Little Secrets.rtf /// forgiven life is yet forgotten

... As inside the golden locket, where all walls glitter with delight and yet howl with empty ache of the past...

.sits a doll øff two parts. 

A part of life forgiven    ||   A part of life forgotten

The doll, inside the glitter halls or ice and gild is barefoot on a fiery throne. Inside her eyes so many mirrors. She sits and ponders, trying to pull the gaps and cracks together. With winged horses in her hair. And air beneath her feet. Inside the sand she stores her memories, like secrets in her childhood under glass domes.

In soil. Her past.

Wishing for frequencies that are distant and imagined.

Inside her locket.  Inside the glitter walls.

Where air is filled with magic blossoms.

And nothing even dies.

A part of life forgiven 

She swipes away the soil and glances inside the little marvels. Little domes she called secrets. Messages hiding past reckonings.

Flowers and texts, joys and stones. Parts of hair and nails. Blood tissues and healed patches, on particles of skin. Hopeful, little sacrifices of the past.

In hope.

That some day, she can find them, heal them, feel them and see things frozen in time yet changed to a blessing. 

The soil was carved with knifes and fingers. Fresh and warm, rich and fertile. Glass domes heal the heat. Preserved life.

|| Life forgiven. Yet. Forgotten ||

A part of life forgotten

With trees of ash and blue colour came the storm.

Forceful in its doing. It turned a part of her into a locked. It cracked walls and halls in the making of such an elaborate shell. As a result creating something stronger, yet a little foreign. Something empty eyed. With a strong grip. Something that managed to let other parts be dormant, hidden in many chambers. In many wall. In glitter and fire. In wind and water. In soil and dirt. 

With magic as such. Small peaces kept moving in the air. Forcefully and slowly. Sometimes gently. Sometimes they roared and howled. Painfully tearing peaces of domes , shattering particles of memories that hold the locked together. Markings of life

|| forgotten. yet. Forgiven ||

Good night and god Bless,

Yours,

Sonia Dietrich

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