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


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