"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, February 18, 2011

Doll Parts






Corridors change corridors. Kafka's nightmare. The labyrinth of brain waves. Human nature. Killing the parasite. I am not sorry. The throne is ready. Walk in slowly. Drop them to the ground. The sea of heads. Hands. Thigh. High libido. No regrets. Perfection in the stocking. Ego is the mechanism that turns on the key to the engine. Running bitches - screaming children. Air stinks of erupted pelvics. A Snow white smile. Rotting apples. Destroy the complications. Eliminate the fool. They want you to be sorry for your gander. Woman = Dirt. Paraphilia. Off with her head.Spread decks of yesterdays cards. Diary entries from the closed governmental buildings. Living on the budget. Confessions on the sofa and erratic finger movement. Flashing pictures with the sounds of Prodigy. Occupation: international whore with injected intellect.
Wear it as a medal. Labels on the piss jars and blood samples. Folders of yellowed paper. Never stop counting. Division. Painted on veins. Not enough blood. Watchers on the other side of the wall. White coats. We are nothing more, then dirty icons. Rejected by good and painted with filth and dirt.




The conversation of the morning concentrated on and around religion. God. Churches. Past and future collapsing in to one. We are possessed. Scattered and sucked with a betting, like the demon in the soul. The remedy is temporary. In scarfs as bondage. Cold in smoke. We, women of the past and present. The passengers of illness. We are what they fear - we are what they hate. We - the reflection. We are alive. And we are dead.



TV always shows the same picture. One of the reasons box is burned. I can hear it. High tone of transmission. The switch is off. In parallels. Your head is full with wonders, the man tell me. Smoking throw fingers, dancing in the fog. Electrified perimeter. "I am your new captain!" sample. sample. sample. Dressed in line. Red light. W.Blake paintings in the mind.
So there he is: "Listen, Little Men!" The brilliance of simplicity never leaves. Reads like a lullaby. Paper touched with blood and effort. Anger, frustration and dignity. The voice of the man of wisdom.



The human.




So there rests the crown. On metal bed in room 2 x 2 x 4. Listening. Counting. Breathing. Where is a woman there is a reason. Temptation. A man is scared of it's mother. A man is a passenger. We beaten the clock. We stopped the time - oh, so very dangerous. Freedom is given. It's just the matter of being able to hold on to it. To obtain it. To taste it. To swallow it. So go ahead, play cat and mouse. I will set the chess clock. Your move!






Good Night and god bless,
Sonia Dietrich