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 


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