"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

Tuesday, December 21, 2010

They call me - Contessa

In my backyards and gardens where magic falls. We are all so unpredictable and charming. So devoted. We love - it. It is a strange creature that takes you for a walk in the middle of the night, with out asking destination or knowing it. IT. It is actually a killer but he works for me now. So that problem is no longer A problem. Even if it, that is that, is a whore. Lets just call it. IT.

So the journey of it is simple. It takes up everything and eats it up. It was never something special or social. It was possessive and hooked on speed - core. It as it was -is a pleasant manic. With difficulties that come in the game. We all play. So you see. It is hooked on caffeine, codeine and everything that can come in the same line of packing. Oh yes, and they call me contess'a. So contess'a has the it.

All that followed the beat. Nothing more nothing less. Don't forget the crossed legs and fingers. We use to play on the pictures of marry and the bible. The turn tables and darkened rooms. The smell of basements and deafening loud generated sounds. But you can't deny you past. Now it plays other games. As mentioned it became a killer. Makes other remedies and no longer looks up Marry. Still, when it hears the sound of . . . Oh dear. It just blows up. . .

The wonder. . . Silver lining. You see, there is no thing better then that. And definitely nothing is more tempting then it. So now - as the name is given and Queen bee had made her arrangements, IT can come out and play. It - is a signal. No judgment. Just works the way to the center between the lobes. It is lovely. NO mater what you change the IT with, IT always comes back. Sharp. Silver. Sometimes without a handle. Sometimes with different ammunition. IT knows... O, yes it does.

Just close your eyes and imagine. IT! Perfect. Flawless. Like a cave. The pulse. Like the feeling when fingers unwillingly bend backwards. Don't search for sense. Meaning. High education or energetic fields. IT is here. It has the power over you. IT! Prefect like sex. Like first kiss. Like that christmas present you where waiting for. . . all. . . year. . . long. IT! He is here for you. Like the look on the philosophy teachers face when he writes you an A+ and rises one eyebrow. That quoter smile. Yes. The moon and the stars. And all the pretty little horses. Unicorns and sluts in perfect used condition. Yes. It.

Can I tell YOU a secret?

Actually it is a - TRIGGER!

Be good, as mister twister Santa is coming for you.
Good night and god bless,
Sonia Dietrich

Monday, December 20, 2010

Code Red - Code Black

The framed words are freeing the existence of self disconnection. Mind can't rest. Breaking fingers. Fingers crossed. Have painted everything black. Nails. Lips. Walls. Floors. They tell me there are gray spot. Lies. Body parts look like grocery shop special offers. Christmas turns-on in the fire of splashing, blinding stroboscopic lights and masked passengers. Performance artists and acts of clarity. Mixed episodes. Cleansing assaults. Come over. Contagious.

He tells you paranoia is just a part of highly confused and inflamed ego. Perhaps. Disappearance of the contact leaves a trays. I wonder… Letter boxes and perfumed spots. Apartment floor looks like holy mayhem. He is scared of emotional impact. I am on the payment pass time line. 01h14m. Dirt. Dirt. Dirt. Stare down the barrel of the gun. Board games and fortune wells. Not. One above. Below. Chant it out. Tare it from the ceiling. Wave. Embrace.

Who cares for who. Mazed. Amused. Trapped. Never thought it could turn out this way. Breaking bones. Daily intakes and forbidden emotional holocaust. Check the light bulbs. On. Off. Fading. Sound of the poisoned moments. Move the hip baby. Pick the card. Pick the board. Pick the rule. Pick the ticked. Pick the seat. Pick the shoe. Pick the bottle. Pick the inscription. Duck tape. The shine of silver is so tempting. Holes. Looks straight in the eye. Abandoned property. Leached. No more.

Leave the paper work on the table. My little secretary. Note said: " you can go and hang your self". Bottomless pit. Rails. Underground. Metro. Plains. Windows. Safety instructions. "What is said in fight club - stays in fight club". Lets play. The happy gas. The happy pill. The happy mask. On the watch. On the run. On the go. Don't loose your routine. There is something more. Know it. Tasted it. Felt it going through the blood stream. Accomplishments and appeal hearings. Life has so much to offer. Pass on it. Poetic intoxication. Stop running back to old times. Code red. Code black. Alarm off.

The written word swallows it self. Fingers covered in yellow nicotine stains on the black liquid vinyl. Masquerade. Gift lists and swollen gums. Fingerprints. Healing wounds. Lotions. Potions. Special K! Crystallized. Crash. Book on book. Leg on a leg. Line on line. Pictures. Frames. Lip gloss. Blood pools. Match the senses. Frontal lobe contradiction. Shaking hands and fingers banding backwards.

Make it Work

Good night and god bless,
Sonia Dietrich

Wednesday, December 1, 2010

Between before and after

Post mortem journal take II








Barrels of the forgiving land stand alone in the blizzard. We walk the endless path of the human anatomy to carry out the goods. Some come up in the etiquette of the mother nature. We made our days by faking the information gutter. They keep telling you, that what they have is pure and simple. There is no turning back. You are guilty. Your are not guilty. You are clean. They are blind. You are used. You are brand new. They are perfectly matched. They know it all. You are scattered. I wish... there would be no end. Time. Breaking points. Shared sheets turned by emotional time bombs.

The taste is poor and richly fake. We are swimming in the endless spirals of the human interface... What comes after. What is in who's direction. Does the machine work. And who is deciding who and how to take in. The 5 is always equal 2 + 2. There is no turning back. Not after everything that I have seen. Shiver. The will is opposite to the connection points. How is it possible to conceive the idea of the human raise if everything is decided before you. For you and behind you. Stop.

The moment comes from the STOP. 4 letter that change the resistance for ever.

Intently. Why and who. The answer comes before the question. No more points are meant to be taken. The touch of the existing benevolence. The responsibility of the brain patterns and human contact that shows the picture - censured. Happiness. Management and pseudo management. The body language of defeated existence. Praying for the outcomes and the angles. Made my choice. In the vortex. Your move. Let the talkers talk. Nothing matters. This is a lullaby with out guilt so let the bird sing a pretty song. There is all time in the world.

The dogs are watching. Don't care. Made a promise. Loud and proud. Maybe it will open the eyes. Listening to the secret messages and sounds. I do understand. 1000 postcards with my life on them. Mirrors. Looks. Membranes. The screams of the inner mind. Anne Sexton and tequila to ... drown. Everything is simple. And the sound that has just one pulsating, high, clean hypnotic wave. That takes over every corner. Even the one that was secretly stashed away.

Coffee cup 17 cigarette number 43 and the hidden labyrinth

Good night for now and god bless,
Sonia Dietrich

Friday, October 29, 2010

Filth is our Enemy

Squeaking sound of leather entered the room. All of the surroundings muted. Nothing was left to observe. The darkness spread it self. Gaining and giving away control. Expectancy. Passports. Postcodes. Case numbers. Unit numbers. Fill in the profile. Fill in the questioner. Fill in the death certificate. Fill in the leave of absence. Fill in the gift card. Fill in the box with your name and surname. Marital status. Your location. You sign your self in, we sign you out. You are in our care. Rail-cards. Stolen property. Infections.

Answer the questions one by one please. Have you finished with the form? Table cloths. Silverware. Old plates and the smell of rotting garbage. Putting fingers together. Applications. A+. Dots. Partly in. Out. Mother nature is a whore. She charges by second. Your meeter is running. Dear. Unions. Lies. Time and meal tickets. Suddenly there are preferences and time limits. Suddenly all the fairy-tells where told in the sing language. Confused footsteps. Hemoglobin. Violence. Spoons. Forks. Plates. Wasted. Wooden floors covering the wrapping papers. Loose feet in the air. Prettier. Better. With a ribbon on top. Abilities. Instructions. Conspiracy.

What we live in, is nothing more, then a mazed survival instinct. Dictated in the kindergarten and fed with mothers milk. Today has no philosophers. Praying for destruction. Foolishly. Drugged. Muted. Reading pages of the dead man. Falling in love with old times. To ignore the meaningless present. Sleepless night #3. Insomnia will kill the living. Sand spills through the fingers. Tissue and ruined papers on the walls. Fire alarms are to sensitive. Insurance is not paid. No legal rights. No present perfect continues. A wish to find each and every vain. To make them confess! Keeping secrets of the enemy. To burn it out from them. Like a long diastase phone calls and electricity cords. Voltage. There is still a chance to let them out.

We are the one that strangle your kids and wait for the outcomes. Empty shells of foolishness. Wishes to change the body suit. Never intended to be. This way. Other way. Right - Left. Cross over. Last cigarette before the sentence will be cleared. Re-red the words. Spoken in the past spiral. Whore in translation. Put the shoe down. "We must use our brain". The sample of 2004 speedcore remix is whispering. Shouting. Kicking. Licking. A fist fight. ON!!! Room is flickering in motion. Shifting. Save the last drop. Before the santa appears in his greasy gear. Don't entertain the neighbors. Santa put his sack down. Santa is ready. A pencil. Santa carries a Bible. Put the movie on! I film santa strip. Holiday spirit. I wish you would wear a plastic bag over your head. So I could have all the dreams to myself.

Sniff sniff, who's there? Alice appears in a torn dress.

Good night and god bless,
Sonia Dietrich

Tuesday, October 12, 2010

The Resurrection and The Cunt in Vortex

The light went in to the sky, that fell in the ground with the biggest fall, human nature could hear. We spread the necks with hidden shining liquid. Staining of the bodies on the fields in the middle of seriousness. Synchronizing the strangler. The torture of the glass and fingertips. Mistakes are folding them self like the towels in your bathroom closet. Counting the seconds of dignity. Upon the sadness that comes to life in the other place... need for the grave on the forgiven and foreign territory. The satin in the dandy smile and the flesh of the vegetarian dishes. Nothing sounds as it used to under the big glimpsing coil.

Mud is washing away the dirt of tongues. 5 am wake up calls. War sounds and songs. Position piercing the wash-offs. There is something talking in the back of the book. Platforms. Did a mistake. Tear them all apart. No one. No now. Not with it. Not. Violet sky of the embryo. We have several hands to walk on. Don't breath in the same bag for too many times. Cowards. Useless, selling out, cheep, offerings the simple solution. If you really want one, pick the gun. There is no tomorrows, no today's. No time. No self's. No revolutions, no control. No words. No moments. No identity. There is basically nothing to go side by side. Territorial pickings and sleepless offering of convenience. Maybe there is nothingness in the closet next to the body. Suitcases of the yesterdays and after taste. The packed tapes in the headphones, the nights, the days, the seconds in the corners. Tour plans and everything that is nice. Manic episodes. I was counting the forks in the drawers and what they are able to bring. Thank you dear I am coming. Fitting the timetables to the correct colored scheme. Red hands following the red nails in the red fluid. Correct. Correct. Correct. Correct.

Bodies are piling up around as the moments of dignity. Able to count them self in the complete absences. Tasty tasty tasty moments and sounds that brings up monsters. Not enough volume. Not enough time. Never tasted it till fullest. Fulls on the street corners and tables. Strip!

The answer to all the prays lies peacefully in the silver locket under the neck. The saver is so near. I can taste him. Smell him. Apply him. Inhale him. So tamping. So necessary. So luminously freezing. So calm. So endless. The river of the return points. Take it in and give it back. Time process. The will to live. The untouchable. Drum machines.
Don't forget how to crawl. So many character's to play. So short in time. So much to offer. So little to swallow in the valley of the perfectly played Shakespearean contexts... The drama of the dead ages. Foreign student and day-planers. All that polite-correct harvest bullshit. Makes one sick. Uppers - downers. The strange taste of saliva. Coffee cup #6. Stir it with a pencil. Post-it. Mined the voices. Masters. First impressions in constitutional heaven. Old town building shake when they walk by. Sunglasses in the night. Control. Mind. Arms.

Bureaucratically institutional petals, where whores, replaced the ladybugs. Where is the openings and the backdoor. Popping cherries. Admission and resubmissions. Fingers in the mouth. Berlin walls.
Plans and maps. Road sings. Passing windows and frozen trains. Rail repair works. Buses make me sick. Theme parties and cheep costumes. Existentialist. Don't look at the sun. Nicotine is mother's milk of the new generation. Nosebleeds.

Good night and god bless,
Sonia Dietrich

Monday, October 4, 2010

Ode to the Moment

There is no greater power then the taste of revenge on the tip of the tongue. The the adrenaline rush that comes in heels when the enemy is spotted. There is no greater pleasure, then the reflection of fear in the eye of the enemy. There is no better taste then the taste of the battle. There is no greater passion the the passion of putting your foot on the head of the defeated. This is not yet the end. This is a process. But what ever it takes. What ever it will bring. I am willing to spread the ashes.

Framed pictures on the table. Outcomes. Counting calendar dates. Lovely whispers on the line. Ready to be counted. Presents and ribbons. The roaring sound in the headphones. They all have a right. They all have their own way. What a stupid decisions. Hes ok. Legs and toes. Five heads and en envelope in the mouth. Cut throat. Empty stomach. Everyday menu. Eyebrows are raised. 3 minutes. 3 cups. 3 tones. 3 witnesses. The problem with my situation is the hypocrisy of the man. A human. A box.
She said, music beats us. Dear Anne. You are right. It does.

Sidewalks packed with students and confusion. Faces in the light and shadow. Hiding the essence of time and age. The beauty of the dead bodies walking in the right. Chest goes up and down inhaling the smell of smoke. Left patterns on the wood. Grass is colored in the wrong luminosity. Ultraviolet. Blue lights. Stamps and shots. Bullets are flying from the the top floor of the sky high build bridges. We are confessing the inner mind. There is not enough poison in the coffee cups.
Metal construction taking over the free space. Reserved. Taken. For rent. To let. To consume. Flickering. Flickering. Pinning down. Supermarkets. Red mailboxes. The Ace! Heels in mud and paint. 2 meeter tall paper clips with illustrated corpses in the middle. Work of a life time. Work. Time passing. Trespassing. You are being watched. We are all stars here. No more B movies. Snuff porn. CCTV won the election. The best documentaries human nature ever produced. Grammy awards for the masses. Feed it with dried bread and cold water. Midget porn. Body farm in resurrection. Change the position. My god is on the other side of the camera. Watching. Waiting. The death of the battery. Taken by your naivety. Miles of red ribbon in the containers. Body dump sides. Music boxes and gift certificates. Helicopters are back again. Everybody want to be French. Everyone is saint and sacred. Everyone have a will and a wish. Be good today. You say yes, and the priest tapes your mouth.

Today out of all days we deconstructed the perfect machine. We putted the spinal cord out and tightened it to the door with out a handle.

Good night and god bless,

Sonia Dietrich

Wednesday, September 22, 2010

The Queen of the Condition

The whore is back. Nothing had changed. How are you. Where were you. Is that good, to much salt. Yes, will take you to the other level. Now. Tomorrow the light with be young and the rails will be moving.. Some thing that have been said are digging it's way back to the rotting brain. List of qualities that sounded as compliments witch never reached the other end before.

Wonders. The lost unspoken wonders of the world, lies side by side in beds, on the shelf at your local tesco. People, come and gather around. The pick of the week. 2 for 1 offer. Don't miss out on the wonder of this week. This month. This road. This body. She looks like a cured addict. Back rooms. We smokers, with the packs of prescription heaven, know the best way to do it. Dust. Covering the table, covering the keyboard. Covering the sound. The illusion of moments and sympathy. The illusions of the one and the two. Was it tasty? I will buy her a medal. So that the light would shine brighter. The one.

The move was on, the confession was made. The burglar is know by name and address. Moving toward reality and bitter ends. Anger on anger. I am the queen of this condition. Visiting hours are over. Moving ground. The simplicity of the tongue. Another month. Another trade. Another parallel. Another house hold item in the trash. Another time. Another girl. She will never be the one. It will never be the kingdom so tightly build. Impostors abducted by head masters. Impostors are getting the low to the leg. Sore fingers. Simple answers in the coffee shop. Yes. Yes. YES... yes... So just wait, till all of them are hooked. Till healers did the job. Till the turpentine will be my vomit.

Look at them. Little match made machines. They have them in-stores now. Want to dance on the table. Chemical peal. Sodomy. She wears a cross. Tell me baby, what are you doing at home when the holy is up and he comes. On your knees and pray for the holy father. Scarfs and sweaters. Pure white flowers. The god obeying victorians. No stocking shops. Where to indulge the addiction. God, help us all! Save us from the misery and suffering. Oh sister! Pray sister.
Yes. Pray! Pray as there is no tomorrow. Pray as this is the last holy you will ever feel. Cover the eyes with on hand, press the throat with the other and pray! Beg you corps for mercy and wish to be under the cross your self. May the holy rivers of pure and goodwill cum wash away the disobedience. Now sister, now you are healed. Do you feel it? How the holy is dripping of your breasts, your neck, your face. Do you feel the GOD sister? Do you feel the holy father? He is there with you. Deep. Walk sister, walk on your bandaged knees, as you are heal.

"I have lived many lives. I have been a slave and a prince. Many a beloved has sat upon my knees and I have sat upon the knees of many a beloved. Everything that has been shall be again"
W.B. Yeats

Good Night and god bless,

Sonia Dietrich

Monday, September 13, 2010

Vibrating Shades

The city was stolen. The castle was bombed. The sings of changes where followed by the fire works. Heavy head. Cliffs. Mountains. Oxygen supply. Black tape. Rubber. Black trash bags. Fingers on the wooden tables. Prints. Maximum volume. Ink stains. View of marching pigs. Angles. A sucker for sugar. Yes. Uppers. Downers. That's just the way it is. All fences are crashed.

Remembering the track "start the riot" . Halls of art school. Booze in teachers room. Darts. Loved the way shared arrows felt. Tasted. Who is cultural. What is clean. 9 mm. White appears. Leather shine. You'd better come down. Have a taste of raspberry jam. Tea is good for you. Coffee makes you think too much.

This is a meat packing district in a cute bow. Bow of streets and heels. Bad perfume. Skinny legs. Red dresses. 30 pounds with out extras. Make a carrier. Smell of acetone. You can drink almost everything. Take in. Fist. Skin. Post-it is taking over the wall space. I know. Red marks on red surface. In a red light with the red drape in a red box.

It is on the wall for a month. Finish. Begin. Preferences. Missing words in the gravity of electronic disfunction. Lamps. Monochrome. Taste. Salt. Pepper. Sugar. Fresh herbs. Love basil. Stay in. Go out. Bullshit. Circus. Leave it. The thought is the language. Every line is written. Articles. Reviews. Playlists. Occupation. Fill in the form. Fridays hit. 27 of September. Countdown. Departments. Bruises. Unit Nr. They say loose canon. I say knuckleduster. Eternal argument. This thing turns in to a echo. Discretions. Light of the morning. The sound of moving suitcases on the street at 3.33 am. Cleaning crew is here to rescue the street watchers. Clinging to the same song. Jarboe has her unique way to talk in vibrating shades. Sequences. Sentences. War of information. Naivety. Determent to see. Birds are back. Monitoring the language. Tamed conversations. Tired. Pinkish sky. UK is waking up. A perfect atmosphere for a train ride. To feel how speed of the moving rails take you to an unknown destination. Stupid boys play riddles in the backyard. Stupid girls try to figure out the riddles for them. The burning cigarette.

Had a plan. Inspired by old noir movies. A pair for leather gloves. Sound proof walls. 9 pm. When the fireworks and orchestras will play the final tune of this years festival. The picture was getting clearer. Finely the voice had opened it's vortex. Lets jump. No metal detectors. No unnecessary drama. A perfect picture. She was crucified. And so the story keeps on rolling. Need a fix. Tomorrow is a big day. Court will be breathing the shadows thou the spot at the bottom. No judge. Awaiting. Bring her to the stand. Read. Pop two more. GO! Instincts. The actor. The actress. The stage. Crimson.

Just hang in there

Good night and god bless,
Sonia Dietrich

Wednesday, September 1, 2010

Inconvenience in a Bottle

Passport picture. If i had one. This is the way water melts. This is milk getting sucked back to cow that feed the baby, sitting next to me. And this is a trigger. Will you mind pulling one? i am kinda busy. Cigarettes do not taste the same. I will call you right back after I come. Walking felt like egg shells walleye. Music here, people there. People where everywhere. And in the hand, there was a bag. The bag contained: Bottle of Jack Daniel's and post cards. 1000 letter meant to be written. Thinking of second amendments and silencers. Although, who can wish for a silent gun? Fire works make the population smile. Phone lines…. phone cards. Excuses. Days get shorter. Everything feels like vintage christmas. Tho it is still the end of summer. Tho… no, it is a first day of autumn. This is the first day when you can close the drawer with swimsuits, put back all the dresses and memorabilia, cause you know, it is over. Sick of the slaughter.

Food is good here. Come on over. I put out all the books and leftovers of busyness to pretend something more is happening in the golden circle. Slow walking motions and raising beat that pumps to much blood to the head. As it needs more information to process. Word word word. There is a sea of words. No, not exactly a sea. More of a puddle. No, not a puddle, more of a gutter. Exactly, a gutter of unnecessary and over used quotations and misspellings. Middle of the world is colour red. Beginning the trigger mission. I want to make you pull it. Bullet under the neck smells of classic 40's perfume. High class bell jars. Vacuum on the top of the playground.

The trigger for banality, as the passage of need for happiness. Human contact is excessively over rated. Or is it just another trigger to pull the plug. The plugging and unplugging is a historically compulsive event. Documented. Tho, if we eliminate the essence of thought process the only thing there is left is - the plug. And then I ask you, my dear and hopefully horny reader, do you feel the plug or do you prefer the trigger?

And so behold the holly minefield, the pulsation, the beat…. The compulsively overrated inhaling and underrated exhaling. Bikes and concrete. Chew on my red nail polish. Tastes like…. rubber. They think to good about each other. You are a good girl. I think about the ropes in the closet. The skeleton in the mezzanine. The raped social dignity. The supermarkets filled with essentials of the season. The pharmaceutical vaults. The missed theater halls. Unfilled sketch books. The genteelness and cold of the floor. The spill. Crime scenes.

"If i could be anybody in the world, I would be a professional Cinderella"

Good night and god bless,
Sonia Dietrich

Friday, August 27, 2010


The echo is powerful… leads the children to beds. Small animal walk the fields of soft autumn ready grass. No more labels, no more voice vibrations. All had wrapped it self in everything. All is nothing and nowhere. All is space. We get smaller. As every flake in it's own being. Mass murders are left for past generations. 100 years ago. Smoke tickles the toes. Mist of the dusk is on it's way. Sleep is an irrelevant, untameable being. Time capsules. Curls in the hair. Flowers bring the indescribable calm reflection. Numbers. Numb…bers. Skin. All is nowhere. It covers as a snowstorm. Goes deep. Stays. Blows out. Mist covers the erratic brain. It is everywhere. No need to think. Dive in. The smell of peonies. Most beautiful flower in the world. 1000 petals. A 1000 stories. 2000 characters. Miles and miles or roads. No more sacrifices. No more bullets. Just fields of peonies. Endless. Non Saint-Exupéry. Slightly white hint of crimson.

Fields of peonies

Good night,
Sonia Dietrich

Oral Fixation

Self control. The sense of usefulness and using. The ego and the ID. Pure identity. The super ego. The parallels. The hidden patterns. The wishes and needs. Burning slowly. The trought in suffocation not by choice. Skin to white. She is beautiful. The tabloid shows connected. Are you sure about that? Sickness is spreading. It is in the lungs, head, hands, fingers. It occupied the body. Every cell speaks, mumbles, interrupts each other. The DNA had reached the twisted end. Spirals spirals spirals... Blood group: AB (IV) Rh (D) +

There is no savers. Singing so silently… SO gentle… Will you come to my hole, six feet under. I want to hear that song again. Keypads feel trapped and raped under the fingertips. Nails. Dig in. Who gave me the right. Sometimes. Wake up and don't know where I am. Walking shadows on the walls. No reflections of the dream land. Church bells every 15 minutes. He has a weird car. Dream diaries need to find the place. Foot steps. I know. Edit. Delete. Swoop. Quote. Replace. Random. Target. Practice makes it perfect. Speed. Mania. Tubs. Back of the head turns purple. Blood rush. I know the timing. Shift. Intimidated. Swollen. 3 stages of development. Hallelujah. Bending fingers. Wire tightened around the wrist. Pressure. Relief. Stop. Never. Don't! The feel of power brings angels down to earth. More. Again.

And then they start. Looks from the peep holes. Spy holes. Whore holes. Digestion. Do you have a club card? A VIP badge. A secret. Bag. A stash. Substances. Memories. Icons. Bibles. Endless galleries of forgotten ashes. Mascara. Eye liner. Powder. Don't forget the bone. They are ready. No surprises. Not looking for company. Offers. No thank you. Go away. Get lost. This is the time with no pulsation. Dive in. Mirage. Recovery time. Skirt to tight. Don't think. Women's world. Push. Pull. Door handles are screwed off. Hate mondays - fridays. All the same. Differences on the golden platter. Tubes. Constant blood checks. Have you taken. Yes. Doses. Does it works for you. Make next appointment at the front desk.

Dj Skinhead - Extreme Terror (terror mix). Come ON! The way it was. The way it sucked you in. The way the basement had no oxygen. Stroboscopes. Strobe phobia. No faces. No water. Perfect emptiness of suffocation. God bless the rave times. The happiness of not knowing. The perfection of low experience. All gone. Now and today all is used up. Memories bring the sweet undertaste. Too much light. To much buddhists. To much door to door advertising. Silicone walleye. Chipped children and army forces. Ampules at daintiest office. Here comes the low. Time out.

Plug your self

Good night and god bless,

Sonia Dietrich

Wednesday, August 25, 2010


A perfect assassination takes the melted glass and puts it in the tub to see throw the elimination. The smell of autumn is already here. Take the cote out of the closet. Lets dance to the smiling cats in the fields. The grin has a rhythm. Delusional heaven. The rays of enlightenment. It is a cloudy morning. Silent. 06:57 am. Rangers are at hunt. We should hide. Walk by the rails. Enemies are in hiding. Don't forget the cote of the shadow play.

Delusions in the taste of maple syrup. Cotton candy and pink ribbons. Tiaras and miles of moving pictures. It will lullaby me to sleep...violins and pianos. Toes of red and strawberries. Raspberries and glass bowls... Mornings and numb stares throw the window. Lets take a ride. No emergency exits needed. Lizards will move in the swastikas swirls directly to the sun. Blankets. Close the eyes of terror. Welcome...

But what happens when the monster does not leave. When the sleep does not come. When time does not move. When every line is like the last one. When every word is a puzzle. When diagnosis are taking over the field. I have painted it all in earth colors. Never was a fan of fauve. Fairy tales. Where is the next stop. 38.7. And it just keeps growing. Pin me down.

The shoe size 38. A pair of perfection. So glamorous on the outside, so terrifying from the inside. Black. Shiny. With every stitch and every line. With every land mark. We open a folder of sounds and images. And tomorrow. Lets just say it never happened. There is no one to judge. Tho all is simple. If you are not scared to watch.

This was the beginning of post-mortem journal

Good night and god bless,

Sonia Dietrich