A room of one’s own

George Eliot 

Presumably had an opinion

about the need

for such things 

A gaggle of girls
We’re gonna take it

Women have burnt like beacons in all the works of all the poets from the beginning of time. Indeed if woman had no existence save in the fiction written by men, one would imagine her a person of the utmost importance; very various; heroic and mean; splendid and sordid; beautiful and hideous in the extreme; as great as a man, some would say greater. But this is woman in fiction. 

〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️Virginia Woolf ➰➰➰➰🔚

    The reason why

    she faltered

    awaylike silly putty

    used to patch

    the cracks 

    left

    as after-thoughts

    in waves of

    After-shocks

    She could barely stand to peruse her persona, reflected cold, hard truths not worth sedating, etched in every fine line, under every harsh light.

    You are not beautiful

    she said

    crossed her off the list

    til the sting of residual glut

    Absolute beauty &

    insolent truth

    The modeling agency turned her down

    The dealer picked her up


    Feb 12, 2017 4:48 PM
    Build you
    Cock
    The hammer
    Don’t give in

     And so what has it all been for? 

    And who then “deserved” an answer at all?

    Especially if one were to consider the randomness of chaos some call order whilst

    others foist god upon us

    All just a smokescreen

    Veil like dopamine

    Absurdity so vast the alternative

    can never sustain its own myth

    YET here she was longing 

    Inadvertently all along

    A vapid, vague unconscious desire

    for something other than

    This

    with its stamp of infinitive &

    certainty 

    The writing on the wall

    bleeding down wax melting

    smudges 

    easily

    like 

    reverently 

    adhering

    to lies 

    the universe

    tells

    as the

    Moonscape 

    glistens 

    She had been told all her life to recognize inferiority as her make and model. Alas, The Veracity of that bold claim never quite sit, so she had but one other alternative which was 

    A room of her own

    By the sea

    Of infinity

    In the clatch 

    of doom

    The bypass 

    of gloom

    She wanted to know 

    but instantaneously 

    realized 

    how there could be 

    no knowing

    in this land

    of impeccable 

    lies.

    The perpetrator had everyone convinced his victim, years younger, afraid and exploited for as long as she could remember, sexually and emotionally, psychologically by a male pathology that, quite frankly, ruined her life.

    Rather than come clean, he denounced and defamed her further, to the point where she came closest to dying – cheated her of the truth & would have been happy had she, walking evidence of his evil-doing side, a man willing to ruin a grown woman’s life, deny her any healing whatsoever & then rub it in her face by having the perfect family making sure she never got to, was always on her own, the bastard child they all felt deserved a little less, was there for abusing and blaming, a  castoff, a throwaway, the girl with no progenitors or forebearers, the woman who got knocked down each time it seemed like she was finally being allowed to breathe, much less recover.


    Oh, what might have been? 
     

    Anonymous she is was has always been

    No one to remember her name 

    No legacy just impermanence flauted in the strangest ways of strangers waiting to unknow what a waste it all turned out to be

    A land of vast nothingness 

    for the lost, loveless and alone 

    What matter now, a room of her own? With not even the obligatory reverence reserved for our parents 

    The finality choked her up

    Trains rumbled down the hillside 

    She may as well die

    Than collide 

    with such bastardized 

     infinitude

    Erased and invisible she 

    lived her whole life 

    And for what? 

    For what? 


    The ways you ruined me

    The manner with which you consciously destroyed

    Systematically demonized 

    Then pretended you were better than me

    It is all I can do not to out you

    Knowing you left me for dead 

    And now everyone calls you a success 

    And brands me the  failure, a disappointment at best, called “crazy” for doing the job well while others shots down for being too hyper (slandered me saying “she’s on drugs”), too thin (instead of hearing me when I said I was physically ill, editors and producers said always behind my back – anorexia or drugs again). 

    And to be blamed by my last boss for something that never happened (after my supposed friend and coworker who got her job via me – cut my pay rate 36% – while having me work for free for weeks, meaning my worth was less already to these controllers of financial fututes) thus destroying my career, makes it even more difficult to believe my existence matters in any way at all.

    Just emptiness is all a person like me can feel – just sad, empty worthlessness- and no one notices much less cares. 

    Are as dreams that follow

    If it’s Tuesday, this must be bedlam 

    gud
    Dont axe me

    Acrosst the aisle

    A valaise for your malaise

    Malaria Jones reporting live from Oliver Stone

    The cock of gibralter

    The dame of dunedin
    I make quirks seem like quarks

    Die nine lives

    From bleach inhalation 

    While battling parasites

    Planted in my brain and 

    Spinal column 

    Cut the cord 

    come as you were 

    let’s wait and see about the “are”
    you can call me zelda deserved jazz or tricky not black keyes kings of leon ugh

     can we just get a comprehensive list of sell-outs already?

    Current project -“What I Didn’t Know” 

    Non-fiction “How a President Gets Made”


    [alternate: The Apprentice Effect or Making a President]

    Patrons invited to discuss projects and rights.

    The story is a gold mine.
    #WIP or work-in-progress

    Executive Producer 🎞🕹Show Runner📺freelance writer🖍fixer 

     

     | http://www.imuafilm.wordpress.com | Skype: katwalk65 | Los Angeles, CA
       
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    Please consider the environment before you breathe

    what i didnt know

    you cant have it all

    because we’ve been over the mountain top

    In fact. We sliced it in half, sold the coal & scurried 

    Home to our 

    Castles 

    Made of sand


    | http://www.imuafilm.wordpress.com | | Los Angeles, CA
    Daudealues daudelus dada less 

    absurdity knows no cost 

     
       
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    HIGHLIGHT
    Last trip with Dad

    #Was it truly 

    after all

    A little chilly 

    before the thaw 

    • She called 
    • He answered



    This was 

    just 

    there.


    the way 

    it was 

    As you were 

    far away 

    by the tine 

    We showed up

    Interactive narrative toss send off story 

    A girl and a boy

    Begin 

    The poem 

    a prelude 

    The Misrepresented 

    they have a voice 

    just never their own

    always politicized to

    polarize with 

    emptiness in

    return

    I don’t need this

    right now 

    if ever

    But

    still,

    it never

    stops

    Memories of Elephants

    at some point
    don’t you wake up
    somehow
    and
    decide
    NOT TO BE EVIL
    or do you
    look in the
    mirror
    and realize
    that
    what
    looks
    back
    at
    you
    is
    dark
    and
    hollow

     

     

     

     

    artwork by robert montgomery at robertmontgomery.org