"Behind every system, behind every rule stands a corpse and laughs. You can't tell me who I should sleep with. I don't work for wages. My life is a revolution... My life is a beautiful life... What you call freedom, I call waste... I will continue to love my own voice. If everyone becomes me, everything will collapse."

Bruno K. Öijer

Thursday, October 19, 2017

Critical Theory of Self


Holographic flashbacks. Too familiar. Distant. Something is about to happen. Gain roles depending on day and room temperature. Non compromising praise business. Happiness in game of dependencies based on ratings. I like bad ideas. Follow thought. Reading charts. Feel the base line. Heat. Matching shades. Metamorphosis. Made house into joyride residence. Saved the ring. Inheritance. Facing 4 walls. Challenge your imagination. Dance with little dots in your head. Test lines. Can tell what you had for breakfast. Beat in. Line out. I work well at night. Feed the animals. Project your artistic expression. Scaring the outline remarks. You are chaos they say. No blood sacrifice. Free fall. Take no prisoners. Eyes closed. Tender vibrations. Connected. Suddenly. Stay. 


Look at fingers. Almost alive. Separate entity. Crawling on their own. See them as they play with air, communicating messages. Wonder how do they feel and what they think while attached to my body. Body as a whole is an interesting and complex paradox. As numeral patters, it all makes sense in the distance. Paints picture in gaps of white between the black. Ink. Haunting entity. Breaks in skin and swirls of markings. Hair and red inflamed patches. What is violence to other if not violence to self. Subconscious is peering through. See images, pictures moving in the distance eyes closed. Critical theory. Of self. Survey being. They say likeable. I pause in the gaps of their air intake. Watching movement. Wondering who and how defines the pleasure of mortality.

. J u S t l E t g O .
L I F e  / L I v E  =  L I V e D
L i V e L i F E 

Touch bones in hidden places. Inside mind that radiates heat and florescent lighting. Some paragraphs no one reads. Show no sings. Occupy mind, keep busy. Stay… Moving. Never surrender. Not a toy. They say they know. Cover up. Trains on tracks inside the veins. Swallow, overpopulate. Make markings known. Pierce billboards. Some things are not for recognition. Taste the rainbow. Has it all. Wondrous idealism. Hate in 3 variations of light. I dance. Never there. Can become poisonous. In case of emergency follow the safety regulations and light strip markings. Light glitter shimmer on the chest. Soft skin. Corner of the lip. Spoiled flesh. 

Slow breathing. Without advertisement. Someone is always buying. Thats how the table is set, with placement mats, swan napkins and variations of forks to knifes. Salt washing it away. Observation mode. Am towards pm conundrum. Low beat. Listening to inner voices while placing invoice. What are you selling off today? Fuck Cinderella. She snorts too much. Dick worshipping fun fest. Ride. No snitching. Tape over your identity. Dry clean yesterday’s stains and walk in slow motion. Hypnosis. Obedience. Violent friction. You excite me. Sometimes the best thing you can do is dislocate your current placement. If I could I would VPN self to oblivion. Watching fire dance. There is a rhythm to it. Each word combusted with motion. Pouring drips of poison. Entertain my astral projection.

Multifunctional pick of the week. Hologram two. There is no shame in addiction to perfection. Wrists hurt. It’s that season of the wicked. Too far, not deep enough. We observe disappointment in attachment theory. Waking on the flattened surfaces. Putting needles thought the skin. Adrenaline rush, ink. Meditate. Cleansing experience. Ritualistic joy. Sitting curled in a perfect circle. Recounting steps, weigh-in last intake. Purity content too high. Adjusting face proportions. Body rejecting itself. 
Maniac smile, deep breath. Step up! My brain connected all possible vibrations. Fire outside the clone zone. Tasty! Shadow play. Little girls in white dresses and baskets filled with diluted glitter juice. Rocking in my chair. Breathing slows down. Feeling like million little particles planning a breakout from veins. Pores screaming. Smile. A balanced monstrosity. Hover over tangled carpet. I am free. Seeing glares of faces. Poisonous Ether. The journey of self is a fascinating fuck up within the digitalised memory board. I require to see the engender on duty, as longs as its not the night guard. Gives too much hope, will lose focus. You need so little to be happy yet so distant is the shapeless glory. . . and then, reality knocks me in each temple.

Open my eyeS,
Table chair headphones hair face armS.
It’s not real. All not reaL
J u s t L e t g O

± p0st pr0ducti0n ± 

Playing a role in my own movie. Alive. Milk in the tub reaching edge. Noise from under cement blocks and eggshell tiles. Too many coincidences makes you question authenticity of events. Rubbing freshly soaked flesh. 2 lights in the distance within reach. 02:22 how long you been here..? Scared to get out? White walls. Not insane. Got my father’s heart. Water drops are perfection of same coincidence that makes me question your intentions. Reading between the lines. My intentions have no malice. Hearing conversations on a loop. Never know. Voice merges with inner projection of time and location.

Learning language and confusing self with mathematical pathways. Every aspect of self is co-dependent on self-realisations of today tangled in yesterday anxiety. Should have gotten that certificate. How can I help. Self on line to the blank line. Going offline. Your unique tone is what vibrates inside me. See you on the other side. Covered in haze of stardust and momentum I dislocated DNA. Watching distance. Somehow too far is the voice that talks inside of me. Not lost yet hidden. Have you counted your heartbeat? Swallowing smoke. Making circles out of chalk and charcoal. Know symbolism. Every shadow. I met the other that lives underneath the skin. Its an open invitation. 

Good night and god bless, 
Queen of Distorder 
Sonia Dietrich 

Sunday, June 18, 2017

Between 8 Rows of Hate or Algorithm of Existence

Sitting away from tables where one keeps fists bottled up in tainted glass bottles with strange markings. Your desire is to wear me like an oversized coat that fits too tightly. With a wet mouth you spew out words that penetrate hair follicles to blood. Sadistic games. No winners. Rotting flesh medals. Wish to carry my fist on a string underneath your neck.
See faces piled up on shelf of past reckonings. I remember each birth mark and each hair. Twist of a back, a break of bone, taste of cum. Wearing many faces at once. Spread of the lip, watching. I am always watching. Take no blame. Never hid behind a mask of someone elses promises. I have all my sins lined up, labelled and named. What you seek they ask one. To meet them all. Reflections and projections, squirt and cum. All of them. Pile them up in the basket and put some lotion on top. Never one, never one. I am a stitched in the middle firecracker. Pulled together by string, muscle, venom and bone. Corked in the arsenic vile. Do you touch the ground? 

Walking on the grass made of ash and acid. Not here. Pleading the 5th. Always pleading the 5th. I am an immortal consequence of your projection. 
Two fuckable syllables in the quote line. Making sense of nonsense is an art form. Crush the knuckles backwards into finger phalanges. I can go 360. Emergency rooms and paper slips. Receipt and 20 pound transfers. Not a convertible placed on shit stained amazon list. A perfect enemy. Fingers on the neck. Scar tissue. I heal well. Pushing every pressure point at once. I pay for everything in one go. Sue me. Let’s dance. Shattering floors, flaking wall paint. Dig deeper. Variate of hammer shapes never let me down.  
Best line of work in this business is money up front. Chairs later. By chairs I mean arts and crafts for skin colouring set. White to Red. Accept bitcoin transfers. Push me, I want to taste the floor that you hover over. Majestic. Non penetrable deity. In the world I lock self in there are no faces. I don't calculate gold possessions. Just make it count. Intentions. Body types. Stereotypes. Vibrations. I calculate the steps. Mess. Me and my SS/S. Secret Sacrifice of Sin converted to 101 on Recovery Mode. 

*  *  *

Staring at the blank page that as a sign of betrayal has a pulsating dash. Penetrating hope. Dose self up in idea of loss that did not happen as one stares at self reflection in distorted screen. Talking back and keeping hair parted in the wrong side of reason. Touch is not the touch needed but provided by a randomised option of rotation process.
Looking back at words typed that do not make sense. Non of it does. I wander when does time starts to make skin crawl into little swirls. All I can think of is pressing delete, but you cant delete the algorithm of existence. As long as the plug lasts.
Walls vibrating. Words half empty. What is the notion of ultimate separation. In ghost towns of smoke and dread. Dreams unfinished with expiry dates activated. Empting bank accounts and hoping for eternity in deLIGHT. Stacks of books. Wanting. See the lie inside out. Woven in paranoia. All see what they choose. Master of disguise, never opening the door. No one knows.
What happened when you see a movie. People change roles in front of you. Weapons and speeches. Nothing new to show. I love you. The one who does not exist. They say my soul is rendered with dreams, insanity and impossibility. 

Not afraid. Not afraid. Not afraid.

Keep your spine in place. Reconstruction surgery. Mind blowing. Pay-cheques. I care about your future. Your insides, spinal fluid leaks. Keep it casual. Sex. 3 letters of distraction and empowerment. Keep it simple. Keep easy. Keep it raw. Pacifism, sadly.
Knowing who one is has something to do with dissolving fingerprints. A tool. Mind should be a exchangeable location. Started by deleting files at random. Existential cooking for the gifted. 

Good night and god Bless, 
Queen of Disorder
Sonia Dietrich 

Thursday, February 2, 2017

Fifth Amendment Right Against Self-Incrimination


It trickles down. That is what they say. Trickle down economy, trickle down education, relationship. Psychosis. A break. A tear in the oesophagus . A collapsed lung. Non breathing pattern. You hide your shit. You mend your shit. You live. I promised. She promised. Trickle down promises. Loneliness. Breaking pattern. Breaking walls. Chairs. Tables, wardrobes. Hate machine, hate speech. Hate love. Love cancer. Love death. Love memento morry. Moments. Missiles. Massacre. Mass media. Mass shooting. Mass abortion. Abort my feelings! 

Reaching for bottom. Reaching for …. grails. Filled with rotten water. Fist table. Me. Mess. Me and your SS. Single Service. Silent Sting. All that came moved away quite quickly. Your silence. Tares like pitchforks.  Gentle massacre. But no, makeup UP. Face on. Smile. Lipstickm out of the contoure. SMILE. A perfect masterpiece. Piece of shit self definition.I fucked up. Let down. Burned. I am so confusing. Bitch craft professional. Confesionals. I mistreated. Burned and killed. Swallowed and spit out. I am a festive melted plastic. Shiny ornament. Autistic tendencies. Mind, box of riddles. It’s all about being special.

See through liquid dripping from eye orifices 
*Product Placement* - I am water proof jedy. 
A stone cold glitter sparkle statue. 

They strap poster to ones forehead pretending, one calls bulshit. Share furniture, plates, knifes and forks in circles and drawers. Future reference. Fruitlessly marching and keeping notes. Not enough support. Failing anti malware systems. Shall play the role of a virus. Watch the rash spreading throughout. Bury and poison. 

Perfect girlfriend syndrome. Offering support network to self absorbed ego. Giving acid reflux. Should be sorry. Me in my rabbit hole. Filled with static metamorphosis. Put the low beat on. Lets dance in caged 2 rooms separated. Cleaning dust from memory bank. Observing pictures. The *you have memories with* function should be considered a crime. Murder. Of lyrical repeal. Pleading the 5th. Marching hand in hand with vendetta. Rubbing of the mask of idealistic expectation one had for me. Everyone want to fuck the naked chick on the side of a performance van. So special, feel so special. Unliveable. Scan the resolve. At least i did not got one pregnant. But perhaps could with my vain pulling needle point pressure tactics. Wrapping self in plastic. Aborting roles and becoming roles given. I shall be IT. The poison one seen in me. 


Good night and god bless,
Queen Of Disorder, 
Sonia Dietrich 

Tuesday, October 11, 2016



I had a stone. Inside. Deeper then I should have.
Covered in tongues. Untouched powdered knuckles. 

You became hallow. Emptied something. Strongly insisted,
inwards motions. 
Then came the storm. 

They changed my intake dosage towards the downfall of chemical pirate.
I substitute. 

Look into windows and speak in tongues. Borrowed. My pain. 
Sustainable electric culture. 
Your frown painted in lipstick marks. Perhaps wished, was not mine. 
Melodramatic interlude. Paranoid exaggeration in syllables. 

I wish? I had a dream. One. Sustained. Focused. 
in me 3 to 5 = 1
my heart. 
loosing count of doors knocked and pages started. 

Many faces never one voice. I don’t feel like I do but then you don’t.
In me, there is a stone. Deeper then should have….

Serpentine and concessions. Looking glass and pupils dilated in the beginnings,
turns. Water fountains and fairytales changed
raw chunks of perforated veins. 

Hands behind my head, hand behind my head! Burning eyelids
Calculated minutes. Barriers and voids canceling each-other.
You can try on the nothing,
have a stone. Deeper then I had to.

In psychotic swirls of echo, screaming joints and broken tangents
licking censorship;
not too much, not too much. Exploding vocal cords,
compression, suction. Stitch!

Daylight brings the best in people, suffocating in polished petty. 
Who one is. 5 option with expiration dated.
Made all up, top that. Now that you know,
I had a stone. Inside. Deeper then I should have.

Good Night and God Bless,
Queen of Disorder,
Sonia Dietrich

Wednesday, February 11, 2015

± S T I G M A T A ±

Selective memory of blue flashing lights. From down and between gravity to higher level. I am a dead bird wearer. Your window showed me greatest tragedy and euphoria one seen. You are an enigmatic cult. Every face and expression. Perhaps. This is someone who could beat the grave stones. Want to swallow my eternity with you. I seen how you rise.

This is not a game of alter – egos. Reality is breached. I focus on your breathing.  In circle motions. Not a 20 zone.  We flicker and burn out. Dive. Destroy.
 Face to Face and Back to Back. Shoulder to Shoulder. Arm to Arm. Hunt ME. In visions tempered. By light and darkness. We march. I SOLUTE YOU.



 With open arms. Slowly. Silently. Throne molester. Lilies and white sheets. Posses me. Decompressed information codes. Carry the spear. Within the tongue of your language. Smells of burned flesh. I caress your stigmata. Drums and awakening. Nails black thought red. Bruises and bite marks. Meeting every soul. Connect me.  My channel path in chosen. In the middle of earth wrecking promise. From down under. Watching. Calculated fingering.

I am a working mechanism. A word play. Billions of particles. Trillions of vibrations. Destroy me. Echoing steps. Shiver of temperatures. Collecting dept.  Poses me. The shadow reflections. A coil.  Serpent. Climbing walls. In tongues. Focus. Sharpened. Non exhaling entity.


 Your smell touches my forehead. I am blessed! Open eyed and in transcendent translucent holocaust. Your touch?. Flawless. Climbing on a cross. Ruthless. Rull-LESS. 
In my postop scarification I am climbing toward the mountain heads. In crystal lanes through chalk deserts. Squirting holly water. Fitting bills of misogynistic: and,  including, in association with. Hitting rampage obstacles like a Tetris game put here to discourage. I smell pussy servant from afar. Feeling how sin as leather touches toes in warded towards your most wettest. 

2am is the game time. sophistication satisfaction meets understatement in conjunction of past precum. wearing cunt sings like a crown. 


Good night and God bless,
Queen of Disorder,
Sonia Dietrich 

Saturday, January 3, 2015

Spoon Of Arsenic

 I can smell my past knocking down on the door. The archway of your back. Fingered. Promising something new. Untouched. WILLINGLY. 
I am not good at this. Small parcels and fireworks. So pretending that it is what should be. Bodies sleeping in tightened circle. With VSR projections of time spent. In between together and apart. This is no sweet melody. Stepping away from want to give. Get. Then perhaps tomorrow flipping on today - we march!

Getting hot. Then hotter. Overlooking promised land. Are You Awake? feeling how alcohol concurs blood cells and pulsating dignity in the back of the vesselled up shit spread acute. Cute and demented participation. I am NOT forever. When ever momentum tangles us. I am unsafe. Black coloured perfusion. Inner sanctum spiritus. Dried reproduction. Blood pools and footsteps. Piss on the staircase. Hunted vision and reflection of now NOW. NOW! Want to taste tracked bloodclots and chemically enhanced cum. Land of cantaloupes. 

I am a wrapped in plastic goddess on six rounds of medication. Stitched in the middle firecracker. Licking. Dispensing. Reproducing tragedy triangles vision. My forever is your life long but my today. What side of emancipation are you talking to? This one has no name. In between houses. Daddy will die of skin crawling redemption. Tearing self off. Off bone. In meat faculty. Not ready to let go. Am I? 

Drink the approximation. Hooker houses of 13 horses in 13 months on 13th day. I shall not as I can’t to be beheld by preyer and insomnia. Choosing not to be, go. Let go, destroy. Needing a stage of sanctum. Conversing with the holly conjuring. Where is your target group. Your on time vomit passing, finger licking, eye burning pride? This is not a road one takes willingly. What is your perversion? 

Don’t promise me anything. My drain bottle is full. I washed my body profuse it’s own remedy and scars heal in 2 weeks and 6.5 hours. Numerological, one is catching-up. I can feel someone standing behind. Close enough not to touch. Silk made and mild washed. Outerbody. With prolonged hands and fingers. Coloured like old TV.  Forever in depth. Saluting government and making self into posters. Organ grinder with burgundy treasure chest. Can I offer you an appetiser? 
you are milk with a spoon of arsenic
peripheral projection of your won dream upon me
with blue veins and pink swirls
hair scalped off into preservation
watching me complete my dance
observing past contemplation of my scars
your neck line covering the boxed shape reality
i will eat your every word

i am shaped into a translucent vatican
wearing someone else’s flower garden on my sleeve
Painting with words our possibilities
with drops of I T at 02:44
where words are sectioned into brackets
fearing each syllable to escape
daring voices to speak in tongue
i loose momentum

i hide in shadows of your hands
when eyes wonder off into oblivion
finding self pushed into hellway hall-ways
projecting testosterone into common ground
i stand one foot behind you
on the right hand side where cold shiver touches your back
you remind me of old warrior stories
do not dissolve self in perfusion of time

i am the tick in your nerve covered muscles

how slowly fingers reach the never ending crossroads
between how could be and how was
but still
is the
the hum of silence off breath
heartbeat and pulsating reflections
i can see tired sick look in your connection
your glance at the letters, words and parallels
you invasion my talent that one dose not know
never meeting non given deadlines
i am in time - frames
of 92% battery life and timespan from one swollen stitch to another
i want to shave your body
licking each bleed
consuming the non breathable leftovers of oxygen
I am dramatic
how white on white turns blue and still
the pulsating dash takes pity and laughs at my short comings
You inspire me,
for sure
but if, this is other ambition
shadow matter with green flashing lights of go ahead
3 dots and a flickering light of 4th
having night vision between two notions
i drift away induced by soft velvet of shadow and gold
a chemical reaction

 in a hidden passage of skin

Good night and God Bless,
Queen of Disorder
Sonia Dietrich