I’m sick
Of poems
Written about olive oil
And the glory of the Palestinian struggle
And I may love the people who write these things
But honesty is breaking through
It is breaking through because I am triggered
And I can’t help the nauseous feeling
I get when white boys
Intellectually
Artistically
Masturbate
Pretty words
All over the faces
Of people whose vocal chords
Have been uprooted
Only to be replanted
In sunny Tel Aviv
Inside the throats
Of two men
In rainbow flip flops

Those walls you speak of
That I speak of
We have never lived these walls
Who the fuck are you?
Don’t talk to me about Palestine
As if your moral compass is occupied
As if your tender words
Your disgust with apartheid
And night raids
And tear gas
And live bullets
That make dead people
Mean that you understand
That you are on the side of justice

No.
I don’t think that you claim to understand
You are aware of your privilege
And you act according to it
Trying to compromise it
At your own expense
For the benefit of
people
And you can’t help that this idea: “Social justice”
Makes your cock hard

You are an occupier
And so am I
And we speak of BDS
But that simple longing
For grandmother’s cooking
And our favorite chocolate
Perpetuates the evil doing
Carried out by our cousins and uncles
And mothers and fathers
Whom we love around the dinner table
And in doing so
In loving them
We legitimize their actions:
They are loved at home
They have friends and lovers and chocolate
And slow cooked breakfast
Because time is abundant
So who gives a fuck if a pregnant woman dies at a checkpoint

Soldiers leave their personal lives
That is
All that matters
All that makes them who they are
At the door to their house
Because they have
A key
And documents
And grandmother’s cooking
And when they come back
To open that door
There won’t be a soldier
Denying them entry
At gunpoint
Because that soldier is them
And soldiers don’t live at home



By Lior