"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


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.


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.... 

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

   starting a new religion with out a man on cross
or between the nails 
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?


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



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
Klick Klick
in their
Klick Klick
In their

Birdy Birdy
Klick Klick
on the
Flay on rails
Birdy Klick
on the
rails Birdy


Cry Cry
Cry Cry
sing sing
Klick Klick

On the rails
Klick Klick
On the


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