"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

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