"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

Thursday, October 19, 2017

Critical Theory of Self



/in/ 

Holographic flashbacks. Too familiar. Distant. Something is about to happen. Gain roles depending on day and room temperature. Non compromising praise business. Happiness in game of dependencies based on ratings. I like bad ideas. Follow thought. Reading charts. Feel the base line. Heat. Matching shades. Metamorphosis. Made house into joyride residence. Saved the ring. Inheritance. Facing 4 walls. Challenge your imagination. Dance with little dots in your head. Test lines. Can tell what you had for breakfast. Beat in. Line out. I work well at night. Feed the animals. Project your artistic expression. Scaring the outline remarks. You are chaos they say. No blood sacrifice. Free fall. Take no prisoners. Eyes closed. Tender vibrations. Connected. Suddenly. Stay. 

O/pe/N

Look at fingers. Almost alive. Separate entity. Crawling on their own. See them as they play with air, communicating messages. Wonder how do they feel and what they think while attached to my body. Body as a whole is an interesting and complex paradox. As numeral patters, it all makes sense in the distance. Paints picture in gaps of white between the black. Ink. Haunting entity. Breaks in skin and swirls of markings. Hair and red inflamed patches. What is violence to other if not violence to self. Subconscious is peering through. See images, pictures moving in the distance eyes closed. Critical theory. Of self. Survey being. They say likeable. I pause in the gaps of their air intake. Watching movement. Wondering who and how defines the pleasure of mortality.

. J u S t l E t g O .
L I F e  / L I v E  =  L I V e D
L i V e L i F E 



Touch bones in hidden places. Inside mind that radiates heat and florescent lighting. Some paragraphs no one reads. Show no sings. Occupy mind, keep busy. Stay… Moving. Never surrender. Not a toy. They say they know. Cover up. Trains on tracks inside the veins. Swallow, overpopulate. Make markings known. Pierce billboards. Some things are not for recognition. Taste the rainbow. Has it all. Wondrous idealism. Hate in 3 variations of light. I dance. Never there. Can become poisonous. In case of emergency follow the safety regulations and light strip markings. Light glitter shimmer on the chest. Soft skin. Corner of the lip. Spoiled flesh. 

Slow breathing. Without advertisement. Someone is always buying. Thats how the table is set, with placement mats, swan napkins and variations of forks to knifes. Salt washing it away. Observation mode. Am towards pm conundrum. Low beat. Listening to inner voices while placing invoice. What are you selling off today? Fuck Cinderella. She snorts too much. Dick worshipping fun fest. Ride. No snitching. Tape over your identity. Dry clean yesterday’s stains and walk in slow motion. Hypnosis. Obedience. Violent friction. You excite me. Sometimes the best thing you can do is dislocate your current placement. If I could I would VPN self to oblivion. Watching fire dance. There is a rhythm to it. Each word combusted with motion. Pouring drips of poison. Entertain my astral projection.

Multifunctional pick of the week. Hologram two. There is no shame in addiction to perfection. Wrists hurt. It’s that season of the wicked. Too far, not deep enough. We observe disappointment in attachment theory. Waking on the flattened surfaces. Putting needles thought the skin. Adrenaline rush, ink. Meditate. Cleansing experience. Ritualistic joy. Sitting curled in a perfect circle. Recounting steps, weigh-in last intake. Purity content too high. Adjusting face proportions. Body rejecting itself. 
Maniac smile, deep breath. Step up! My brain connected all possible vibrations. Fire outside the clone zone. Tasty! Shadow play. Little girls in white dresses and baskets filled with diluted glitter juice. Rocking in my chair. Breathing slows down. Feeling like million little particles planning a breakout from veins. Pores screaming. Smile. A balanced monstrosity. Hover over tangled carpet. I am free. Seeing glares of faces. Poisonous Ether. The journey of self is a fascinating fuck up within the digitalised memory board. I require to see the engender on duty, as longs as its not the night guard. Gives too much hope, will lose focus. You need so little to be happy yet so distant is the shapeless glory. . . and then, reality knocks me in each temple.

Open my eyeS,
AdjusT
Table chair headphones hair face armS.
It’s not real. All not reaL
J u s t L e t g O
….


± p0st pr0ducti0n ± 

Playing a role in my own movie. Alive. Milk in the tub reaching edge. Noise from under cement blocks and eggshell tiles. Too many coincidences makes you question authenticity of events. Rubbing freshly soaked flesh. 2 lights in the distance within reach. 02:22 how long you been here..? Scared to get out? White walls. Not insane. Got my father’s heart. Water drops are perfection of same coincidence that makes me question your intentions. Reading between the lines. My intentions have no malice. Hearing conversations on a loop. Never know. Voice merges with inner projection of time and location.

Learning language and confusing self with mathematical pathways. Every aspect of self is co-dependent on self-realisations of today tangled in yesterday anxiety. Should have gotten that certificate. How can I help. Self on line to the blank line. Going offline. Your unique tone is what vibrates inside me. See you on the other side. Covered in haze of stardust and momentum I dislocated DNA. Watching distance. Somehow too far is the voice that talks inside of me. Not lost yet hidden. Have you counted your heartbeat? Swallowing smoke. Making circles out of chalk and charcoal. Know symbolism. Every shadow. I met the other that lives underneath the skin. Its an open invitation. 




Good night and god bless, 
Queen of Distorder 
Sonia Dietrich 

Sunday, June 18, 2017

Between 8 Rows of Hate or Algorithm of Existence





Sitting away from tables where one keeps fists bottled up in tainted glass bottles with strange markings. Your desire is to wear me like an oversized coat that fits too tightly. With a wet mouth you spew out words that penetrate hair follicles to blood. Sadistic games. No winners. Rotting flesh medals. Wish to carry my fist on a string underneath your neck.
See faces piled up on shelf of past reckonings. I remember each birth mark and each hair. Twist of a back, a break of bone, taste of cum. Wearing many faces at once. Spread of the lip, watching. I am always watching. Take no blame. Never hid behind a mask of someone elses promises. I have all my sins lined up, labelled and named. What you seek they ask one. To meet them all. Reflections and projections, squirt and cum. All of them. Pile them up in the basket and put some lotion on top. Never one, never one. I am a stitched in the middle firecracker. Pulled together by string, muscle, venom and bone. Corked in the arsenic vile. Do you touch the ground? 

Walking on the grass made of ash and acid. Not here. Pleading the 5th. Always pleading the 5th. I am an immortal consequence of your projection. 
Two fuckable syllables in the quote line. Making sense of nonsense is an art form. Crush the knuckles backwards into finger phalanges. I can go 360. Emergency rooms and paper slips. Receipt and 20 pound transfers. Not a convertible placed on shit stained amazon list. A perfect enemy. Fingers on the neck. Scar tissue. I heal well. Pushing every pressure point at once. I pay for everything in one go. Sue me. Let’s dance. Shattering floors, flaking wall paint. Dig deeper. Variate of hammer shapes never let me down.  
Best line of work in this business is money up front. Chairs later. By chairs I mean arts and crafts for skin colouring set. White to Red. Accept bitcoin transfers. Push me, I want to taste the floor that you hover over. Majestic. Non penetrable deity. In the world I lock self in there are no faces. I don't calculate gold possessions. Just make it count. Intentions. Body types. Stereotypes. Vibrations. I calculate the steps. Mess. Me and my SS/S. Secret Sacrifice of Sin converted to 101 on Recovery Mode. 

*  *  *

Staring at the blank page that as a sign of betrayal has a pulsating dash. Penetrating hope. Dose self up in idea of loss that did not happen as one stares at self reflection in distorted screen. Talking back and keeping hair parted in the wrong side of reason. Touch is not the touch needed but provided by a randomised option of rotation process.
 
Looking back at words typed that do not make sense. Non of it does. I wander when does time starts to make skin crawl into little swirls. All I can think of is pressing delete, but you cant delete the algorithm of existence. As long as the plug lasts.
 
Walls vibrating. Words half empty. What is the notion of ultimate separation. In ghost towns of smoke and dread. Dreams unfinished with expiry dates activated. Empting bank accounts and hoping for eternity in deLIGHT. Stacks of books. Wanting. See the lie inside out. Woven in paranoia. All see what they choose. Master of disguise, never opening the door. No one knows.
 
What happened when you see a movie. People change roles in front of you. Weapons and speeches. Nothing new to show. I love you. The one who does not exist. They say my soul is rendered with dreams, insanity and impossibility. 

Not afraid. Not afraid. Not afraid.

Keep your spine in place. Reconstruction surgery. Mind blowing. Pay-cheques. I care about your future. Your insides, spinal fluid leaks. Keep it casual. Sex. 3 letters of distraction and empowerment. Keep it simple. Keep easy. Keep it raw. Pacifism, sadly.
 
Knowing who one is has something to do with dissolving fingerprints. A tool. Mind should be a exchangeable location. Started by deleting files at random. Existential cooking for the gifted. 
 







Good night and god Bless, 
Queen of Disorder
Sonia Dietrich 


Thursday, February 2, 2017

Fifth Amendment Right Against Self-Incrimination

 

It trickles down. That is what they say. Trickle down economy, trickle down education, relationship. Psychosis. A break. A tear in the oesophagus . A collapsed lung. Non breathing pattern. You hide your shit. You mend your shit. You live. I promised. She promised. Trickle down promises. Loneliness. Breaking pattern. Breaking walls. Chairs. Tables, wardrobes. Hate machine, hate speech. Hate love. Love cancer. Love death. Love memento morry. Moments. Missiles. Massacre. Mass media. Mass shooting. Mass abortion. Abort my feelings! 

Reaching for bottom. Reaching for …. grails. Filled with rotten water. Fist table. Me. Mess. Me and your SS. Single Service. Silent Sting. All that came moved away quite quickly. Your silence. Tares like pitchforks.  Gentle massacre. But no, makeup UP. Face on. Smile. Lipstickm out of the contoure. SMILE. A perfect masterpiece. Piece of shit self definition.I fucked up. Let down. Burned. I am so confusing. Bitch craft professional. Confesionals. I mistreated. Burned and killed. Swallowed and spit out. I am a festive melted plastic. Shiny ornament. Autistic tendencies. Mind, box of riddles. It’s all about being special.

See through liquid dripping from eye orifices 
*Product Placement* - I am water proof jedy. 
A stone cold glitter sparkle statue. 


They strap poster to ones forehead pretending, one calls bulshit. Share furniture, plates, knifes and forks in circles and drawers. Future reference. Fruitlessly marching and keeping notes. Not enough support. Failing anti malware systems. Shall play the role of a virus. Watch the rash spreading throughout. Bury and poison. 

Perfect girlfriend syndrome. Offering support network to self absorbed ego. Giving acid reflux. Should be sorry. Me in my rabbit hole. Filled with static metamorphosis. Put the low beat on. Lets dance in caged 2 rooms separated. Cleaning dust from memory bank. Observing pictures. The *you have memories with* function should be considered a crime. Murder. Of lyrical repeal. Pleading the 5th. Marching hand in hand with vendetta. Rubbing of the mask of idealistic expectation one had for me. Everyone want to fuck the naked chick on the side of a performance van. So special, feel so special. Unliveable. Scan the resolve. At least i did not got one pregnant. But perhaps could with my vain pulling needle point pressure tactics. Wrapping self in plastic. Aborting roles and becoming roles given. I shall be IT. The poison one seen in me. 

nomorenomorenomorenomorenomorenomorenomore








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