"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

Monday, December 8, 2014

MESS - ME - SS or Space Odyssey of Oddities on Crack




Perhaps like rehab - I love the mess. The tempting, destructive, torn stocking and thighs filled mess. Me - Ss. Narcissist tendencies. Diseased. Watching city fall under shame, weight of first snow and railroads. Many roles and many parts. Sports. Flashback. Roles and expectations of purity. How far can you bend? 

Lamps on metal wires and flat screens. Pushing word after word. How exciting it is to push self to a boxing match. Four days in. Rumble rumble. Just don't tell the hungry there is water. Turkey games. Space odyssey of oddities on crack. Forgot to take a picture. I love public leftovers. Dancing in circles from five feet to twenty eight. Change the station. I don't know how to denounce myself. In filled cavities of teeth in shrinking rooms. Eyes full of smoke. Light a cigaret and put it your eyeball. Watchers. Watch dogs. Jesus worship with knife in vagina - my trade mark. I solute heresy. Perspective of castes wasted. Interface. Beat of youth and misery so sweet when backwards is forwards and you twist my being around. Land of bulimic joy and Virgin Mary pictures fuck Satanic girls. Touching vaginal wounds - so different from one another - like fingerprint. That one leaves inside. Your inner body is as soft as vomit after a good trip.

Coming from my Mouth. 





Glitter

Words are burning names into flesh. How are you living on. White lines. Fruit and poison. Boredom. Physical loneliness. I wish body would be endless. 
In repetitions - this shit comes and covers the come. New comers and SHIT comers. Comers in shit in comers on pathways where shit should be spread. This is a rotting piano made to of teeth.

Inside the head there is a line up of ten thousand funerals. Vicious. Visceral visualisation of bodies. Make finest express the emptiness of frustration neglected. Two chess peaces sit in corners with open arms in unison - you are totally fucked up - are you? If you put, consider that all the surroundings can be portrayed in one step by a simple chess pack chaos. The game does not exist, it’s the match played without a board in a wooden box. Where black and white exported to the surface - the box is plain inside. 

Burned organs, I am on penicillin  Soon cut inside out. Perhaps, then this will reach desired proportion. I am on HOLD. Adjust your expectation. Press redial. Childlabor and pink leaflets. Cars and flat screens. Closed door community and governmental MENTAL positions with hatred for like minded organs sharing gold stars. This is detention centre with safe doors and bills send to one with a bigger bling. Highest bidder glory holes.
Finding the holy.
 
+++

While driving at back seat of a red light car. The devils cab service, talking about slaughtered 18year olds and flashing red numbers on a dashboard. I consider the options of woods and spirits, surgeries and witchcraft. 
Rain covers rods and landing strips. The light of red and green towards white, where time stops. 
We meet, silently, slowly. Shivering skin and hands. 
Sitting by tables with diluted Jesus blood. Through black suits we
P E A K.
I never knew this language





Good Night and God Bless,
Queen of Disorder
Sonia Dietrich

No comments: