"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

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
Revers




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