"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

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


1 comment:

Anonymous said...

I have just left you a poetic response, which I have lost due to my limited knowledge of blogging. lets see if I can send you this. so much time and yet no time to take time to build bridges! Must sign off, return to my web page, and bow out for another day. and stop talking crap!! ps I like your morbidly morbid views. The poor pregnant nun looks like shes fit to burst, so yes cover the statue of christ up! Lin