"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

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

listen
how slowly fingers reach the never ending crossroads
between how could be and how was
but still
present
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
seeing,
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
……….
stagnant
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 

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