"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. Ă–ijer

Tuesday, August 3, 2010

Hunt the Hunter





Dream hunters. An everyday ecstasy of time. The luxury of wasted moment and cigarette buts. Beds and sheets are singed to the owner. Heaviness of the pillow is stacking the neck. Strangulation. Enemies are lined up. Slow motions. I reached a new level. Crush and burn. I can see, how it happened. One word, and you are hooked. They talk in slow motion, blurred images. A pillow between the legs. Waiting for a resurrection. A cleansing holly water down the throat. Savers in the gutter. There comes a beat. Take the favorite shovel and shove it deep. All suggestions lost there appetite, I am shocked by your passivity. Just do it. He told me, if you ever would need to burn down some steel, call me. Rage was growing. Mixed up messages with subliminal white powdery substance underneath. High is taking it's low. One.... Enter.


Where is my AK 47 when I need it. She sings give it a try. Repeat. Squeaking sound of metal. Change your layout. Personalize. Indigestion. Have to, need to, must, should, maybe, somehow. Wash off the dirt! Smile! Smile! Smile! So in this perfect world of my, where ashtrays lie in bed with laptops, cigarettes and smudges of yesterday lipstick shade rad, I think about the time. That passes me buy like the bus numbers I never got into. Like the coffee that I drink one day to late, as it taste better next morning. About the little creature that likes to curl on to my pillow, here in the place called home. That soon, in 1 days, I will take yet another
airplane and fly back to the world of dish washing, emptiness and routine. And I wonder, how. How did it happened, that the information didn't reach me at the point of necessity. And how did the world that felt so useful suddenly became so foreign and unnecessary dull. About possibilities and things need to be dun. And so, as the sounds of morning violence are mixing up Pink Floyd "Wall" with "Isolation as Intent", it strikes me. Paperdolls. Road maps. Rented happiness. Screams of the pleased for force rescue, comes from the poisoned mouth. Price tags on the shivering fingertips. Drowning. Commitments. Puzzles. Wishes. Pragmatic.


We are what we create. First impressions. Prices are growing. Sick! No judgment, no judgment, no judgment. Good god is hard to find. In search of the instinct. Make notes on the desktop. Old icons are awake from the endless sleep. Christ brings me water. Never the gun. I see evolution. Don't hide, all is simple. The sea of used unpeeled dicks with the hint of prosperity. Requests, post codes, stamps, snow cards. Spellchecker. Did not passed the exam of human
contact. Inside the big thing that some carry on the shoulders, I have completely different scenarios. Manuals and dictionaries are not attached to the product. Colliding worlds are missing the meet-up point. There is a trigger. There is a shift. There is a point. There is a hole.


Don't forget you 10 hail marries before bed.



Good Night,
Sonia Dietrich



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