"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, February 11, 2015

± S T I G M A T A ±

Selective memory of blue flashing lights. From down and between gravity to higher level. I am a dead bird wearer. Your window showed me greatest tragedy and euphoria one seen. You are an enigmatic cult. Every face and expression. Perhaps. This is someone who could beat the grave stones. Want to swallow my eternity with you. I seen how you rise.

This is not a game of alter – egos. Reality is breached. I focus on your breathing.  In circle motions. Not a 20 zone.  We flicker and burn out. Dive. Destroy.
 Face to Face and Back to Back. Shoulder to Shoulder. Arm to Arm. Hunt ME. In visions tempered. By light and darkness. We march. I SOLUTE YOU.



 With open arms. Slowly. Silently. Throne molester. Lilies and white sheets. Posses me. Decompressed information codes. Carry the spear. Within the tongue of your language. Smells of burned flesh. I caress your stigmata. Drums and awakening. Nails black thought red. Bruises and bite marks. Meeting every soul. Connect me.  My channel path in chosen. In the middle of earth wrecking promise. From down under. Watching. Calculated fingering.

I am a working mechanism. A word play. Billions of particles. Trillions of vibrations. Destroy me. Echoing steps. Shiver of temperatures. Collecting dept.  Poses me. The shadow reflections. A coil.  Serpent. Climbing walls. In tongues. Focus. Sharpened. Non exhaling entity.


 Your smell touches my forehead. I am blessed! Open eyed and in transcendent translucent holocaust. Your touch?. Flawless. Climbing on a cross. Ruthless. Rull-LESS. 
In my postop scarification I am climbing toward the mountain heads. In crystal lanes through chalk deserts. Squirting holly water. Fitting bills of misogynistic: and,  including, in association with. Hitting rampage obstacles like a Tetris game put here to discourage. I smell pussy servant from afar. Feeling how sin as leather touches toes in warded towards your most wettest. 

2am is the game time. sophistication satisfaction meets understatement in conjunction of past precum. wearing cunt sings like a crown. 


Good night and God bless,
Queen of Disorder,
Sonia Dietrich 

Saturday, January 3, 2015

Spoon Of Arsenic

 I can smell my past knocking down on the door. The archway of your back. Fingered. Promising something new. Untouched. WILLINGLY. 
I am not good at this. Small parcels and fireworks. So pretending that it is what should be. Bodies sleeping in tightened circle. With VSR projections of time spent. In between together and apart. This is no sweet melody. Stepping away from want to give. Get. Then perhaps tomorrow flipping on today - we march!

Getting hot. Then hotter. Overlooking promised land. Are You Awake? feeling how alcohol concurs blood cells and pulsating dignity in the back of the vesselled up shit spread acute. Cute and demented participation. I am NOT forever. When ever momentum tangles us. I am unsafe. Black coloured perfusion. Inner sanctum spiritus. Dried reproduction. Blood pools and footsteps. Piss on the staircase. Hunted vision and reflection of now NOW. NOW! Want to taste tracked bloodclots and chemically enhanced cum. Land of cantaloupes. 

I am a wrapped in plastic goddess on six rounds of medication. Stitched in the middle firecracker. Licking. Dispensing. Reproducing tragedy triangles vision. My forever is your life long but my today. What side of emancipation are you talking to? This one has no name. In between houses. Daddy will die of skin crawling redemption. Tearing self off. Off bone. In meat faculty. Not ready to let go. Am I? 

Drink the approximation. Hooker houses of 13 horses in 13 months on 13th day. I shall not as I can’t to be beheld by preyer and insomnia. Choosing not to be, go. Let go, destroy. Needing a stage of sanctum. Conversing with the holly conjuring. Where is your target group. Your on time vomit passing, finger licking, eye burning pride? This is not a road one takes willingly. What is your perversion? 

Don’t promise me anything. My drain bottle is full. I washed my body profuse it’s own remedy and scars heal in 2 weeks and 6.5 hours. Numerological, one is catching-up. I can feel someone standing behind. Close enough not to touch. Silk made and mild washed. Outerbody. With prolonged hands and fingers. Coloured like old TV.  Forever in depth. Saluting government and making self into posters. Organ grinder with burgundy treasure chest. Can I offer you an appetiser? 
you are milk with a spoon of arsenic
peripheral projection of your won dream upon me
with blue veins and pink swirls
hair scalped off into preservation
watching me complete my dance
observing past contemplation of my scars
your neck line covering the boxed shape reality
i will eat your every word

i am shaped into a translucent vatican
wearing someone else’s flower garden on my sleeve
Painting with words our possibilities
with drops of I T at 02:44
where words are sectioned into brackets
fearing each syllable to escape
daring voices to speak in tongue
i loose momentum

i hide in shadows of your hands
when eyes wonder off into oblivion
finding self pushed into hellway hall-ways
projecting testosterone into common ground
i stand one foot behind you
on the right hand side where cold shiver touches your back
you remind me of old warrior stories
do not dissolve self in perfusion of time

i am the tick in your nerve covered muscles

how slowly fingers reach the never ending crossroads
between how could be and how was
but still
is the
the hum of silence off breath
heartbeat and pulsating reflections
i can see tired sick look in your connection
your glance at the letters, words and parallels
you invasion my talent that one dose not know
never meeting non given deadlines
i am in time - frames
of 92% battery life and timespan from one swollen stitch to another
i want to shave your body
licking each bleed
consuming the non breathable leftovers of oxygen
I am dramatic
how white on white turns blue and still
the pulsating dash takes pity and laughs at my short comings
You inspire me,
for sure
but if, this is other ambition
shadow matter with green flashing lights of go ahead
3 dots and a flickering light of 4th
having night vision between two notions
i drift away induced by soft velvet of shadow and gold
a chemical reaction

 in a hidden passage of skin

Good night and God Bless,
Queen of Disorder
Sonia Dietrich