 – February 11, 1963)

SYLVIA PLATH (October 27, 1932 – February 11, 1963)
I hope you're still Resting in Peace, beautiful one ~
“Edge” is an elusive poem and if there really is life after death I don't know but if so Sylvia still lives on paper as a mind here

EDGE

The woman is perfected.
Her dead

Body wears the smile of accomplishment,
The illusion of a Greek necessity

Flows in the scrolls of her toga,
Her bare

Feet seem to be saying:
We have come so far, it is over.

Each dead child coiled, a white serpent,
One at each little

Pitcher of milk, now empty.
She has folded

Them back into her body as petals
Of a rose close when the garden

Stiffens and odors bleed
From the sweet, deep throats of the night flower.

The moon has nothing to be sad about,
Staring from her hood of bone.

She is used to this sort of thing.
Her blacks crackle and drag.

There Are No Words (only thank yous)

i asked yourself when you said if you loved me, do you think this can be real....hell is for love and heaven is for astronauts
 so i don't seem to see it at all real
the church door half way opened like a giant ruby scented ring
 the white mural of hymns that you are straining to sing. 

you  painted on me, painted ideas as you and all these constant strangers do ...you, yes you are  just as naked as tires, each and every one of you.....you of you and on the glossy rained out roads
roads that go on and on and on needing to be told ....screaming for your return like the rose does its thorn... your shadow touches your blackness and blankets you as your cover, winter is cold, its born
 but not here, there is no other lover
she
makes the
heart told 

i know my eyes and the love is gone....and then you come
and
you come again

the lover inside whose bleeding the lover whose flame begins 

yes, darling I hear your vocals and winter is my love too and I wish I had a river 

to conjure and skate or fly straight back to you  

words © wendy rose watson 

thank you to 'the diary of ic explura' for allowing me to share this sacred moving picture 

there are no words...only thank yous 

An Interview With A Ghost (or something like that)

white noise...okay... wind noise
abandon all hope...
what difference does it make?
just surf rumble...
seasoned professionals have time on their sides, no?
i happen to think they got this touch gun approach..but what do i know...

im not into anything
im not going to a press conference

proof that there is always a way, if you can but find it...

sometimes you have no choice but to go where the action is
make all the authenticity into a creative part of the plot.
talk about skyscrapers, the gale wind force, narrate the dodging of onions

content rich conversations ~ and he didnt understand so fuck him
be prepared before, during and after the interview.....keep a line out and stay open....
you just never, ever know what the universe will send you...sometimes blood roses
then sometimes an alabaster dove 

what i suppose i wanna say really is .... is it you that wants to be taken seriously?
or is this just another one of those sort of emotional weather reports?
well...she grinned....what is it that you want me to be?
there was a long silence and then we stared at each other....i never looked up into her eyes and i knew.....be it for protection, charm or business ventures there was and is a katha which can be summoned and I knew that. she might have known that too but what do i know? 

i know that i know how to do this as its just a way of life for me....she, the one will also fail and succeed and feel the same...she knows her name..not the history of the beatles or her zen name...but her name and so i write this letter and i go and i go...and i go on...no one knows whose talkin to who here or do they? and just for a moment she seemed to know

if you’re not into transforming stuff into art  just don’t worry about it  just  keep doing it and keep doing it… oh yeah she said that, oh yeah she said that, not me.... and then somebody said that once before, maybe it was me...it's in you too but you all lie in a superstitious fear 

why? why don't you just stand tall with our art nation?

do not be afraid
you are supported
as long as you stand
right here
right now 
and
beside 
me



words © wendy rose watson

The birds are calling ~ The birds are calling ~ Fuck YOU. 'ONLY THE BEAUTIFUL ONES WERE THERE'

Only the beautiful ones were there...
Fuck YOU the US of A for your passage into my righteousness
Fuck YOU men who are dying and think you will live longer if you love me in your way
Fuck YOU for expecting me to be of another time, with the times, or just out of time
Fuck YOU with our long honeymoon~ there's no money back guarantee of future happiness
Fuck YOU for never really seeing me
Fuck YOU for never really knowing me
Fuck YOU for expecting me to write you a  love letter that your wife would surely disapprove of
Fuck YOU and your ego, your thoughts of me as I am not on some sort of highway
Fuck YOU as i can hear the sound of the highway right now
Fuck YOU you love me, too
Fuck YOU
Fuck YOU
Fuck YOU ~ have we met before? have we met on some glossy worded path where we stopped like deers in our tracks...
YES.... we did, you ignored that...
Fuck YOU
Fuck YOU
Fuck YOU

You Painted Me On Your Door

My room is in the trees ~ I remember me and in the morning painted on your door, you call...if I could follow I would, follow for some more. Oh, these songs about traveling ~ lookout for spring... my darling. Look out for spring, look out for spring, yes you are my darling and you have said these things...you've painted me on your door.  



I would write these lyrics without a care in the world, I would dance with you be I a boy or girl, I would. I would write these lines, they wouldn't trace my face, oh no. I would write these lines and lie down with you in this race, I would. I would take it off, this silvery top of chiffon...I would, I would take it off lie down like the swan I would. For you....Oh just for you...I would but this blood on my fingers keeps me from the truth...I would and then you painted me on your door. 

Words © Wendy Rose Watson 

IT'S NOT ALL ABOUT YOU

if there was someone i could just step outside with...someone whom I could converse with outside while smoking a fag, someone that understood where i was coming from right at this very moment and then also later in the day...that...that would make this better....whatever 'that' whatever 'this' is. ~

IT'S NOT ALL ABOUT YOU  
Words © Wendy Rose Watson