"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

Sunday, December 25, 2011

Inside the walls of my Gender

There is something wrong. Happening. The identity is turning inside this wheel that keeps running over and bumping into strangers on the street. Thinking about getting white walls back. Waist back to the wall bone. Yet again glued back glitter under the eyes. Just like 17. I was... hair became a legacy. Life is tangled in it thought, years and spinning carnivals just 16. My fathers face. Just 15.


But this is not about age or the looks you gave me that night. The catastrophe. The monstrosity of the wood printed on my wrist veins, after all... after all it means nothing. Top to the bottom. My period is sharp as an arrow on that watch you broke years ago. Blood stained my fingers. I was searching for you inside of myself. Between the walls of my gender. That look is a killer. A weapon. A ticking bomb. A line of anthrax we thought is coke icing on the freshly baked cake. It's a lie your lover feeds you with scrabbled eggs and coffee. It's all the one night stands, that somehow hunt you when you are alone and drinking for the 4th day in a row, it's 11 am and you just drank yet another bottle. Killer look. Look - killer! Yes, there is a killer in this room. Standing behind, infront of. Laying under. Sitting on top. The fight. Gentle.

This is such a fucking wrong place to be. I see sea of the left, the woods on the right. Finger print after fingerprint, that you left inside my mind is burning as acid drops. Like the faces seen in hospital corridors and meeting rooms. I smell of black orchids and cigarettes. Too much thinking is getting one in trouble. Sleep. Inside the boxes and folders, paperclips and office rats. Revisiting blood pools under the bridges of cowgate and strip-clubs. She liked my shoes, the one in a wig. Everything collides in to one. One breaks into nothing. Nothing covers it all. I guess that is the game here. Seduce their ignorance. We have too much to offer. Back to code red. 




Limb after limb dissecting existence. Oh, the sweet the bitter sweet misery. Club Misanthropy. We are so proud of our little battles. I am here to win this war. Everything itches. Not today. Night. Next time I will not be. Keep your humanity. For them who worship. Broken bones and stitched up privet parts. Dazzling and dangling authority. You are so lovely under overpriced glitter and starlight. Moon light. Gut light. Call in the girls, boil the boys, we will scarifies the unicorn. They already sell this meat in repacked tin cans. The iconographic white trash era. Your are the must have this christmas. The price tag of the millennium. A wrapping paper cover in cherry lube. Strategically strangled with mothers pearls.



Good night and god bless.
Queen of Disorder,
Sonia Dietrich 

Thursday, December 22, 2011

SELF EXPLOITATION SELF EXPLORATION


Bled black. Rivers of black chased toes, running down the thighs. A to catch root B and dismember challenge Y from meeting chromosome XX. Changed my name, my surname is non existing. Sleepwalking. It was the sea…. the sea that you conceived in the middle of that desert. So many different paths where covering me like snow that never fallen.


SELF EXPLOITATION SELF EXPLORATION

THINKING:
headlight off brain splits in two particles. ready for take off. the alarm clocks and signal. the ship is ready to go after to lands of the free. looking for the celling to take the windows. counting the wind blows. brilliance in the headphones calling. roads, roads and passengers. all walking towards the wall. boys in suits of dead and skinner alive labs and ships. their babies burning in the duchess hot-pots.

slowly in the morning, the corporate slave consumes the finger printed hooks. the questioned lingered toward the floor board carvings. paranoia is defeated. all is perfect in silent moment of forgotten heaven. it's a good fucking day.

A-Man _ AMAN


someone becomes an island. 
prayers have a gender. 
my interaction suddenly poisoned me
the conceiver
the eater
the killer
the hunter
the user

use the user 
hunt the hunter
kill the killer
eat the eater
conceive the conceiver 

the ones of tomorrow and yesterday have no today
a very smart person told me not to seek happiness in the same place twice
recently i remember it more and more
but doesn't it makes this world even smaller?

you made me in to a wire of fairy light
the darkness in you is deadly
the surfacing bodies hit the sea shore 
i collect pebbles and bones

white is the most terrifying color of all, it bring the reminder of our own dirt and filth that we carry around with us. the erect resurrections of iconographic masturbation. going underwater, there only there i can forget about the sound... hunting. lurking under the bed. in staircases of someones foolishness. why is it so important to become a part of.... 
THEM

childishly banale things are the most honest things there are left
as we poisoned everything else
to be tough and painless 

SELF EXPLOITATION 
SELF EXPLORATION 
   starting a new religion with out a man on cross
or between the nails 
wood 
inside 
of 
between the legs 
of the woman that he fears
this addiction to normality is the biggest sin 
and the worst conviction


not hiding the scarlet A


Touch your self...
Good night and bod blesses
Queen of Disorder
Sonia Dietrich 

Saturday, December 10, 2011

a Tale about Social Context




Wanted to show you my wonderland and burn their disneyland. Someone left me with fingerprints on the neck muscles. And why do I need to hear what you have to say. Exactly. Straight to the point. Vanity. Narcissism. Ideology. Incurably idealistically romantic. Pessimistically raped. Overwhelmingly banned. Peacefully incompetent. Emotionally divided. Drastically loving. Restlessly observing. So very dangerous. Socially incompetent. Overwhelmingly hoping. An addict to connect. To surface. Alcoholicly abusive. Essentially forgiven. Sacredly intolerable. Insegnifucultly vain. Digestively incompetent. Ready to exhale. Planing till the end of time. Playful. Sacred. Religiously forsaken opiate worshiper. Is that all we have to offer? To each other own addiction. Human content. Overate.




Whoring my self to TIME. Time is a whore. Each night a different fantasy. Passenger. Dildo. Yes. Good. Management. All about time. Planing. Watch the psycho go… round and round in circles. Spin the body in corners. This lovely addiction is like a bullet freshly squeezed from the barrel. We can take your every last drop. COME ON! More, in the spot light. So sinless. It's all about fun. Isn't it? Preaching to the converted. Again….and again….and AGAIN. Come on baby, show me what you got. Selling the interface. We play it so well. No more torture for the gifted. Let me chain you to the toilet seat. Your inner tamale is so inviting. Push my hight limit. Every time is more. Every time. HARDER. I cum watching you dying. The evil we invite. Insomnia. There is no time for resurrection. We swallow. Have a cookie. Do we need to pray now?



timetimetimetimetimemymymytimetimetimetimetimetimewhorewhorewhorewhore



What is the word and content limit of emotional openness. In conversation. Revealing too much - enough? To the point. Off the subject. Around the edges. Watch out for the rough corners. Edges. Plastic surgery addiction - the rib cage maniac. Time lines. Word count per conversation. What is the correct dose of: Positive/Negative/Personal/Sexual.

When is the time to put in a little discount. If in person. Of person. Under a person. Between the stocking lines on the recently burned flesh. Skin. Touch. What is the alcohol limit. Drug limit. High limit. Contact limit. Eye contact limit. Exposure limit. Exhale limit. Drowning limit. Corkscrew limit. Black dress limit. Line limit. Speed limit.



Insert the touch limit

here

[_____]



Night time is the best time to divide the uncontrollable, even worse, uncountable intake limit. In bed next to me there was a dead body. Out side the towers where playing light shows. Remember. They tell me this is not a happy read. Still cold and barely breathing, organism. Orgasm. Flesh next to me. Counted all the stairs leading to the gutter. They try to change the interface. Keep putting in remarks about the bad use of language. Non fluent. Indeed. When did the forbidden territory opened the star gate. Non filtered. Saturated. Processed grey brain matter. Phone line - listening. Select on option. The more words have been read the less desire there is to stay sober. You are pushing the limit here, so you keep saying. How could one forget the fucking LIMIT! Your head is filled with air and you are extra extra special! On the daily menu in the take away place next to brain wash parlor. Milking parlor. Smile to the camera baby. 11000 different pictures. What is the best side. Flip open. Just like that. Top to the bottom.



Put a bag over your holiness!



Craving. Carving. Combining. Test result in a week. Watching them pass by like a movie. You have a dirty mind. Very tight...schedule. Virginity ranks high - sale price tags on the public network pages. Bus stops. Housing districts. Lets play it nice nice. It's so nice to be nice. All so cute and nice. When I puke just after, it comes out in sprinkles and gold starts. On their death bed I will be counting my dildo unicorns and drip drip drips. Lucy still loves the diamonds. Don't look back. Still in black. Postpone the bukkake session. ChooseLife - the post cards keep on singing. Don't touch the white - of the white - on the white!





If there would be a place to shuffle yore self under the dose, I would run for it. You go and play your game now. Leaving the clear surface. Not interfering. Choosing the best name for the new age daemon. Let it all go. Getting in touch with the heritage. Father. Why have you changed the game… I am still her. You are nearly alive. Forgiveness.. Ancient temples. Have a cookie. Break out. It's bed time. Sing the holy songs. And forgive the angels of the non existing heaven….







Good night and god bless

Queen of Disorder

Sonia Dietrich


Sunday, December 4, 2011

Birdy at Berlin U-bahn


Klick Klick
goes the
Rails
Klick Klick
in their
Shame
Klick Klick
In their
Filth

Birdy Birdy
Klick Klick
on the
Plate
(klickklick)
Flay on rails
Birdy Klick
on the
rails Birdy

Klick

Cry Cry
Birdy
Cry Cry
Birdy
Klick
sing sing
Birdy
Klick Klick

On the rails
Birdy
Klick Klick
On the

EDGE BIDY
klick
...
klick



Klick Klick


***




The streets of Berlin where empty. Wide. Spread. Cold. Wet. Dangling. Swollen. In the room there was a half of Chicken in the take away box. She looked innocent. Calm. Crispy. In mayonnaise.



Good night and god bless,
Queen of Disorder
Sonia Dietrich



Monday, November 21, 2011

Happy Birth Day to Queen of Disorder

Have gained a new official title "Queen of Disorder" and nothing more to add then....





You, Doctor Martin, walk
from breakfast to madness. Late August,
I speed through the antiseptic tunnel
where the moving dead still talk
of pushing their bones against the thrust
of cure. And I am queen of this summer hotel
or the laughing bee on a stalk

of death. We stand in broken
lines and wait while they unlock
the doors and count us at the frozen gates
of dinner. The shibboleth is spoken
and we move to gravy in our smock
of smiles. We chew in rows, our plates
scratch and whine like chalk

in school. There are no knives
for cutting your throat. I make
moccasins all morning. At first my hands
kept empty, unraveled for the lives
they used to work. Now I learn to take
them back, each angry finger that demands
I mend what another will break

tomorrow. Of course, I love you;
you lean above the plastic sky,
god of our block, prince of all the foxes.
The breaking crowns are new
that Jack wore.
Your third eye
moves among us and lights the separate boxes
where we sleep or cry.

What large children we are
here. All over I grow most tall
in the best ward. Your business is people,
you call at the madhouse, an oracular
eye in our nest. Out in the hall
the intercom pages you. You twist in the pull
of the foxy children who fall

like floods of life in frost.
And we are magic talking to itself,
noisy and alone. I am queen of all my sins
forgotten. Am I still lost?
Once I was beautiful. Now I am myself,
counting this row and that row of moccasins
waiting on the silent shelf.


by Anne Sexton









Good night and god bless,
Queen of Disorder
Sonia Dietrich




Thursday, October 27, 2011

Observing your Ignorance

* * *


So what is it that you want? More blood. More violence. More cum and cheep porn. More spread legs and fisting rubber hands? A dildo machine. There is no place to put all the rage anymore. How about I will knock on your door? Hide the children - you are going down. Freedom of expression. I am strangling my self with a charger wire. Stopped eating. In oramorph I trust.


Floating away on the stolen boat while watching the night consume it's passengers. Willingly and unwillingly swallowing it's children and digesting all that have been left out. In. On. Facing the undeniable distance and the upcoming end, we lay in beds still. Barely moving. Barely breathing. Barely dressed. Check the PULS! She is OUT! To many cigarettes and to little time. On the past and present continues. Where to punch the last button. What happens after you made your choice?




So freaks come out at night. Suffocated in their own filth and misery. To scared to fuck the street poles. You call me a freak? How forthcoming. Have you learned how to polish my shoes. Kneel! There is no way to engage in a conversation. Not interested in their "all too human" rubber bullshit. Anger is the language of the future. Not his to obtain. Have. Recycle. Woman is not suppose to have a voice. Not supposed to have a language. Not supposed to have a gender. Lay on your back and think of:


HATE

ABUSE

VIOLENCE

RAPE

THE NEEDLE

THE PILL

THE STRAIGHTJACKET



What do you have to offer? You hide and hide under your mask of perfection. Your tolerance. Your ignorance. Not theres to keep. If one is scared to handle the gun - swallow the fucking bullet. Pricks! Get your courage out of the bag. COME ON! What now? Did she offended you - while she spit out your essence. Are you hiding yet? Disgraceful fuck head. You are to violent they tell me. Blindness will save you! Open wider so one can spit on you. My tolerance level is not for one to measure.



...IF ONLY I HAD A GUN...




Good night children. Another fairytale next time,

god bless,

Sonia Dietrich

Through the Snowglobe Key Hole




A tale about how one was fighting
to keep
All
Unicorns and Ponies
in one peace....




In the land far far away....Tossing and turning in the bed for 4 days in the row. Now. The weirdest and nicest dreams come. Here. There. The land. Somehow I live them too early, every morning. Was never the one to wake up to the sun...but things change, don't they. We discover something in the fountains that one may have seen been left for dead...People are scared to loose their edge. Silly. If you do have one, there is nothing to be scared of. And if you just inherited one, for a moment, for a year - for 5... You need to let it go. It's not your edge to keep. Like a russian doll scattered and opened to 1000 parts, there comes a time to get all of it back together again.



It feels like standing on the cliff somewhere like Berwick and listening to "Fire on Babylon"... Suddenly, at the end of the track you can fly. Meet all the unicorns that they, only offer in chopped body parts. But why one go for mainstream suggestions and labels. So .... surprisingly... Just before you get that haunting last breath, before the take off... One sees that ghostly translucent image. A land covered in cotton candy fluff and marmalaid rivers. When nothing needs explanation. There are no rules or stupid expectations. Just a finger stroke along the spine line. Mary looks at her son with terror. Time is running out. Up. Let's play the resurrection. Morbidity is not the trick. Painting the pictures of lies and ignorance. I will leave you to it.



I guess from time to time the snow globe stops and we are obligated to look at the snowflakes. Like a gun shot residue it sits on the palms leaving slight burn marks. I am pushing the button to rearrange every stocking drawer. The mountains of tapes and LP's. The sea of books and post cards from places far away. Some sent to me, some stolen from a churches. Some given by stranges on the train. Some lost in public toilets. I become a part of it. A part of them.
And through all the cards and leather seats, light crawls in to my overloaded reframed bedroom. Speaking in voices of past glory. Letting go of the past. Calmly watching the present. Have never welcomed mornings before.... Something ends. Something begins. Just this time, there is no self torturing agony. It all evaporated like the moments and the hunting memories. Leaving a trace on the shelfs above the coffee maker and the old bureau desk I fell in love with.





I scattered the snow flake residue on your bedroom floor. With out caring how the univers is turning. The only thing that matters is what flickers at this very moment. And so far, it the light of morning turning in to day, after two cups of coffee, 7 cigarettes and couple pills - it still looks at me from the same angle. Telling all one needs to know. In fake fur of leopard, marching to take over the world. Someone keeps on smiling. No one stands in the corner any longer. 1. 2. 11. 21. 25. GO!





* * *

"And maybe I'll find me a sailor
A tailor
And maybe together we'll make mother well
So I got me some horses
To ride on, to ride on
As long as your army
Keeps perfectly stil
l"




Good night and god bless,
Sonia Dietrich

Saturday, September 10, 2011

Modern Paraphilia Bride

A modern day Romance


In a modern day town


With a modern day values


Modern bride. With cum on her upper lip. Dressed in absence. Touching her own shoulders. Counting stockings and corsets. In line sitting in the train. Time. 2 down 3 to go. Dividing attention. How did it happened. That every second becomes blissful torture. Spring lambs already eaten. Mental Health assistance is offering jobs for someone with proper "education" in the situation given. Meaningfully indicating that all is for-granted. Application forms and secondary emotional context. Someone puts someone out of misery. Fingers are tapping the rhythm of borderline conjunction. Bipolar squirting. Step away from the penis. Mind was whispering… Not a nice girl. No. No. Don't introduce to your mother. Stone he while it's not to late. No prosecution.


A modern act of emancipation


Harder. Longer. Stronger! There is no title for morbidity. One is triggering the outline, other is putting out fires. High pitched noise goes straight to the neurons firing chemical imbalances. You see, all is pretty simple. If lay down and stay down is a modern rule of disconnection. Then somehow, someone needs to just - KNEEL! In the corner that was picked by a specialist and his maid. I forgot to pack mascara. There will be an emotional massacre. For them once standing in line for the better future. 7 men and one bottle of beer. The Alpha male has just reached his stinking primer number. Dissatisfaction had filled the air with the stink of metal cans. It's better to fall, then to have no destination. Little houses with same colored curtains and lullabies. Abandoned factories of past glory. KNOW YOUR ENEMY! The Chernobyl generation. We where suppose to be unborn. CUT out. They where meant to get rid of us. I was a lucky pick. Over abortion time. So my mother was ALOWD to keep me. funny, isn't it?



For a modern day bride


18 months of reassuring tapping on the back. Red circles in the water frames and vanilla scented air fresheners that bring back taste of others. Before. Past tenses and tense muscles. Where are the publicized manual one speculated about. For some time now. Background keep changing. Red stockings left their charm. Black becomes the favorite non color in the colored land. Every night there is a scratching from under the floor boards. Every morning there is resentment for the clock.



A modern day prison



For a moden day mind


Touch your self. Don't look down. My body's an ocean. It gets lighter and lighter. Coma came to me from down and under. In the end of the day its not about the stars, or the sun, or the glitter I ofter mention. The seconds of emancipation. Coming back on the walls of pleasure and reassurance. They say birds sing a pretty song. It reminds me of funerals and over populated cemeteries. And birds are screaming. There is no escaping the sound. Like fire alarms, they are everywhere. Like privet abortions in the 50's in basements of clinics. It's funny how limited our emotional responses can be. Don't speak, don't scream, don't rase your voice, keep quiet, a month gag is probably most popular item to buy online, a woman wants to be choked, a man wants to dominate - to be dominated. I want die while cuming. God is not on our side. God shut him self in the public toilet in the underground while fucking a crack whore… and there is no shame in that!


Christians where still singing. It was still raining.

I was remembering
Her.



Good night and god bless,
Sonia Dietrich

Thursday, August 4, 2011

Seconds After Life


On the phone, so far away. Light a candle. Positive - negative tests. Are you praud of me. Now. Yesterday. Forever...? Break in half. Easier to consume. I am an Easter witch. Glitter on the television. Parents house. Trapped. Spin the lashes sideways. Not quite here. Diagnostically. Forbidden. Not approved. I smell smoke. Are you knocking on her door. Don't want to know. Will break the fingers one by one. Hide the body. Tomorrow. They will know. Today, I am sacred.



Just Play Dead

Just Play Life

Just give in. One spiking noize signal. Decay. In plastic. Underwater. Touch it. So much hate. Inside the walls. Have nothing in between. Should watch the other way. Technically dead for almost 2 minutes. Violent. Watching. More. So much potential. Take it.


Just Play God


Not enough temples. Don't fit the profile. Tiredly. Breathing. Covering your tracks. Tired of playing. Just don't come clean. No one votes for truth. Ever. Fever. So many burned paper licks. Counting clock ticks. X rays of purity. Happiness is not cheap. Scratch that smile off. Rearrange my chooses. This is the place for slow motion entrance and Mozart "Requiem". Swallowing the tube of enlightenment. Time out, part two. Back on Absinthe. Past in the future. To late of enhancement. Leftovers of my face on tissues, scattered on levitating ground. It's time. Bigbrother screen is recording decay. The fall and the immortal high. Don't lift it. Feels comfortably wet. Your my big red with out a package. Just bring in the flesh. Nothing can surprise me anymore. Your committed. Oh YES! Vomiting angel dust in the holy water fountains at your church. And the rates are UP! Inject me with your honesty. Just don't be greedy. I can take it all. So understanding, a purification specialist. Your world of genius. right. left. So shes the Mary and someone is a whore. Right? Yes!..



Just Play Time

Don't worry. I will keep in quite. Swollen. Thank you for the warring. Don't worry. Still purely unusably comforting. Bring in the anesthetic! She's still alive. What a tragedy. The pulse is so misleading. And so, the church bells kept on playing. Pedophiles where getting a peace of sacred body, a gentle glance at the leading man. Sun shined and all the birds where served for the lovely family dinners. Boys where still picking their noses and girls where still playing with the forbidden dirty parts. All is good in heaven. No one is missing. And her... the lovely young body is floating somewhere in the Neris, waving to Jesus. Holding tight to sacred stash and bags of someones cum from the pre-genetically modified holocaust era.



The curtain dropped. Theater was empty. Silencer had won the war again.



Good night and god bless,
Sonia Dietrich

Sunday, July 31, 2011

From the abandon hooker hotel


My stomach is feeding the work inside. out. brain. Determination of the sidewalkers. All around this fucking city. Frustrated fingertips. Anger. Dildo machines and queen pose - screwed form behind. I can feel the same barrel inside. Death and the rest of this glory can binge. Coming from behind. You sneak in, come with unknown diamonds. Hard! do it again. Lamp. Sugar. Salt. Kneel. Someone speaks. Don't know this voice. Bed is white. A hotel engine. Lock me in the boiler room!


They walk in corridors here. Fleshless. What happened to a woman? She looks like an anorexic man with out a dick. How can you fuck something who's bones leave scars on your so precisely modified torso. Don't move. Let go. I love you. She is scared of me. I watch her undress. He is on the line. I licked of fairy dust from credit cards someone left behind. Here. In this hotel. Where one bed takes over space of refuge. Open wide. You have a big mouth. Spit in it. Fluid covered face indicates rejuvenation. Bend the stick - wake up the sick! Hips. Legs. Wider. Letters. Some run backwards. On broken hills. Different colored boots. Living in a corsets and ankle cuffs. There is no money in it. Fatigue. Cold as ashes and silent as fire - you strike. Leaving cigaret trace on the pillow cases. Child is born in sin. Digest me.





Watched in from bellow. Stripped them off. The streets. So fucking dangerous in little passages. From under and up. A wardrobe of human dumbness. Disposable heritage! Who are you in the end of the day? Still counting. We are animals in the world no one knows. I don't' have A problem. I have a problem with people, telling me I have A problem.
STOP. HATE. NOW. FOREVER! Stay angry. Be offended! This may the only thing you have left. So why not? If economics, politics and all the shit glitter in every black box or silver laptop, that is filled with even more buy/sell strategy. When you become the shit glitter product, funnily enough you fight to be one, as this is the place where one gets his self worth. Just say yes. So why complain. I have no problem of being called a whore. Suddenly you are night in shinning armor and more morally and politicly correct. You where never locked down and pulled backwards. Never seen leather straps attached to the bed. Of course, your highness, YOU ARE BETTER!



Who where you so many ears ago? When no one knew the word - stop. When there was no escape. Will hunt you down. One day. I need to shut it. Toy girl, a whore. Where is the dignity. Lost. Consumed. Battered. Happy for them. Happy for you. Happy for her. Not sorry for me - drinking form the same cup I had in a white room several months ago. Escaping windows so that the urge to jump would. Dissolve. Discretion to fashion. Put rose buts between the toes. So that mortuary manager would paint them with his cum. We live in a snowball. A jar-bell. A needle park. The recycling era. Ambulance music and ginger bread castles. A brewery of tragedy and disgust. Yet again - Are we there YET? Pink walls. Where to buy it. Alpha to Zeta. To Omega. Take me! What is there to happen. In between. Some say best things are free. BULLSHIT! How could it be If, even free leg space in aircraft is a double price to the ticket. Natural body burial is illegal. Where the fuck is that free life? Better life. Pure life. Quality life. Tap it! Maybe they where right, from behind. Just pull it. Hard. Cuddling around the rental flesh. Waited. In harmony of frustration. Don't argue with the MAKER!





Watched you watching me. My lovely generation of shit! Where people meet boredom. True life comes to your doorstep. Selling freshly pressed holy word. You smile to the client that is not yours. You get the back of the black suit cause you spoke openly about paraphilia. You are ashamed. What is wrong here mister. Did I made you feel uncomfortable? What is his name, is he 15? The juicy age. Oh, the young flesh. The happy hour. I don't mind being called a whore. I mind being called an artist!





The more I think about it, the more it strikes me. Nothing is a big void that has his claws on every ashtray in the building. Nothing moves around in circles in the flat. In the halls he looks for used holy merchandise. Nothing kills. Hunts. No victim is to small for it. It approaches you with glass of wine and jerks off on your face. Nothing is talented. Nothing has no gender. It likes us all the way we are. It believes in god and resurrection. Nothing also fears you. As you are the only thing that marches between it and "god". You are an obstacle. Like a cop between the hunter and the client for better rates. Nothing is all - nothing is god. Impossible to please. Its frustration is deadly. It cannot cum. It uses flashlights of SOS signals. Shining at night with neon sings, on rusty walls in the strip club district. Nothing hates you, cause you can please it, but choose not to. Nothing is the doorman to abyss.


Be careful who you fuck boys and girls.
Cause one day it could be - nothing!




Good night and god bless,
Sonia Dietrich

Note: all images except last two are made and copyright by S.Dietrich