"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, 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