break glass pull handle

by howaretheyfor

masala chai makes my piss smell like incense, holding myself and dizzy with it I stand in a froth of me it would be easy to die surrounded by friends equally as willing to die there is an instant when you feel truly as completely a thing of machine, a wholing distance in teargas clouds like masala chai gloam there is a great power in standing beside a friend, a glory to battle that we’ve tried with reason to deglorify sense in nonsense or a structure of nonsense, the things we believe the images we are packed with of people fucking each other a contiguous human fungus of sex, missiles that seek heat and poison gases that can taste fear that move through the air hungry panting like animal; Palestinians do not laugh the way we laugh in the west, rocking onto the balls of our feet collecting the laughter in the backs of our throats holding it there and each of us bubbling out of our mouths filling the air with a violence of laughter boiling soup we splutter

The missiles are good. They force the Palestinians not to forget that they are occupied, they undermine the occupation, the silence of the occupation the slow snow drop battle that teaches everyone here, “you raise your hand to your master and your master will staple your hand to a wall, sit the fuck down,” 10 year old boys with palestinian flags tied around their necks with rocks in your hands what do you fight for? For your family, your father who cries; here it is not unmanly to cry to come home at the end of a day and remember the family you’ve lost and not to eat dinner not to watch tv not to fuck your wife but cry, spend maybe 3 or 4 hours after work, “ahmad i’d love to sit and chat but i gotta get home. gotta turn on the waterworks, you know, gotta let it all out, gotta wet myself and i have to make sure my children see, i have to stifle my tears in my hands try to push them back into my eyes, try to keep my mouth moist though it dries with the sobbing, it’s funny that isn’t it? how dry your mouth becomes when you cry, all that moisture… All that moisture you think I’d be able to keep my mouth moist! Hah! Ahmad! Ahmad? Ahmad– Sense in nonsense the sticks that hold up the sky, the machines that keep us alive, the gods that built us, the metaphysics that are as eggbeaters how we churn, how we Love in unlove the violent nuance of conglomeration of people on people a contiguous fungus of fuck, the things we believe the missiles that hang above us unknowing the ways we wake up and fall asleep and fear and laugh and cover up our filth and hold ourself and– violence and nonviolence how gray everything becomes when the heart remembers but the brain forgets but the body acts out or the heart acts out and the body forgets and– To convince. To know what’s right but to be against a machine of power that leaks hate on the floor sticky

Does it matter that israel is villainizing itself further? What happens when the tide of media changes and no one cares again? Whose hand is being forced with these hand-me-down rockets; like always a sense of waiting for something to happen but not at all sure what; someone must always die be stabbed in the eyes and raped and defiled aborted by blunt force, right? That’s how it goes–The things we care about briefly, i would die here if i only knew how how hard it is to kill yourself right how much meditation how many mechanisms there are to protect us ambulances and bandages and gauzes and people on watch always, a society whose sole purpose is to make sure that people don’t just kill themselves–violence in nonviolence, love your enemy

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