"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. Öijer

Wednesday, October 23, 2013

Liberating Concession




I am too much decibels in syllables of information!

One dares not fall. In front off just behind. Can not - NOT be. Baring skin. Gently. Who is one talking to. At night so tainted. Kill. In. The parallel motion. Who do you see – in front off. Off - skin. Vomit, holy like the water that cleansed me. Bare self. Not barring but not yet barren.. Buried you did not. Touch someone. Outside the box when one puts ones body in punishment. I could not. Not – BE. Flashing screens. Devil inside. On. Side. Other side. Sweaty dreams and terrors of consumption. Forget. Forget the night. Forgive the momentum. SoulFULLy! Track me! Get inside. Find strings attached to unborn. What is this sound about. No samples. Of life. Irritant. Irresistible, god.

One off one inside. On. On top. Inside the building. Crossroads. Complicated conviction. Not gathered. Killer king.

Almost parasitic. Slightly. Poisonous. Watching her give birth. You knew. Did you – do you. I do NOT. I do. Do I? Not knowingly. Remembering. Imagining. Thinking how was it. How it would be. How it “looks like”.




Poisonous concession. Pretence 
dignity presented marginally through a repetitive patter of communication. You had it all. So easy and sweet is the juice of ambrosia one can posses on daily basis with reassurances not too wilful. I solute you.




Watching. Every second watching. Passing. Back and forth, watching. You!  Construction. Projecting. Constantly. Back and forth. You. I solute in decibels. Perhaps to often. To tainted. Where is the light. Swollen. Frozen but alive. Lively. Living. Infused. Influence. Not touching. Know you see. Remember. Relive. Her in the light of hospital whiteness. Giving the continuance of bloodline and surname. Not my bed. Body. Not! Why are you dong it, this. One asked. In anguish. Slightly paranoid. Can’t stop. Not today. But, perhaps. Tomorrow. I would. Could. Somehow. Where is the image. Imagine… IMAGE!

That one puts in every congener. Like an icon. Not to forget. But remember. My ceiling has gaps and cracks. Borderlines. Passports. Appointments and maps for 2nd of December. Stability. Being on track of monitoring and talking heads with pre-recorded massages. Of kindness. Love. Compassion. You will be fine.
Thank you.




I clinch my little fist to ram it in the cavities - unspoken.  Looking how far one can bend. Giving up the spine. Happiness. So prolonged the chemical imbalance. The casualties. Political. Explain me how you use your words. Meanings… Are you listening to the pulse that is hidden the underground conceptual hypocrisy. 
 Gender stereotypes. Have you seen the dancing Queen.




 

Good night and god bless,
Queen Of Disorder,
Sonia Dietrich  

All images are copyright of Sonia Dietrich