https://amygdalajournal.com amygdalajournal Fri, 17 Jan 2025 00:10:30 +0000 https://amygdalajournal.com en http://amygdalajournal.com/Lazo-Atado Fri, 17 Jan 2025 00:10:30 +0000 amygdalajournal 455531 <img width="1500" height="231" width_o="1500" height_o="231" src_o="https://cortex.persona.co/t/original/i/552a71815e913f98e69bd16fb14fc632c5ca775e5941ef91a523b71d60d9e374/amyddalalogogreen.png" data-mid="1392380" border="0" /><img width="1024" height="592" width_o="1024" height_o="592" src_o="https://cortex.persona.co/t/original/i/248b0d05183c43554f295ac5d85aa52f910322bdc5285aaa92d57738644cac69/cypresslawn.jpg" data-mid="1392381" border="0" />New Narrative Guts - Lazo Atado&nbsp; You say I have angsty gay cowboy washed up rockstar vibes. You say this in response to us discussing a song you sent me: “Guts” by Spike Fuck. Angsty gay cowboy washed up rockstar is probably not a good way to understand myself I tell you. Maybe not a good one but a fun one, you tell me. You take me to the grave of a poet known as Jack Spicer. He’s buried in the mausoleum at Cypress Lawn Funeral Home and Memorial Park. It's the same place where William Randolph Hearst is buried. That a lumpen poet and Hearst found their end together is beautiful in the same way losing your mind on the beach surrounded by million dollar mansions in California is beautiful. The outside of the complex houses a building that is an especially egregious example of neoclassical architecture. Large roman columns and metallic signage saying “Cypress Lawn Funeral Home” brand every building. It's hideous but the inside is full of palm trees and sections of old redwoods and sepia light that leaks in from stained glass above. It’s the color of a choir or something dying. It's an interesting day for me. I don’t know what to make of my life. I woke up today and found out I’ve lost nearly all of my life savings. It isn’t a lot of money but it is what I have. I put it all in cryptocurrency. I don’t know what to do or where I’m going. I should cry, but I can’t. There isn’t anything coherent happening around. I’m surrounded by chaos, creating it and reacting to it. When I tell you that I have washed up rockstar vibes because I almost became a rockstar this past year you’re curious. You want to know the story. Telling the whole story means telling you about an estranged friend; our falling out and my subsequent admission into the psychiatric ward at interfaith continental hospital. The ward was on the highest floor in what seemed to be the tallest building in all of Brooklyn. It was freezing outside. Nurses buzzed around like bees and gave me Ativan in a white cup while I read the Bible and rain pattered against the window. I was there like an old wizard chained up at the top of some dark tower. You have a map. You guide me through the building and we search for the name John Spicer. Curious fact, Jack was buried John. We find his name among a list of many others, completely undistinguished. There’s a tiny flower hanging from a hole drilled into his slot in the mausoleum. I touch the flower. I imagine the roots touching his ashes, by proxy me touching him. I’m writing a novel right now. It’s something I’m really doing, and it feels surreal to say. Among confusion and pain I have an artistic project I’m working on. I’m burnt out on poetry. I want to make music or paint. Sometimes I imagine myself having peace in my life. I have a studio and walk there in the morning, make coffee and then start painting on a number of huge canvases. The abandon in which I’ve lived my life now comes out on canvas. I’ve managed to distill chaos. When you send me your songs and playlists and poems I think about how you’re smarter than me. Your curative ability makes me jealous. You gather the world around you like driftwood on a beach and combine them to create a bonfire. I don’t have the ability to read the world in the way you do. You’re delicate in your selection. When you send me this stuff I sit there in admiration. Then I wonder what I flow with. Listening to the songs and playlists you send me makes me obsess. There’s a heterosexual fantasy that is guiding this romance. We both indulge in it, making hints at the guilt we feel for our private imagining of being seen by somebody of the opposite sex, of sequestering ourselves away and making a beautiful life. Beauty becomes a marriage and a child. It's ridiculous. I don’t tell you but I failed at loving someone this past year. If I’m honest I want the innocence that love brings. I want to try again and to love someone and take care of them and grow and forget myself. You tell me Kevin Killian would take younger men to the corner where Jack Spicer’s ashes are in the mausoleum. He would have them remove their clothes and they would stand nude while he took photos. You tell me this before you motion me to the corner and move your face to mine. You swallow my lips for a while and then crouch on your knees and put my dick in your mouth. I’m surprised I’m as hard as I am. I feel special while you suck me there, right next to Jack’s ashes. When you come back up to kiss me I hold your mouth to mine before I unzip you so I can feel you in my mouth. I love your dick and giving you pleasure is easier than receiving it. We alternate like that for a while, going back and forth on our knees, kissing and holding each other's cocks in our mouths. We make out and masturbate in the dimly lit corner of the mausoleum. You have the sense to cum into your hand rather than the floor. After you stand there awkwardly with semen cupped in your palm not knowing what to do. I stare at your cum hand like a dazed child. You ask if I came. I did not and I feel bad that I didn’t so I lie and say that I masturbated twice that day so today’s a hard day for me to cum. You wipe yours on your underwear and button up your pants and ask me to pose in front of Jack Spicer’s grave. You take a photo of me just like Kevin Killian would. Lazo Atado is a writer and a reader. New Narrative Guts - Lazo Atado&nbsp; You say I have angsty gay cowboy washed up rockstar vibes. You say this in response to us discussing a song you sent me:... http://amygdalajournal.com/Riley-Mac Thu, 16 Jan 2025 23:11:06 +0000 amygdalajournal 455528 <img width="1500" height="231" width_o="1500" height_o="231" src_o="https://cortex.persona.co/t/original/i/6aa34e207337bcfd85c54100d144d388b82d80553e0261955ea90f4391be168e/amygdala-logo-1-copy.png" data-mid="1392376" border="0" /><img width="750" height="457" width_o="750" height_o="457" src_o="https://cortex.persona.co/t/original/i/9fca8d7511888ddd05fe7d6470a712d60a600e34f32c29b7bc516e964bfd1129/g158BX370-o_other2.jpg" data-mid="1392377" border="0" />A Rag in the Tailpipe - Riley Mac When I was 14 my mom read my journal and found out I’m gay. She picked me up from my friend Liz’s house after a sleepover one day and her vibe was off. Back then, I was always waiting for the needle to drop. I’d recently cut my hair. I wanted to look like Shane from the L Word so bad. I wore skinny jeans and chunky sneakers, baggy t-shirts, eyeliner but not like a girl, like Pete Wentz from Fall Out Boy. I was always online looking for people to emulate. Butch lesbians with tattoos and labret piercings and trucker hats. I was always online looking for girls to talk to. I’d met Liz that way, on MySpace. She found me. Because of the circumstances of our introduction, she didn’t go to my high school. She lived 45 minutes away, across state lines, in a Philly suburb of Pennsylvania. It was basically a dream come true that my mom was down to chauffeur me to hang out with my bisexual internet friend who I was hooking up with. The reading-my-journal-and-finding-out-I’m-gay was a casualty of the situation. “We need to talk,” my mom said sternly. My stomach dropped with the click of the car door lock. I kind of chuckle thinking about that click of the car door, so immediate it marked a period at the end of her sentence, a pile of shit dropped on my chest. Where would I run, ma? C’mon. She explained that she read about my feelings for Liz and that I’d been with another unnamed girl, too. I was grateful I’d omitted the details of the unnamed girl. See, Liz was my age. A naughty little thing who smoked Nat Shermans and hung out with older boys, but she was my age and our moms had met. The unnamed girl was a 6 foot tall 19 year old butch with “We Do Recover” tattooed across her chest. We had also met on MySpace. Whenever I tell people this story they interrupt me in a huff like, “Your mom read your journal? That’s so fucked up.” “It’s fine,” I say, “She ripped off the band aid. Secrets suck.” I wouldn’t have been such a pussy about coming out had my mom not made an impish little comment a few months before this all went down. I’d been listening to The Con by Tegan and Sara, out in the open, minding my own business (it was an album I listened to so often that my mom knew they were Tegan and Sara with their album, The Con), when she looked at me and with a straight face goes, “You know what the real con is…? That their parents have two twin daughters and they’re both gay.” (She currently denies that she ever said this). Freshman year of high school turned to junior and senior year of high school, MySpace turned into Facebook and sometimes OkCupid where I’d lie about my age, and I continued my habit of meeting girls online. When I was 22, my dad, a lifelong alcoholic, who I grew up seeing occasionally but never often, died. He got in a bar fight, was knocked out, hit his head on the cement, drove home, and never woke up. Hemorrhage of the brain. For months, the only person I told was my then live-in girlfriend, Jamison. When my mom called me she said “I know you have final exams tomorrow and this is bad timing. We can call the school and figure it out.” I insisted, “no, no, it’s fine. I’ve grieved him my whole life. This is just the nail in the coffin”, pun intended. I didn’t cry, I felt smug. I took my finals the next day. I went to work the day after. I hadn’t seen him in three years since he moved to Florida to be closer to his mom. We’d only talked on the phone a few times, usually when we were both drunk. I told him I was working at a kink shop and we talked about women, sex, feeling addicted to love and being loved, and I’d never felt closer to him. And then that was it. He died. I struggled with my own relationship to substances for years and blamed everyone and everything but my dad, my ultimate secret. I remember a green-eyed girl I’d met on OkCupid in high school. I met her at her parents’ house and she said “I apologize in advance. They’re hoarders.” She wore a Neff beanie and had snake bite piercings, an aesthetic that by senior year I considered dated but I found her beautiful enough that I looked past it. We smoked cigarettes in her room and ashed on the floor, passing a bottle of wine back and forth until she cried to me about how her dad drinks mouthwash and she feels so alone. We kissed and I told her I was sorry about her situation. I never saw her again. I didn’t have an inheritance from my dad. I picked through a storage unit of some crap he’d left behind and took a blu-ray DVD player, some DVDs and comics, and some notebooks. I had no use for the blu-ray player so I gave it to a friend of mine. A few days later, she texted me. “Look what I found in your dad’s blu-ray player”, with a photo of a porno DVD collaged with images of girls taking it in the ass. I smiled and laughed, and for the first time, I cried.<img width="275" height="175" width_o="275" height_o="175" src_o="https://cortex.persona.co/t/original/i/c9630d3b3c0d6daafce5635e7ec01427ab9872e6545856ecafe598b790a08d8a/spacer.png" data-mid="1392445" border="0" />Riley Mac is a New York based writer from South Jersey. A Rag in the Tailpipe - Riley Mac When I was 14 my mom read my journal and found out I’m gay. She picked me up from my friend Liz’s house after a sleepover one... http://amygdalajournal.com/Wylie Thu, 21 Nov 2024 01:29:40 +0000 amygdalajournal 454947 <img width="1500" height="231" width_o="1500" height_o="231" src_o="https://cortex.persona.co/t/original/i/ada76256432cd84d353baab5e5f93cc6ab3f2d3dd9235aea2abcc11f16f7a0f4/amygdala-logo-1-copy.png" data-mid="1385823" border="0" /> &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; <img width="1519" height="2048" width_o="1519" height_o="2048" src_o="https://cortex.persona.co/t/original/i/213bf247a9f25aab623bcf268bfca9704837208c32b09d8fb97b18f2c250416b/signal-2024-11-19-162258_002.jpeg" data-mid="1385297" border="0" data-scale="38"/>Two Poems by wylie thornquist&nbsp; &nbsp;translated by wylie thornquist ensimismado ráspeme con tu rastrojo, sonsacando muslos y pantorrillas pegados a olvidar sus límites y entremezclar sin la frontera inestable de piel tus antebrazos cobreños se quedan quietos y en el criadero, mi alma empieza rebanarse. ojalá que estemos cocidos, molidos en la misma olla – como dos avellanas en una cuna forrada de pelo te prometo que digo la verdad a lo mejor de mi habilidad con una renuncia, una espiración que forma los sílabos textraño, el fondo reconfigura, ópalos anidando — grietas llenando con una conflagración absurda de detalle preciosa entonces cuando estabas pavorealeando, me encontré imitando a un hada trágica me dijo vamos aunque llueva y la pantalla se enderezó, retrocedió si no me hubieras nombrado, sería más fácil recordar a un ángel con la forma del número nueve<img width="275" height="175" width_o="275" height_o="175" src_o="https://cortex.persona.co/t/original/i/efd9e24cc1926578469763ec10f6f0667e84dfad3f3e0627f7654e08f4a9105b/spacer.png" data-mid="1387800" border="0" />ensimismado scratch me with your stubble, coaxing snug thighs and calves to forget their limits and intermix without the unstable border of skin your coppery forearms go still and in the crib, my soul starts to slice itself. god will it that we may be cooked, ground in the same pot like two hazelnuts in a cot lined with fur i promise you i tell the truth to the best of my ability with a release, an exhale that forms the syllables imissyou, the background reconfigures, opals nesting — crevices filling with an absurd conflagration of precious detail so while you were peacocking, i found myself miming a tragic fairy he said let’s go, even if it should rain and the display straightened, receded if you had not named me, it would be easier to recall an angel in the shape of a number nine <img width="275" height="175" width_o="275" height_o="175" src_o="https://cortex.persona.co/t/original/i/efd9e24cc1926578469763ec10f6f0667e84dfad3f3e0627f7654e08f4a9105b/spacer.png" data-mid="1387800" border="0" /> <img width="1612" height="1948" width_o="1612" height_o="1948" src_o="https://cortex.persona.co/t/original/i/7dbce08219688b6bad47aa0c00ae9490fc5de4b964a0e357c3a8eedcb7440df3/signal-2024-11-19-162258_003.jpeg" data-mid="1385296" border="0" data-scale="42"/> &nbsp; &nbsp;vía láctea &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; ⬛ recientemente, he estado meditando sobre la forma del meollo y el rozamiento entre yema y claro en la privacidad total de la cáscara parece que paredes lisas y frágiles envueltan cada uno de mis pensamientos, como si fueran huevos . quizás porque cada jueves, rompo cientos de huevos en un tazón gigante para hacer jalá al final de esta ola de grietando, mis dedos enguantados son mojadamarillofríos con yema refrigerada un jueves otoñal, andaba el sendero después de un turno largo en la panadería nocturna quería comunicar mis ideas sobre la fundamentalidad de la forma del meollo una idea colgaba firmemente entre mis cejos, pero las palabras eran pegajosas en mi boca una visión prendió tras mis ojos — un embrión flotando en un estanque de yema las palabras me faltaron, desarmado por esta imagen el meollo — el núcleo cósmico para kazimir malevich era el cuadrado negro&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; ⬛ un punto de fuga que mira todo lo que sucede desde la esquina del cuarto, con un semblante oscuro&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; ⬛ un meollo inescrutable. pero para mí es un bulbo de hinojo rápido y frío. es verde, mojado de vida y constantemente creciendo ella consideró mi respuesta, su rostro parpadeando. nuestras huellas se estaban ralentizando, a lo largo de las orillas del río. una hoja cayó a la superficie, y en las ondas vi yemas y meollos entremezclando sin fin brotes convirtiéndose en médulas — leña convirtiéndose en retoños largamente, ha llegado a parecer que el mundo está construido alrededor de varios meollos, entrelazados y dispersos. si bizquearas, los podrías vislumbrar nexos diseminados, llamándose y acercándose unos a otros me parece que nunca llegan a rozarse<img width="275" height="175" width_o="275" height_o="175" src_o="https://cortex.persona.co/t/original/i/efd9e24cc1926578469763ec10f6f0667e84dfad3f3e0627f7654e08f4a9105b/spacer.png" data-mid="1387800" border="0" /> milky way&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; ⬛ recently, i have been reflecting on the form of the kernel and the friction between yolk and white in the totalizing privacy of the shell it seems that smooth and fragile walls envelope my every thought, as if they were eggs . maybe because every thursday, i break hundreds of eggs into a giant bowl for challah. at the end of this wave of cracking, my gloved fingers are wetyellowcold with refrigerated yolk one autumn thursday, i walked the trail after a long shift in the nocturnal bakery i wanted to communicate my ideas about the nucleus, and the fundamentality of its form an idea hung firmly between my brows, but words were sticky in my mouth a vision hung behind my eyes — an embryo floating in a pond of yolk words failed me, disarmed by this image the kernel — the cosmic crux for kazimir malevich it was the black square ⬛ a vanishing point that watches everything that happens from the corner of the room with a dark countenance ⬛ an inscrutable core. but for me it is a bulb of fennel fast and cold. it is green, wet with life, and constantly growing she considered my thoughts, her face flickering. our footsteps were slowing along the banks of the river. a leaf fell onto the surface, and in the ripples i saw yolks and nuclei intermixing without end buds turning to pith — firewood into saplings slowly, it has come to seem that the world is built around various kernels, interlaced and dispersed. if you searched, you could glimpse them dispersed cores, calling out and nearing towards one another it seems to me that they never quite touch <img width="275" height="175" width_o="275" height_o="175" src_o="https://cortex.persona.co/t/original/i/efd9e24cc1926578469763ec10f6f0667e84dfad3f3e0627f7654e08f4a9105b/spacer.png" data-mid="1387800" border="0" /> wylie thornquist is an artist and librarian living in west philadelphia. &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; Two Poems by wylie thornquist&nbsp; &nbsp;translated by wylie thornquist ensimismado ... http://amygdalajournal.com/Mazer Tue, 29 Oct 2024 14:47:28 +0000 amygdalajournal 454682 <img width="1500" height="231" width_o="1500" height_o="231" src_o="https://cortex.persona.co/t/original/i/57d24759ff480782d71436a343e8e923575155fb68fc4ce3093888a87b5a083b/amygdala.png" data-mid="1382660" border="0" /> <img width="1393" height="1020" width_o="1393" height_o="1020" src_o="https://cortex.persona.co/t/original/i/c9c7cd7d69f770dab9bf56d068b25287cd53c54f8a4f3e23d30de140f71fe8c7/0a5dd3c74e899b6a4dd8987f648d8c4c8c7a5947.jpg" data-mid="1382661" border="0" />Terror in the Middle East (1974) - Rodolfo Walsh&nbsp; &nbsp; translated from the Spanish by Noah Mazer Rodolfo Walsh was already a legend when he went to Lebanon in 1974: he had invented the nonfiction novel with Operation Massacre (1957) and founded Prensa Latina in Cuba alongside Gabriel García Márquez, becoming a living example of the Latin America committed intellectual. In 1973, he joined the revolutionary Peronist organization Montoneros, one of the two main guerrilla organizations that fought Argentina’s 1976-1983 military-civilian dictatorship. In May ’74, he was working as an editor for the Montoneros daily Noticias, the role in which he ostensibly went to Beirut to write on the Palestinian question. In fact, Walsh was sent to Lebanon to make contact with Fatah in his capacity as a Montoneros intelligence officer—the texts that came out of the trip were incidental. Returning to Buenos Aires, he published “The Palestinian Revolution,” a series of articles in Noticias that introduced readers to Zionist colonialism and the state of Palestinian struggle in installments during the week of June 12. This article was actually published in Asuntos árabes, a separate magazine, shortly after the Noticias pieces came out. It discusses the DFLP’s May 15 attack on Ma’alot and the Israeli “reprisal,” which came in the form of bombing seven villages and refugee camps in southern Lebanon.<img width="275" height="175" width_o="275" height_o="175" src_o="https://cortex.persona.co/t/original/i/b1376b479e1dc5358f0dd9c1fb89f8ae6a3d4e70668af1f8603bd5bb988da51f/spacer.png" data-mid="1382662" border="0" />TERROR IN THE MIDDLE EAST Once again, Phantom jets have rained down rockets onto the villages of Lebanon, a small country with no army or air force whose only sin is having sheltered 300,000 Palestinians–one tenth of the total expelled from their homeland by the Israelis. Again, the refugee camps are called “guerrilla bases.” I visited Nabatieh, one of those camps, the day after it was almost completely destroyed by Israeli planes on May 16 of this year. I saw the little houses flattened as if by bulldozers, kitchen utensils scattered women’s clothing hanging from the charred trees. This was no base. That does not mean that in Lebanon, in Syria, in any Arab country, there are no fedayeen bases. They exist. But they are not visible, nor do they house civilian populations in the thousands, nor are they undefended, nor are they bombed. For 25 years, Israel has been anticipating attacks in a perpetual state of “retaliation.” A propaganda which begins to grow clumsy describes every action by Israeli forces as coming in response to an act of terrorism. At every opportunity the story of that terrorism is revived, invoking Ma’alot, Kiryat Shmona, Lod, Munich. A continuity is established between these events and the Nazi concentration camps; we go back to tsarist pogroms, to the eternal persecution of the Jews. Any glimpse of truth is lost in this process: the Palestinians, stripped of their land, are made into the aggressor. The victim is transformed into the persecutor. People debate methods. Why do the Palestinians attack schools? I saw the school in Nabatieh razed to the ground. Why would the Palestinians throw grenades in a marketplace? After Israel’s 250-kilo bombs fell last week in Ain al-Hilweh, not even the market was left standing. Arguing over methods is one way of evading discussion about the heart of the matter, of replacing the why with the how. But even that secondary discussion should not be shied away from. WHOSE TERROR? Take Ma’alot, for example. Things did not start in Ma’alot on May 15, 1974, with the killing of 22 Israeli students. They started on May 15, 1948, with the state of Israel. Because Ma’alot’s name was not Ma’alot but Tarshiha and it was not a Jewish town but an Ara village. Where is Tarshiha today? Gone; wiped off the map. Let’s go back to Deir Yassin, another Arab village that now lies under Kfar Shaul, a suburb of Jerusalem. April 9, 1948: Haganah and Irgun forces attack the village, kill 254 inhabitants, dismember the bodies, and throw them in a pit. Let’s listen to the testimony of Israeli coronel Meir Pa’il, who took 24 years to come forward: “The soldiers combed the house, throwing explosives into it and using every weapon they had. They fired indiscriminately at everything inside, including women and children. Their officers did not lift a finger to stop the atrocities being committed. Alongside other residents of Jerusalem, I implored that the soldiers be ordered to hold their fire. It was in vain. 25 men were put on a truck, driven through Jerusalem in a ‘victory parade,’ taken to a quarry, and shot in cold blood.” Let’s go back to January 30, 1948. The village’s name was Shaykh.1 The method was the same. 60 were left dead. Sa’sa’. February 14, 1948. 20 houses blown up with their occupants still inside. 60 dead. Remember Lydda. January 11, 1948: the Haganah represses a popular uprising. 250 dead, according to an Israeli source; Arab sources say between 500 and 1700. October 14, 1953. Jordanian villages are bombed. 75 dead. In Qibya, machine gun fire trapped villagers in their houses, which were then blown up. Gaza Strip, February 8, 1955. 38 dead. August 31, 1955. Attack on Khan Younis in the Gaza Strip. 46 dead. December 11, 1955. Attack on Syrian villages. 50 dead. Khan Younis again, April 1956. 275 dead. October 10, 1956. Attack on Jordanian villages. 48 dead. October 1956, Kafr Qasim. 51 villagers murdered for violating a curfew they had not been informed of. November 13, 1966. Attack on villages in Gaza and Jordan. 200 dead. November 1967. Karameh, Jordan. Children leaving school are attacked with mortars. The list is endless. Between 1949 and 1964, the Arab countries denounced 63,000 acts of aggression. Between 1950 and 1966, the United Nations and the Armistice Commission condemned the state of Israel 78 times. Later nobody bothered keeping the count. “Retaliation” became the norm. RETURN TO THE SOURCE If, on the scoreboard of terror in the Middle East, Israel leads all its adversaries; if the state of Israel itself was the work of terrorist organizations; if those organizations invented or updated the majority of the modern period’s methods of terror (remember the assassination of Count Bernadotte, the bombing of the King David Hotel, the execution of the English hostages, the letter bombs), the discussion about methods does not end here. Terror is a method of struggle that every revolution has used, as has every reaction. Despite the attitude that prefers to condemn terror “in and of itself” (as if it existed in and of itself), its humanity or inhumanity depends on its methods. Our May Revolution was terroristic. So was General Aramburu.2 With these details in mind, it becomes possible to reframe the question of terror in the Middle East, overcome the barriers of a propaganda that(coincidentally) is the propaganda of western imperialism, and decide who has the share of reason that the circumstances allow. The objective of Palestinian terrorism is to recover the homeland the Palestinians were stripped of. Even in the most questionable of their operations, that legitimacy remains. Israeli terrorism sought to dominate a people, to condemn them to poverty and exile. Even in the most reasonable of its “retaliations” emerges this original sin. 1Walsh appears to refer to the massacre at Balad al-Shaykh, which took place on January 1, 1948. 2The May Revolution of 1810 began the independence process of what would eventually become Argentina. General Eugenio Aramburu was one of the military plotters who overthrew President Juan Perón in 1955, ruling as dictator until 1958. Aramburu himself was kidnapped and executed in 1970 by Montoneros, the revolutionary Peronist organization that Walsh joined in 1973 and on whose behalf he traveled to Beirut in 1974.* Title photo is of DFLP fighters in Lebanon c.1980 <img width="275" height="175" width_o="275" height_o="175" src_o="https://cortex.persona.co/t/original/i/b1376b479e1dc5358f0dd9c1fb89f8ae6a3d4e70668af1f8603bd5bb988da51f/spacer.png" data-mid="1382662" border="0" /> Noah Mazer&nbsp;is a poet and translator. His most recent full-length translation, Valeria Román Marroquin's ana c. buena,&nbsp;is out now with Cardboard House Press. &nbsp; Terror in the Middle East (1974) - Rodolfo Walsh&nbsp; &nbsp; translated from the Spanish by Noah Mazer Rodolfo Walsh was already a legend when he went to Lebanon... http://amygdalajournal.com/Panitz Thu, 17 Oct 2024 13:04:23 +0000 amygdalajournal 454569 <img width="1500" height="231" width_o="1500" height_o="231" src_o="https://cortex.persona.co/t/original/i/90c022d658c55497cf4cbccb7834371320df263a4b6c2ade896141759b1466ff/amygdala.png" data-mid="1382659" border="0" /><img width="850" height="581" width_o="850" height_o="581" src_o="https://cortex.persona.co/t/original/i/2343555670d41df7a31490d52ed2bda9bb2a73bb2ea39f2cd282e68bb4f53967/panitz.jpg" data-mid="1382658" border="0" />Three Poems by Csongor Külina and Tamas Panitz&nbsp; &nbsp; translated from Hungarian by Tamas Panitz&nbsp; Hymn Make it your own, chid. I found a hair in my penis, and a secret affinity for black and white. All we have of today is our yesterday, soaped up and dwindling waves one seems always to be in the middle of. Enduring vacuum needs to bring it into reverse. Sexuality is evacuating to where razzmatazz lives, tastefully. Enough home videos for today. Meet me at the cunning cigar, like a drum, like a dream, like a cashier warming up the starter, or the refund. <img width="275" height="175" width_o="275" height_o="175" src_o="https://cortex.persona.co/t/original/i/c924c39b20d037d4e452a86b9d14e6e14403648c9ff6d427f667ef7d56e95ab2/spacer.png" data-mid="1381315" border="0" /> Untitled I invented poverty, was brave, persuasive, and noticed everything about the shapes of things. The children plunged their knives into me (a table). Now we’re both at the party dressed as stairs plus scraps of orange paper. The first word that comes to mind is puglets, then sequins, then pillars with white hair. Calling all secret desires, I’m in here, writing in my notebook. List of fetishes: me and you, me and you, all iridescent and covered in zeros. Adolescents came out of the rosebushes and stabbed me with their broach pins. From the holes played an air; King of Nipples she came down like a branch in the wind or a spider’s kiss or college kids. Alas, I’m still like me: one eye, one tooth, one beer, ready to welcome the cereal isle. Is this dance or just another reminder of embarrassing personal event? Like the rain beating her husband each second drew me closer to the cashier (not who you think you are). <img width="275" height="175" width_o="275" height_o="175" src_o="https://cortex.persona.co/t/original/i/e2b3b50fd1eb0ad194f3ea3f2553cc1763544ee3ca30223daab332f82477c865/spacer.png" data-mid="1381316" border="0" /> Untitled Pretending this is music lessons and not the wrong hole, over and over again, where letters first appeared. Wait I thought you were joking; everything is as it seems with the exception of the self. Guess I’m coming out of retirement. But I beg of you, do not set these phrases on the scales of individual experience, it’s brat girl summer for elite, special melanomas. She said go slow, fresh gravel and slick oil. He listened (I was watching). Before I could even begin, algae drifts… sand… mountain dew… queer theory… (this sentence, whew… this mirror actually doesn’t do anything besides reveal you to the fans behind Missionary position. You’re asking me to take control of my life but it’s against my principals. Sorry to everyone that got. I’m thriving but only where it’s least expected heavy rains and heavy set fellers not sure what this is saying not thriving I meant Uncomfortable. Is this a trip down memory lane or some more sinister aspect of the reading comprehension test. Through the dartboard, the arboretum, and the storm you don’t have to call me Zoltán Petőfi anymore.<img width="275" height="175" width_o="275" height_o="175" src_o="https://cortex.persona.co/t/original/i/b49810ae898a4546c4e628aa42a7642afc7d655c352cdbf02bb42f9af49a7d3c/spacer.png" data-mid="1381317" border="0" /> Himnusz Tedd magadévá, kölyök. találtamegy hajszál a péniszemben, és egy titkos affinitásfekete-fehérhez. A mai napunk csak a tegnapunkbeszappanozva ésapadó hullámok, úgy tűnik, az ember mindig a közepén van.Kalap alszik a hajában,tartós vákuumot kell hozniavisszafelé. A szexualitás kiürüloda, ahol razzmatazz lakik, ízlésesen. Elég volt mára házi videóból. Találkozzunk a ravasz szivarnál,mint egy dob, mint egy álom, mint egy pénztárosbemelegíti az indítót, hogy visszafizesse egy ördögért.<img width="275" height="175" width_o="275" height_o="175" src_o="https://cortex.persona.co/t/original/i/c924c39b20d037d4e452a86b9d14e6e14403648c9ff6d427f667ef7d56e95ab2/spacer.png" data-mid="1381315" border="0" /> Feltaláltam a szegénységet, bátor voltam, meggyőző,és mindent észrevett a dolgok alakjairól.A gyerekek belém (egy asztalba) merítették a késeiket.Most mindketten lépcsőnek öltözve vagyunk a partinplusz narancssárga papírdarabkák. Az első szó, ami jöna puglikák, majd a flitterek, aztán az oszlopok jutnak eszünkbefehér hajjal. Felhív minden titkos vágyat,Itt vagyok, és a füzetembe írok. A fétisek listája: énés te, én és te, mind irizálszés nullák borítják. Serdülőkkijött a rózsabokrok közül és megszúrtcsapjaikkal. A lyukakból levegőt játszott;A mellbimbók vagy almák királya, lejöttmint egy ág a szélbenvagy egy pók csókjavagy egyetemisták. Jaj, még mindig olyan vagyok, mint én: egy szem, egy fog, egy sör,készen áll a gabonasziget fogadására.Ez a táncvagy csak egy újabb emlékeztető egy kínos személyes eseményre?Mint az eső verte a férjétminden másodperc közelebb vonzott a pénztároshoz (nem ahhoz, akinek gondolod magad). <img width="275" height="175" width_o="275" height_o="175" src_o="https://cortex.persona.co/t/original/i/c924c39b20d037d4e452a86b9d14e6e14403648c9ff6d427f667ef7d56e95ab2/spacer.png" data-mid="1381315" border="0" /> Úgy tenni, mintha ez zeneleckék lenne, és nem a rossz lyuk,újra és újra, ahol először jelentek meg a betűk.Várj, azt hittem, viccelsz; minden olyan, aminek látszikaz én kivételével. Gondolom kijövök a nyugdíjból.De könyörgöm, ne tedd a mérlegre ezeket a kifejezéseketaz egyéni tapasztalat, ez a kölyöklány nyárelit, speciális melanómák. Azt mondta, menj lassan, friss kavicsés csúszós olajat. Figyelt (én néztem). Mielőtt elkezdhettem volna, az algák sodródnak… homok…hegyi harmat… furcsa elmélet… (ez a mondat, izé…ez a tükör valójában nem csinál semmitamellett, hogy felfed a Missionary pozíció mögött álló rajongóknak. Arra kérsz, hogy irányítsam az életemetde ez ellenkezik a megbízóimmal.Elnézést mindenkitől, aki kapta a herpet.Virulok, de csak ott, ahol a legkevésbé számítanak ráheves esőzések és erős döngölőknem biztos benne, hogy ez mit mondnem virágzik Kényelmetlenre értettem.Ez egy utazás a memóriasávon?vagy az olvasmány valami baljósabb aspektusaszövegértési teszt. A dartstáblán, az arborétumon és a viharon keresztülnem kell többé Petőfi Zoltánnak hívnia. <img width="275" height="175" width_o="275" height_o="175" src_o="https://cortex.persona.co/t/original/i/c924c39b20d037d4e452a86b9d14e6e14403648c9ff6d427f667ef7d56e95ab2/spacer.png" data-mid="1381315" border="0" /> Külina Csongor, b. Budapest, 1992 –– 2020, Fiji. All but unpublished in his lifetime, Külina was a precocious multi-lingual disciple of György Faludy, and a rising star in Hungarian avant-garde poetry. This is his first appearance in English. Tamas Panitz is the author of several poetry books, most recently Lazy River (Creative Writing Department); and Wild Lies (New Books: 2023). He is also the author of a pornographic novella, Mercury in Lemonade (New Smut Series: 2023). He has published translations from Franch, Spanish, Hungarian, and Slovak. He teaches Language and Writing at Tennessee Wesleyan. Three Poems by Csongor Külina and Tamas Panitz&nbsp; &nbsp; translated from Hungarian by Tamas Panitz&nbsp; Hymn Make it your own, chid. I found a hair in my... http://amygdalajournal.com/lewermo Tue, 15 Oct 2024 22:40:56 +0000 amygdalajournal 454554 <img width="1500" height="231" width_o="1500" height_o="231" src_o="https://cortex.persona.co/t/original/i/7a703d16f1fc56a5d853cc0dfa39d73c2f994d533b18a61f6ef0a2cd591dd7fa/amygdala-logo-1-copy.png" data-mid="1381129" border="0" /><img width="885" height="459" width_o="885" height_o="459" src_o="https://cortex.persona.co/t/original/i/bd0a5adbb9ffe12d59c231f32df01f3ea81ac3798eccf0cd0d6bb9b3169e061c/PompLups.png" data-mid="1381130" border="0" />5 Poems - Gaius Valerius Catullus - le wermo &nbsp; &nbsp; translated from Latin by le wermo 48 i. I see your bullshit, love-orb, sinning in the forest growing on my balls where a militia balms its weary and injured, rubbing them with rose petals. I watched a video of satyrs throat fucking. In the future, when my arthritis has begun to densify, I realize I’d spent too long seated for the artist, refusing its sexual advances. ii. Juventius, let me kiss all of your eyes. Both of them and the bullseye too (butthole). My crop, thicker than an ear of corn. Shall I get down on one knee, or stick my ass in the air when I ask you to marry me? <img width="275" height="175" width_o="275" height_o="175" src_o="https://cortex.persona.co/t/original/i/05dd29cec99d76bcd89f07844010b33935fa9ca8a771fa5a2e3e8a5308eab5f8/spacer.png" data-mid="1381122" border="0" /> 21 i. Aurelius, let’s pitter patter on each other's scrotums. Do you want to kiss my boyfriend because of your educational status? [Silence] I attacked first. I accept it. [Silence] I’ll join you in your sick investigation, if you allow me to frolic in the water like a child. ii. No manners can dampen my furious lust. Your cock’s Cupid’s arrow and it landed in my clam-tight ass. But, like Icarus, you soften when you get too high. Frustrating. I will study the satyr inside me, suture my hurt. My destiny is to remain a boy, gobble cock, and take it up the ass again. <img width="275" height="175" width_o="275" height_o="175" src_o="https://cortex.persona.co/t/original/i/8adb52ad6c52630afac8748a6e4a3f3aa91c0b95df408b0cbf3851f369f338b0/spacer.png" data-mid="1381123" border="0" /> 83 i. Plucked flower, how many have smelled you? Limp, malleable as hot gold. I would rather Midas pluck you, turn you to gold forever to stop your withering. Ask my servants to find and place you safely in some Ark of the Covenant, where I can make love to you while a handsome gay guy watches, restlessly tugging his cock like a bad habit. ii. We’re listening to Arca. A firecracker flung thru the window. I run like a hot goof. What can I say, I’m a hemophiliac. <img width="275" height="175" width_o="275" height_o="175" src_o="https://cortex.persona.co/t/original/i/64fdc68c4e55989e4e547d1b6a543c4e82506f98306b96f6de1a35130b59ea07/spacer.png" data-mid="1381124" border="0" /> 15 Keep basted my turkey, &amp; gargle modestly my boys for me. Don't feed them the password to my hard-drive, and keep the thermometer up their backsides. In a towel, in the Pentagon, in the hotbed with smooth boys, there are those men, baffleless, who grope where they please, as if facing withdrawals. Feminism will structure their oblivions. Salute my morning wood, my wishbone pure and pearlish turquoise–softening as you modestly garnish it, not with porcelain nor with thorn, more like an agate in a hot tub. Our grapevines on the trellis would become sentient, if we didn’t wither them to wine. <img width="275" height="175" width_o="275" height_o="175" src_o="https://cortex.persona.co/t/original/i/f26d56c2dba76978e767a959443ea34d1c04d5fd7554cfb2b37ad9cc0506ce66/spacer.png" data-mid="1381126" border="0" /> 16 i. I saunter aimlessly around the predicate. It’s pathetic when they discuss movies, it makes me feel like my ex is stuck inside my ass. There isn’t a saintly molecule in my body, because I put them all in my poems. So don’t get all bent up on your leprechaun hunt. Feed the possum that you call your cunt. Roll the dice. Do you want to debase yourself with me? We can murder each other’s asses. ii. I will fuck your ass, I will fuck your mind, you faggot, you dick-sucker. I will take your spine and replace it with a hard cock, and fuck you every night like pudding nonwithstanding. Where is your sense of humor? You ride me like a pony, nose bleeding like we’re in a shonen. I’ll tie a bow around your waist so you look cute as I fuck you in the ass and the mind. <img width="275" height="175" width_o="275" height_o="175" src_o="https://cortex.persona.co/t/original/i/a1660e37c9b2bfe756ee97763dc9eb0d7f33696774513869eb70ca6dc6c63037/spacer.png" data-mid="1381127" border="0" /> 99 I stuttered at our footsie game, dear Juventus– now swing at me your sweet greasy weapon. I don’t find it shameful: ounce after ounce, ounce after ounce, I remember the taste of that sugarplum wine… or is the topic now a crypt? I made amulets for you, weeping. I weeviled for you like a little crumb, dull as a tiger-tooth lost in a labyrinth-mouth. Call me a womanizer! Every book I write drowning in the sweet grease of your weapon, becoming the silent outcry of a suffocating mouse. <img width="275" height="175" width_o="275" height_o="175" src_o="https://cortex.persona.co/t/original/i/efb8a26e1ed67f561fec101444b96f08c6941bb8d28dfbc6f1dad8dd32bd1631/spacer.png" data-mid="1381128" border="0" /> Gaius Valerius Catullus (c.84 - c.54 bce) was a poet from verona, italy who wrote in latin during the late roman republic. he was a bisexual king of gossip who wrote in the neoteric tradition during the rule of julius caesar. trevor conferred with gaius by utilizing their keen extrasensory abilities, shifting timelines to collaborate with catullus, ensuring accuracy and preserving authorial intent while enhancing and modernizing the poems.le wermo is one of the poetic alter egos of trevor bashaw. le wermo is freaky-hot and functions as a natural orgone accumulator, often contemplating the erotic, the ecosexual, the mundane, and the apophenic. trevor bashaw (the person) is an artist, writer and educator from kansas/arkansas. but they are currently stranded in the central valley of california (help!) where they teach esl to uc davis international students and creative writing to the good children of sacramento. trevor has a dog named peppa pleek and is always walking her around. trevor has recently published work with the screen door review and the call center collective. 5 Poems - Gaius Valerius Catullus - le wermo &nbsp; &nbsp; translated from Latin by le wermo 48 i. I see your bullshit, love-orb, sinning in the forest... http://amygdalajournal.com/Leonidas Tue, 10 Sep 2024 20:03:49 +0000 amygdalajournal 454238 <img width="1500" height="231" width_o="1500" height_o="231" src_o="https://cortex.persona.co/t/original/i/3f7a0e7c42cde81939096a0659c7d1706c2ad5a18f762c9591daa93d893a02c5/amygdala.png" data-mid="1377645" border="0" /> <img width="1192" height="1354" width_o="1192" height_o="1354" src_o="https://cortex.persona.co/t/original/i/16ef1d91ec95ed1f9d69ede507f2d43981b9b51830678cd463288b9694ad4a2b/Screen-Shot-2024-09-11-at-8.10.47-AM.png" data-mid="1377741" border="0" /> Excerpts from “Zarpa” and “La Muerte del Amor” - Leónidas Lamborghini &nbsp;&nbsp; translated from the Spanish by Alexis Almeida Zarpa 1. the distance. the memory you can’t see. the memory of the distance without streets. the memory: the launching of the memory without streets the launching of the memory in the distance without streets, the launching of the memory that can’t see. the distance that launches in the memory without seeing the launching of the distance. The distance: the launching of the memory on a street that doesn’t remember that doesn’t see. 2. the window. the tones. the pupils. what it contemplates: the window. what the window contemplates: the dying. the pupils of the window, the tones that contemplate. the tones of the dying. what is contemplated in the dying: the tones the dying&nbsp; of contemplation. the dying of contemplation of the window. the window of contemplating the dying. the tones of the dying. the pupils of contemplation dying from the contemplated window 6. to see again: to return softly. the desire to flourish softly in the return. the desire to return to flourishing.&nbsp; to return in the desire to return: softlysoftly 7. the changed. that which how it changed. that yourself. what changed in yourself. what there will be in the changed. the how that changed. what changed or will have changed. what had to have changed. what will have changed in the will have. the yourself in what there will be. the yourself changed in what there will be of you, of yourself 8. the night. the night of the faith. the night of the no of the night of faith. 9. the anchoring of the anchor. what anchors. the anchored. that which is anchored. the anchor that anchors that which, the stranded without. he who doesn’t know. to which the snow. to which he doesn’t know if anyone knows. the anchoring of not knowing in the snow that doesn’t fall, the snow that doesn’t know if anyone knows. And doesn’t fall. he who is anchored and doesn’t know what anchors him. he who is stranded in the snow that doesn’t fall. he who is stranded in the snow that isn’t there and falls without knowing if anyone knows it isn’t there. the anchor that anchors what isn’t there in the who knows if. the anchoring anchored in the who knows if. the anchoring anchored in the snow that doesn’t fall: which is in what is stranded without knowing if anyone knows. that which can’t be known: the anchoring of that which can’t be known in the snow that is stranded and doesn’t fall. that which he who is and isn’t stranded but doesn’t know that he’s not there: or who knows. the anchoring of the anchor in the anchored that doesn’t know if the snow or doesn’t fall or falls or if it isn’t stranded or if it is or doesn’t know if or if it isn’t there. <img width="275" height="175" width_o="275" height_o="175" src_o="https://cortex.persona.co/t/original/i/0f1b273238e6e287ef1fa2e0fda1c44fe8af6b3f82b8b802630f6630d99ad02b/spacer-1.png" data-mid="1377641" border="0" /> La Muerte del Amor&nbsp; Love swimming in the soup counting coins&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; - &nbsp; &nbsp; Money&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; - &nbsp; &nbsp; Money&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; - &nbsp; &nbsp; Money A costume without a carnival passes by eating slices of air and says that it’s going to fix the world.&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; -&nbsp; &nbsp; But it doesn’t have a mattress to float on– And Love calls him up. And the costume tells him so much bullshit That Love ends up drowning&nbsp; in the soup. <img width="275" height="175" width_o="275" height_o="175" src_o="https://cortex.persona.co/t/original/i/0f1b273238e6e287ef1fa2e0fda1c44fe8af6b3f82b8b802630f6630d99ad02b/spacer-1.png" data-mid="1377641" border="0" /> Leónidas Lamborghini was an Argentine writer, poet, and playwright. He is the author of many books, including Verme y 11 reescrituras de Discépolo (1988), Saboteador arrepentido (1955), and El solicitante descolocado (1971). While studying at the University of Buenos Aires he worked in textiles, and later worked as a journalist. He is the brother of Osvaldo Lamborghini who was also a writer. He lived in México with his family between 1977 and 1990, and is the recipient of several prizes, including the Leopoldo Marechal prize in 1991, the Diploma al Mérito en Poesía in 2004 y, Arturo Jauretche prize in 2005.Alexis Almeida grew up in Chicago. She is the author of the chapbooks I Have Never Been Able to Sing (Ugly Duckling Presse, 2018), and Things I Have Made a Fiction (winner of the Oversound Chapbook prize), and most recently the translator of Dalia Rosetti's Dreams and Nightmares (Les Figues, 2019).&nbsp; Her translation of Roberta Iannamico's Many Poems will be out with The Song Cave later this year, and her first full-length book, Caetano, is forthcoming with The Elephants in 2025. She teaches at the Bard Microcollege at the Brooklyn Public Library and Pratt Institute, and edits 18 Owls Press. Excerpts from “Zarpa” and “La Muerte del Amor” - Leónidas Lamborghini &nbsp;&nbsp; translated from the Spanish by Alexis Almeida Zarpa 1. the... http://amygdalajournal.com/Mariam Mon, 01 Jul 2024 15:40:02 +0000 amygdalajournal 453617 <img width="1500" height="231" width_o="1500" height_o="231" src_o="https://cortex.persona.co/t/original/i/ac83b2e2b079a8a4c5e58781a4e387ab6dcea19d0e468eaa1100c561f7e052ff/amygdala.png" data-mid="1370232" border="0" /> <img width="2244" height="1496" width_o="2244" height_o="1496" src_o="https://cortex.persona.co/t/original/i/ebfc3bc051a0fee7a0caa9d434988cfd200dacceb7a5a5e7839c368e990fff4b/Screen-Shot-2024-07-01-at-12.15.24-PM.png" data-mid="1370234" border="0" /> Memory of the City - Mariam Mohamed al Khateeb&nbsp; &nbsp; translated from Arabic by Fatema AlhashemiI would rather die an old man with Alzheimer's without the memory of a country weighing down his shoulders when spoken to about his city he answers "Where is it?” or to die a child in a warm embrace knowing nothing about the city but his mother's face something about that death is innocent pure a death adorned occuring once and I'm buried but now death kills me a thousand times a day a thousand times I clench my teeth firmly holding on to my mother onto life a thousand times I fear bathing so memories don’t wash off my mind a thousand times I train my mind to forget forget who I am my first memory I hang my sorrow my fear to dry every morning to forget about them only for them to get bombed for me to fear some more I pull my heart out every day to stop feeling I live life madly to hang onto it I write the names of my friends on the sleepy walls above them I carry their faraway bodies and try to leave I put their pictures under the soil to bury them I gather my memories in a box place it on the roof of my house to melt with the sun ***&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; كُنت أفضل أن أموت عجوزاً مصاباً بالزهايمر لا يحمل ذكرى البلاد على كتفيه &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp; وحين تخبره عن مدينته يجيبك أين هي؟ &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; أو أن أموت طفلاً في حضن دافئ لا يعلم عن المدينة سوى حضن أمه &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; شيء ما يجعل هذا الموت بريئاً صافياً &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp; موت منمق ، يحصل مرة واحد &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp; وأُدفن &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;أما أنا الآن الموت يقتلني في اليوم ألف مرة &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; ألف مرة أُكرّز على أسناني بقوة وامسك بأمي كي لا أموت، ألف مرة أخاف من الاستحمام كي لا&nbsp; &nbsp; أغسل الذكرى من عقلي، ألف مرة أدرب عقلي على النسيان، نسيان من أنا، وما هي ذاكرتي الأولى، &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; أعلق حزني وخوفي على منشر بيتنا كل صباح كي أنساه فيُقصف وأخاف أكثر &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;اخلع قلبي كل يوم كي لا أشعر &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp; وأمارس الحياة بجنون كي لا أفقدها &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;اكتب أسماء أصدقائي على الجدران النائمة فوقهم &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; احمل أجسادهم البعيدة وأحاول أن أرحل &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp; أضع صورهم تحت التراب ليدفنوا &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; واجمع ذكرياتي في صندوق وأضعه على سطح منزلي ليذوب مع الشمس &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; أحول أحلامي الصغيرة لأحلام مقنعة &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp; أحلم أن أموت بشكل مقنع &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; أن أموت كاملاً &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;وحيداً &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; أتمنى أن لا يموت أحد معي &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; أريد أن أكون في السماء وحدي &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;لأتحسس الخواء الذي كان يرتطم في رأسي &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp;وأُنزل الشهداء إلى الأرض ليدفنوا وليمروا سالمين إلى الجنة &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; أريد أن أرى من الذي وضعني على كف الموت ورحل؟ <img width="275" height="175" width_o="275" height_o="175" src_o="https://cortex.persona.co/t/original/i/04230e2ef6d6b71e16a9a0eb55844d7c42ff90e481fa2bb96e4b22087919567b/spacer.png" data-mid="1370233" border="0" /> Mariam Mohamed al Khateeb is a Palestinian, Gazan writer, poet , social activist, òud player, dental student and the most importantly, Gencocide surviver. She is a dental student and lives with her family in the Gaza strip. You can find her work on the Electronic Intifada, Palestine Deep Dive, TRT World, and more.&nbsp; You can find her on instagram here. And you can donate to help her and her family get out of Gaza here.Fatema Alhashemi&nbsp;is a writer, translator, and researcher based in NYC. Memory of the City - Mariam Mohamed al Khateeb&nbsp; &nbsp; translated from Arabic by Fatema AlhashemiI would rather die an old man with Alzheimer's without... http://amygdalajournal.com/Pearl Wed, 17 Apr 2024 20:40:49 +0000 amygdalajournal 452684 <img width="1500" height="231" width_o="1500" height_o="231" src_o="https://cortex.persona.co/t/original/i/77cc324f03305bd3ef3b0144c7b4e33c581047a6ea3f936f100c4223848ca56f/amygdala-logo-1-copy.png" data-mid="1365906" border="0" /> <img width="6306" height="4182" width_o="6306" height_o="4182" src_o="https://cortex.persona.co/t/original/i/2e5ae5256f18b4c6d48720aa089be404173a27cd0720c2787394c13d8290c994/unnamed-1.jpg" data-mid="1365905" border="0" /> INCEST PLAY - Pearly Freedland A NOTE ON STYLE: This play transverses styles, switching between metered rhyme and smutty, colloquial free verse. This is an intentional choice—my desire here is to call into question the canon, to prod at the sutures of the stylized plays of the past. Words are a form of music, but as we catapult further into Late Capitalism, as we understand that we are responsible for our own destruction, what type of music are we trying to create? What does meter, rhyme, and the poetic constraints of the English canon serve to do? Does it make us nostalgic for the music of the past? Does it serve as a beautifying aesthetic? If so, then why do we continue to strive for beauty in the midst of so much collective self-annihilation? My goal, therefore, is disorientation. I want dissonance. I want irony and for the metered, more poetic sections to be presented in an ironic, effete manner that serves as pure delusion. Only the smut is clear and illustrious. The smut is reality. CHARACTERS: SISTER 1: Two years older, loud and a bon vivant. Knows how to love herself, but desires death more. SISTER 2: Quiet and yielding, self-deprecates with kindness; Would kill if necessary. SOPHIA: Witty and effete, truly one of a kind, lives by the aphorism “don’t dream it, be it.” CHORUS: A band of demons, a touch ugly but DRIPPING in sex appeal. Intermittently will do bumps of ket mid-sentence. PLACE: Set in the Great Lakes Region, in any town not on a lake—landlocked and rusting, save for the lazy red river (St. Dupree)—and New York City. TIME: Shifting between now, or— the impending apocalypse—and, the past, or— a complex intimacy SCENE 1 SISTER 2 wakes up from a dream, sweat percolates on her forehead in drops. She bolts up from the bed placed mid-stage, alone and engulfed in darkness except the one spotlight illuminating her. SISTER 2 I am dreaming of her again, my Sophia, deluding in that relation broken. Longing this dead thing I grieve, her with one of her lovers—me who took myself from that knowing— her and her lover, wearing pup masks— me, &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; voyeur, observing as you licked and lapped blue jays from each other’s mouths. Lights go out. Lights come back on and the CHORUS stands in one line. For this scene, each devil speaks about two sentences, and either mid-sentence or end of sentence, snorts some ket, and passes the bag on to the next demon.&nbsp; CHORUS (at certain points the demons volley questions at each other, and this is denoted with “-”) - Ah, SISTER 2. Messy bitch, haha. - Isn’t she the one who started to fuck her sisters’ soon to be roommate? - Sure did, the little slut. - While she and her sister continued to play out their dom/sub rope bunny kink dynamic? - There’s a special place in hell for freaks like her. (Makes a heart with its hands.) - Yet she broke it off after four weeks… - Well, Sister 1 was not pleased. After a week she calmed down but it was enough to send that young Sister 2 to heaven and you know the bullshit they’re serving up there, Original Sin and all that. - Damn, I thought that humans were getting over “good” and “evil.” Like hello! The world is ending! Just fuck who you want and have fun before Mother Earth kills you! - Oh, give her a break. She was young and still wading through a lot of childhood shit. She still had a lot to learn about navigating queer relationships. - She really went a bit nuts though, once she regretted her choice…&nbsp; The demons snicker. - It was kind of epic, though, don’t you think? Possession meets Kill Bill. Those remain some of the most delectable images of human depravity. - Should we end our collective monologue with some cryptic words that leave the audience hot, bothered, and wanton? - What else are we here for? Demons clear their throats and say in an effete manner, in unison: And so, in that moment of destruction, she beheld it, her power, but the months, and years, that followed would forever torment her, and the hate she felt towards herself got redirected towards her sister—now living, now loving this ex—ballooned until all that felt appropriate was death, but not necessarily her own. The CHORUS howls the wail increases until it buzzes to blackout. Scene II The CHORUS stands on stage right, back stage while our sisters who are young stand stage left, front stage stripped of all clothes except 1 dollar bills covering their sex. CHORUS On the shores of St. Dupree a particular lore of two sisters fated of most sickening love— a story of desire left unabated. The weakened humus of the forest’s floor foreshadowed a culture in decline. Cats darted with the devil, townspeople retched at this ludicrous level two sisters stooped, with Beezlebub and Lilith. We open our scene at the top of the stairs where two young girls lean with dollar bills on their sex, pulsing like rhythmic rats as an energy booms from mycelial cells of a shared womb. The sexes throb, hips gyrate, all a slick design of bate for the babysitter’s attention they wish to sate. Two whore children— it’s always about daddy— you (CHORUS points to the audience) do not judge their fiction. SISTERS 1 &amp; 2 (in unison) We bear witness to our prepubescent sacks, hollow with warmth, the end of our days as fossil fuels burn bright, the algae bloom of carbon blankets the stones of this river furry like our father’s back, my little ape, that's our mother’s coo— my little ape, she tells him. This monotonous monogamy, this nuclear family of state control tells us 24 hours in a day 365 days in a year; moralizes our love, our tiny pricks, oh, but aren’t pricks enlarged clits? These dollars which conceal our sex, are sex? Babysitter… are we beautiful? Our burlesque to keep this life which drags in this house, our grave. To be free! Let us rave! Life may get better this love is our alter clove and myrrh bookended time, the weekly sabbath our presence… do you love us? We put on a good show. Lights fade to black. Scene III In New York City, SISTER 2 in a shibari bind while SISTER 1 circles her with a paddle in hand. SISTER 2 Dear sister please loosen this knot for it takes from my pleasure. SISTER 1 loosens the cutting knot. SISTER 1 When you and Sophia kissed I felt love’s death in my body bereft. SISTER 2 (to herself) If only I had known there is the devil in love, I would’ve been more kind and held her closer. SISTER 1 (with consenting concern) Does it feel better? SISTER 2 Yes, my love. SISTER 1 wields the paddle as her desire overcomes. SISTER 1 I have toppled towers, unperturbed in grace, as you walk without knowledge of violence. I will make this known to you. SISTER 2 Let it be so. My soul grows for you. A primordial injustice, our parents’ restraint I escape and must accept this lot in faith. The CHORUS emerges From the background. CHORUS To what end must they suffer? Humankind and their self-obsession, a taxing lure. Scene V SISTER 1 blindfolds SISTER 2, flips her on her stomach and bends her ass into the air, prodding her sex with her hands and feeling SISTER 2’s hole. SISTER 1: You little slut, how does this feel? SISTER 2: No response except soft wail SISTER 1: I asked, how does this feel? SISTER 2: Good, sister, good SISTER 1 takes a paddle and softly rubs it against SISTER 2’s ass, then spanks her hard until SISTER 2 cries out SISTER 2: Oh, yes, oh, owww, oh sister! SISTER 1: Your pain is irrelevant. SISTER 1 slaps her again. She takes a dildo and shoves it into SISTER 2’s hole. SISTER 1: How does that feel? SISTER 2 cries in pain, and SISTER 1 takes rope and gags SISTER 1’s mouth. SISTER 1: Tell me you’ll never fuck around with that bitch again. SISTER 2 spits out words, gagged SISTER 1 rhythmically slaps SISTER 2’s buttocks, and with each strike, SISTER 2 squeals out OW, OW, OW in a crescendo until SISTER 2: UNDERTOW, UNDERTOW SISTER 1 stops. She gets off from the couch and lights a cigarette. SISTER 1: What did it this time? SISTER 2: Pain and paranoia. The thought that you might fuck Sophia. SISTER 1: I have no interest in that. We live together. Your paranoia is a dangerous tool. I’m sorry you think this way. SISTER 2: You will betray me. SISTER 1: (scoffs) After your betrayal, it's only fitting. SISTER 2: I can’t do this anymore. I have to leave. SISTER 2 begins to gather her clothes, strewn across the stage. She looks at SISTER 1 before she leaves and begins to cry. Lights fade to black. <img width="275" height="175" width_o="275" height_o="175" src_o="https://cortex.persona.co/t/original/i/417f054afde3d815b633fa7ba3174e6a7bb582980e5e239d8cc399327c8ca116/spacer.png" data-mid="1359207" border="0" /> Pearly Freedland&nbsp;grew up on Potawatomi lands/northern Indiana and now resides on Lenape lands/Brooklyn. A Rabbi's kid, she's a witch and a budding herbalist dedicated to the liberation of Palestine and the Earth's forests. She looks forward to the day when she lives off-grid. Previous work has been published in Spectra and forthcoming in smokeandmold. INCEST PLAY - Pearly Freedland A NOTE ON STYLE: This play transverses styles, switching between metered rhyme and smutty, colloquial free verse. This is an... http://amygdalajournal.com/Lou-Renard Wed, 17 Apr 2024 20:33:05 +0000 amygdalajournal 452683 <img width="1500" height="231" width_o="1500" height_o="231" src_o="https://cortex.persona.co/t/original/i/cd125644c84b0c134596b1b5a57ebccb55a256dd185675cc32016390474e2699/amygdala-logo-1-copy.png" data-mid="1359206" border="0" /><img width="458" height="344" width_o="458" height_o="344" src_o="https://cortex.persona.co/t/original/i/53cc65fcade5a6920f255c7b694779e9e8400f62c4f96f6b19d10757a38452e8/tumblr_p9j7g4DO4x1tewhsno1_500.jpg" data-mid="1359205" border="0" /> J -Lou Renard J has a hole in his pants. Shredded at the edges like it was pulled apart by teeth. A few&nbsp; gratuitous inches above his knee. Is it put there intentionally? Evan runs her finger around its&nbsp; rim, and wonders if his dick would fit through. She asks him where he’s from. Detroit, he tells&nbsp; her, has colder winters than New York. She believes him, though the conditions here are clear:&nbsp; neither of them are expected to tell the truth. For Ev, belief has always felt like a guilty pleasure. He goes to Burning Man every year. Smooth and buff as Doctor Manhattan. Keeps a&nbsp; regimented diet: no sugar, no alcohol, lots of 2C-B. His apartment looks out onto the park. He&nbsp; tells her he gets off on the way her name tastes. Lena: it’s swanlike, elegant. Ev likes to bend into the role a bit. Walks around the apartment nude and blithe, flipping through&nbsp; expensive coffee table books. Perches odalisque in the windowsill, ass on the heater grill,&nbsp; draped in a cashmere blanket, while she quizzes the man on what he’s read. There’s a catalog&nbsp; from the gallery she used to work at. She picks it up with obvious distaste and recognition.&nbsp; What? he asks, and she goes Oh, I have beef with them, mysteriously, like maybe she’s fucked&nbsp; someone there. Maybe she isn’t as far from his world as he thinks she is.&nbsp; Ev learned recently that someone her ex was fucking also had an arrangement with J. Some&nbsp; people have a type. J’s was high-femme boy pussy, but he didn’t know it. He also had an&nbsp; obvious infatuation with dolls, and Ev hadn’t worked out if it was a repressed gender thing or&nbsp; unadulterated chaser behavior. Probably, as in most cases, a mixture of both.&nbsp; But Ev didn’t push it with J. For him, she was simple: she put on makeup and carried herself a&nbsp; certain way. She didn’t ask him to use any pronouns at all. If he chose what wasn’t expected,&nbsp; she would be mildly surprised and somewhat pleased. Besides, there was rarely the need for a&nbsp; pronoun in these situations—something Ev could almost appreciate. Lena, of course, shares&nbsp; Ev’s best quality: she’s an excellent listener.&nbsp; In another life they could have been friends, or lovers. In this one she pulls a ginger beer and&nbsp; fresh mint from the stocked fridge and makes a virgin cocktail while he snorts the pepto-pink&nbsp; powder, and she takes a sip before walking over and curtly grabbing his dick over his pants.&nbsp; She sticks two fingers in the hole above his knee while she makes her way from his collarbone&nbsp; to his chest with her lips, making small, pressured circles on his outer thigh where the edge of&nbsp; the hole stretches.&nbsp; There is a hole in his pants, and she’s making it wider. She feels the fibers pulling—strange,&nbsp; weren’t these pants expensive? —and tugs it. She can crouch at various levels for long periods&nbsp; of time; an advantageous skill when she reaches the upper crease of his pubic V, too high up to&nbsp; get on her knees yet. She pulls both fingers out of the hole in his pants. It wasn’t subtle before,&nbsp; but now it’s obvious. She quickly undoes his belt and pulls down the waistband, tongue still slick&nbsp; with ginger and mint. The carbonation settled her stomach. He tastes clean, like an underripe&nbsp; avocado. He gently tugs her head back and pushes her on her knees, bending his, starting to move in and out of her mouth. He has a hole in his pants. She pauses to take them off his feet&nbsp; all the way. He kicks them across the floor. He tilts her face up; she sticks her tongue out. He&nbsp; pushes far enough inside the back of her throat that she gags. Her tears shine like pearls of&nbsp; heaven. Bernini’s Saint Teresa is toothless. He has a hole in his pants. The enduring symbol of&nbsp; the O appears before her. Something shimmery, a quivering spiderweb. When she looks up at&nbsp; his face, she sees his aura. It’s deep purple, all bruise and velvet. Sucking his cock becomes a&nbsp; meditation. She knows her face looks messy and he likes it. She can feel the tip slip down past&nbsp; her gag reflex, the familiar urge to vomit, then the familiar control. He feels her gasp and pulls&nbsp; out for a second. You okay? he asks and she goes, Yes, genuinely, and resumes sucking him&nbsp; off with new fervor, as if to prove it. After a moment, he weakens in her mouth. She pulls her lips&nbsp; away, trailing gossamer arcs of spit.&nbsp; For Ev, the essence of clit is thing that throbs. His clit is the color of the brick on her building, the&nbsp; walls of the courtyard outside the window that glow briefly at a certain hour. He has a hole in his&nbsp; pants. But there’s no reason to put them on now. They are both naked, and she giggles and&nbsp; wipes her face a bit with the back of her hand, stands up, takes a sip of the ginger beer. It’s cold&nbsp; on the back of her throat.&nbsp; - Lena, he tells her. When he goes soft, he always makes a face like a puppy next to a shredded&nbsp; bag of trash. It’s part of their routine, now: he’ll slow down, and she’ll reassure him that it’s&nbsp; perfectly fine, that sex is all about the journey, appealing to his Burning Man pseudo-hetero&nbsp; sensibility, while he re-ups on the drugs. Then the sex will get increasingly complicated.&nbsp; Last time, he handed her a dildo of comical proportions, the kind that makes her dysphorically&nbsp; aware of her capacity to stretch enough to give birth. But when he said the last girl I brought&nbsp; here made it look easy she pictured her ex’s lover and rose to the challenge elegantly, yeast&nbsp; infection and all, stretching herself in front of him until it was in to its baseball-sized silicone&nbsp; balls. And it turned her on too, the ache of fullness.&nbsp; Twice, he’d called another girl over. The first time was fine, fun even. Ev helped arrange it, and&nbsp; she knew the other girl, who was trans, and immediately attune to the established dynamic Ev&nbsp; had with J. The girl picked up on when Ev was getting tired or being a little too girled and took&nbsp; over. Ev felt an immense sense of relief having her there, knowing that her act was being&nbsp; acknowledged as an act. It was a gracious, even precious encounter, coy truth folded in the&nbsp; cloak of anonymity. Afterwards, they split an Uber back to Brooklyn and debriefed with a full&nbsp; psychiatric diagnostic panel for J, and Ev got a second take on the is-he-or-isn’t-he-a transsexual question. The second time he called another girl over, Ev almost cut things off. She’d been there for&nbsp; twenty minutes before he put on that puppy face and it wasn’t ‘cause his dick went soft.&nbsp; Leeeenaaaa he’d crooned, and she instinctively went to the cabinet where he kept his drugs to&nbsp; pull out a pre-roll. I called another girl, is that okay? he said. It wasn’t. Ev was in a mood and wanted to be railed hard for an hour and leave. But she gritted her teeth and smiled like nothing&nbsp; was wrong and said Of course. When the unexpected guest showed up, one of the first things she made clear was that she did&nbsp;not eat pussy, that she was “very straight,” but okay watching Lena suck J off. She was very&nbsp; professional. Lena found herself admiring the woman’s tricks, particularly the way that she&nbsp; deflected J’s blurrier advances. But she also felt the unwelcome, familiar twinge of that&nbsp; impossible standard, woman, being cast over her, a nebulous gaze awkwardly interwoven with&nbsp; comparison and solidarity.&nbsp; J and the woman pulled out a full-body set of leather cuffs, the neck, wrists, and ankles linked&nbsp; together with long, tuggable chains. Fuck it, thought Ev, at least this way she could leave it to&nbsp; the straight woman to take the lead. The whole thing was laughably pornographic, like the GIFs&nbsp; that popped up on Tumblr when she was twelve. The woman’s hands felt detached on her body,&nbsp; medical, almost, in a way that wasn’t unpleasant but reminded Ev distinctly of the High School&nbsp; party feel-ups she’d had with her straight friends. At some point she squirted, an anatomical feat&nbsp; she’d recently unlocked and enjoyed flaunting on someone else’s sheets. She was grateful&nbsp; when the whole thing was over, though she and the other woman still texted each other when&nbsp; they got home safe.&nbsp; - After that, she only saw J once, and he disappointed her. Maybe the presence of someone who&nbsp; was actually straight and cis had thinned the mirage. For all of his pomp, Ev knew the type of&nbsp; man she attracted, and it was usually the type who wanted more than what she was willing to&nbsp; give. When J sensed this, he became violent. Not enough to really hurt her, but enough to make&nbsp; her cut their visit short, and walk a handful of blocks down to a brighter-lit avenue before calling&nbsp; a car home.&nbsp; Passing over the bridge, the night crumpled like a rotting apple. Something bacterial gushed up&nbsp; in her, a craving for specificity. She wanted to text her ex, but they weren’t speaking. The&nbsp; specter of a pillowed touch brushed her neck where it was still red. A hole opened in the core. It widened and then wrinkled into collapse.<img width="275" height="175" width_o="275" height_o="175" src_o="https://cortex.persona.co/t/original/i/5aa939bc9e16cd60accbbc93113ea1c8562e0f539d757dd64d16d18882a6de7d/spacer.png" data-mid="1359204" border="0" />Lou Renard is a fata morgana. J -Lou Renard J has a hole in his pants. Shredded at the edges like it was pulled apart by teeth. A few&nbsp; gratuitous inches above his knee. Is it put there...