"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, 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