Dustash – fallsettle ‘cross the bloodied land, its people raped by empire, the new city arisen on a heap of flesh.
New Gaza.
Leshemchot-ir.
There was (and there was not) a striking city by the sea, its silversmooth skyscrapers so serene against the sky. Arable fields of black, wet soil sang lushgreen to the coast, which called across the strip ‘n o’er the land unto the river.
New Gaza.
Tevach-ir.
It bustled with a frenzied, frantic trade – the shoreline at the centre of the world! Proudly did its denizens zip about the seafront ‘n the streets ‘n th’roads!
Busy busy brand-new wond’rous place!
Futuristic, famed resort!
New Gaza.
Sho’a-ir.
Pompous Cunt lay lounging in lethargic victory beneath the sun. He slicked back his handsome hair.
Brilliant!
Reflecting on his latest column, the British journalist began to masturbate to the memory of what he’d written, finishing loudly to the rage of critics. Lying in his vast self-satisfaction, lips curled-up with a smugly wisdom, he formulated titles for a future piece.
Israel, Islam, and… Israel, Islam, and Is… Is-The-Moronic-Left-Ready-To-Admit-That-Genocide-Was-Necessary? Hah! Oh Pompous, you intellectual powerhouse!
He shuffle-shifted in the resort’s lounge chair, dragging his lazing body up to sitting as he grabbed for his refilled wine, wearing its red upon his teeth.
Pompous Cunt had earned his place in the haven-heaven of New Gaza. Americans ‘n Brits ‘n Europeans ‘n Israelis altogether in harmonious ‘n peaceful perfect pride! His fiery valour had ensured that the great Old Hateful Savage would see him blessed. Now freed from the need for to fight for the right to exterminate the Arabs, the Oxfordian-Etonian lapped up the spoils of conquest.
Not far from the lounge where th’courageous propagandist came ‘n went, Deceitful Prick stood smirking from his vantage point. With a democratic air, he oversaw the installation of his hybrid-master’s sculpture – grand reward for his master for his master’s gory hands!
He licked his own hands; wiped his tie across his mouth ‘n chin. He smeared the debris of his post-lunch olives up ‘n down his jacket-sides. From the University Of Texas to the Podium Of Bare-Faced Lies – as puppet-mouthpiece for the Office Of Empire’s Grasp, Deceitful Prick excelled. Metastasising now in the New Gaza they’d all earned, he spent his rich reward of prosp’rous gluttony at ease.
He looked again at the sculpture.
They’d captured well the wrinkled folds of white ‘n empty skin of the great corpseman who loomed lifelessly ‘n skeletal ‘n rotting.
They’d captured well the calculated falsehood of the brutal woman who’d traded off her ancestry for power.
Conjoined by the force of their brazen racist hatred of the Arab people, Emperor ‘n Empress both made love to the tools of war.
Could’ve been more… colossal. More… immense. More… reflective of our outsize role.
Deceitful Prick couldn’t help but think these criticisms as the sculpture landed, making contact with the mound they had flattened-out at the top for to host the art. But there it stood in mighty glory, th’lone ‘n level sands beyond stretched out on the rack of another stolen landscape.
Great skeletons of metalbone construct construction with their craning reach!
The horizon’s decorated with the bulk of ships of nations vast!
New Gaza bubbles with a purpose since the cleansing of its pointless past!
Old Hateful Savage sat atop his pillar, naked as he looked about. High above his promised strip of land, his great God-proffered treasure, rabidly he smacked his lips, awaiting the next portion.
Caked in the fly-infested shit this military leader-man deposited in a grand, incessant stream, the apex of the pillar glowed. Séren God-Has-Given grabbed, lustful, with his hungry hands – a bucket filled with Gazan earth, flavoured with the blood of Palestine, swung upon a rope as it reached this tow’ring Nitai-top, o’erflowing. Hunching over it, the vessel locked between his thighs, he fell into a feeding frenzy, mouth-first ‘n saliva flying.
Within minutes, he was kicking the empty bucket off the side.
He picked his teeth with the bones of an Israeli hostage.
Everyone had adjusted now to the strange New Gazan ground, though initially it had taken some extended getting used to. Realising quickly that it could not be covered over, the government ‘n the people just adapted to it. The mess it caused was now – simply – no more considered mess. The sounds it made beneath the wheel ‘n under foot? Accepted. And life, by this industrious ‘n brave outlook on progress, was able to continue in New Gaza!
Pompous Cunt admired the sculpture of the Emperor ‘n Empress hybrid. It made him think – with disdain – about the legacy of his own leader. The Surrey boy, Spineless Fuck, had done his part – that was not in question. But Pompous Cunt still despised the man for his pretence of left-wing values.
Pandering twat… Couldn’t just own his true right-wingery!
Spineless Fuck merely had a plaque in the Hall Of Acknowledgements, one wing of the Grand Museum Of The Wond’rous War Of Extermination. Pompous Cunt made sporadic pilgrimage – the Memorial To The Great Excuse was a room he deeply loved. Every October the 7th, despite great cries of protest from Israeli citizens who still considered it a tragedy, a celebration would be held in honour of the holy Big Blank Cheque.
He cleaned his feet ‘n lower legs with his ragged cloth.
Continuing along the promenade, he looked out for a cloth station. New Gaza being the perfect society that it was, nobody dumped used cloths, threw them aside, or trashed them. Everybody – religious Jew, secular Jew, religious Christian, cultural Christian, atheist, Israeli, European, American – felt a deep, honourable, almost frenzied pride ‘n sense of ownership ‘n responsibility over keeping this bountiful ‘n beautiful ‘n beneficent city pristine ‘n prosperous ‘n powerful. The cloth stations were solid evidence of this – rather than leave its citizens to source their own cloths, or to have to wash them themselves, or to replace the cloths daily with wastesome new ones, the government provided everyone with one cloth each, which could be power-washed ‘n instant-dried with ease, for free, ‘n wherever ‘n whenever they needed!
“Ah, Deceitful!”
“Oh, Pompous – hello!”
The two men clasped hands.
“I was just looking for a station – there must be one here…”
“There is, indeed! I just used it myself.”
And, truly, this was true (truth remaining paramount for all). A few metres away, still within view of the monument, was a cloth station.
“Do you remember the smell?”
As Pompous Cunt proudly stuffed his now-cleaned cloth into his underwear, he gave the air a prolonged sniff.
“I think you are wrong.”
“Wrong?”
He gave Deceitful Prick a look ‘n crouched, one hand out-reaching to the ground.
“You imply that the smell is gone.”
He scooped up a handful of flesh ‘n bone, rotten skin, loose teeth, ‘n blood.
“If you only stop to notice it, you can still smell the genocide of the indigenous.”
Image credit – Abdel Kareem Hana/Copyright 2023, The AP.
william altoft 