live love peep show


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Who needs life when there's a wound - to dig in the wound, move around the wound, caress the wound, meet other people's wounds, compare wounds, enjoy the wound, smoke with the wound, drink with the wound, tell jokes to the wound.


Say wound, wound, wound, and feel how it becomes its own thing, with a first name and second name. You're not alone anymore.







That's the thing about the wound, about pain. It demands to be felt.  It's like nursing a baby.  You have to feed it,  you have to scratch it, You wouldn't let it starve, It must grow-your happiness depend upon it..,,.



  I love you, please marry me, make me a battered wife.




The wound is the place where the air  enters you, so you keep on making holes, you need to breath.


Please don't try to cure me. don't try to save me, I don't need a doctor,  but someone with a wound like mine to get lost with





 So now my wounds are playing with yours, pouring turpentine on each other, lighting a fire- then feeling guilty, and so forh. It's nice to see them togther-getting allong so well





I can lock myself in rehab institutions

But I guess I don't have the ability to kill this primeval urge of mine for a man to beat me to a pulp and paint my skin blue

It's like that tendency to undo people's shoelaces only so that you can bend down and tie them slowly again.





.,  let's say it, your  absence is more solid then your presence, I always miss you .but I miss you mostly when we meet






 I think we both agree that you get addicted to hunger, not to satisfaction, I feel trapped, but in the same time- such a relief -a feeling of designation, of meaning.  




   Even if I retch all over you – this still doesn't make you wretched; you'll have to work harder for it 



 Because for me to discover someone as pathetic as you is like for a normal woman to discover a shoe box with 7 abandoned, pitiful puppies.


  With you I feel a strange calm, you have made me pregnant.   At last I have a weight and a pain which stablise me, which give me meaning, I have reached the end of the road, the abyss, I have come home. 


And then he asks me whether this is more like a smoking addiction, or homosexuality.

wants to know whether you can kick off this habit.

To homosexuality, I think - that's what I say





Hard. Like a stone. A thrown stone.


Close your eyes and imagine how hard it hits.


No softening, no friction, no nothing.


I like people who build fences and walls around me, who tie barbed wires all over me and who knock my head off. Hard.


I only step on happy people.


All the sad, pathetic retches are invited to my laundry room.


"I'd love to meet you and have fun together".


It reminds me of Raphael. 47 years old, from the north. Every Monday, him and his laptop park near my house for cybersex.


I sit in my living room with a cup of tea; he's outside with his dick and computer.


It always seems to me too close, but that's how I am - a kind heart.



It's time to say "Fuck, that's disgusting", but that's who I am, a son of a bitch but that's me.

Undeserving for human consumption but that's who I am, a dirty pig but that's me,

You let me go to the essence of what's repulsive, what's thrown over the fence,

what's not to be looked at. What's squashed with the sole of your shoe, what's seeping out of the sewage, what you hate looking at when you flush it down the toilet, and say that's me. That's where I start, this I don't give up.

I'm not willing to live a life without this sickening stuff. I don't want to fix it or get over it,

or put it in a room which I'd only open on Fridays between six and eight.

And no, I don't think it's only to do with sex, not even only with sado-masochism.

It's to do with the life I chose, and still choose, to live. It's to do with stating what and who I am.

And yes.  I enjoy using you, treating you like trash, beating the hell out of you,

dragging you on the floor by your hair, sticking my cock into your anus, forcing you then to suck it, slapping you so hard it'd lead to a concussion, lifting you and walking you around by your hair like a doll on a string. I love you like I've never loved anyone before.



And I'm also married, mature, even have kids, God forbid. (What would your daughters say if they saw you now?).

There are two things I want to tell you.

One, regarding the day I couldn't stand myself anymore and asked you what you think of me, and you said "a human being" - at that moment that's exactly what I needed, something to bring me back into myself, something healing,

(not the devil, not a monster, not even superman - just human).



And the second thing I'd like to tell you is of those nights we aren't fucking like dogs fighting inside a cage, when I lie beside you, hug you and hold on to you so tightly that I leave my marks on you.



 I prefer the absurdity of loving you then the absurdity of not loving you


Seeking a new toy-girl for my Master.

So if you're tiny and looking for a father, your search may be over.

Even if you are vanilla looking for experimenting or learning, your details will be considered.

As for Father, no need for many words - he's simply amazing.

He treats his girls roughly but also knows how to caress them when needed.

He can drag out the inner whore even from the sweetest, most innocent girl.

As for me, he taught me EVERYTHING and I'm so grateful he allows me to take a little breath from in his world and allows me to find another girl for him.

Excited applications will be happily accepted in my private mail, but only if you're really a little girl looking for a father, and not some distorted woman looking for a master her own age.




 The message according to Narnia is that going out of the cupboard never ends.

 israeli art

"I think to myself,

Only don't grow up to be like me. It's a real shame if you'd grow to be me. You're so much like me, with the brown hazel eyes, the well-defined lips, the puffy cheeks and the button-like nose. It's awful, just don't be like me. What I do - do the opposite, don't learn anything at all from me. Simply don't. Don't look. Don't appreciate. Maybe you shouldn't also love anything about me, so that God forbid you won't end up trying to imitate any gesture of mine, so that you won't end up having the same look in your eyes.

Don't look me in the eyes, don't smile tiny smiles at me. Look left, right, up or down... Don't look at me. Don't grow up to be like me. Don't try, you will succeed - and it would be sickening. Don't dream like me, don't sink like me. Don't remind me even a little, don't think like me and don't believe like me and of course, don't surrender like me. Don't be lazy like me and don't be afraid like me, don't hold back like me and don't be charmed like me. You're damned if you'd love like me, don't ever hate like me. Don't do it, don't be like me.

You will come across so many people in your life, you can choose to be like anyone you like - I don't mind, I won't interfere. Just not me. Just not that. Not like me."



I love you.


I want you to be dying, sick with an incurable disease, to suffer excruciating pains.


Only me in the whole world would have the cure - you'll become addicted to me, you won't have any choice.


"To die slowly, a whole life, I don't want life after death" - you'd tell me.



I feel empty today, the kind of emptiness which can't talk, can't do nothing , can't even breath.


You light up one joint with another, we play hunger games, parked for forty years in front of locked doors knowing this time there won't be any reprieve. You peel the skin from your feet, leaving red marks everywhere, and although I try to avoid it, I simply can't not to follow them after you, days of hell, moments of happiness - you tell me: is it worth it?




My first mistake as a dead person was trying to live.

A beginners' mistake.

A mistake by a crazy woman with lava burning inside her, going up and down 31 floors in order to find a location for the pain and the silence.

Out in the heat, during the working day.

Up and down. Running like she hasn't run from fourth grade. Searching.

Looking at herself in the security cameras and understanding why the list of psychiatrists is in her handbag.

If you'd have asked, I'd draw you a map of the country based on the sizes of public toilets in each building and town.


enter the room.

Take your clothes off, fold them neatly and put them on the chair by the entrance, near the door, as close as possible to it.

Take the broom, the one your feet dreamt about last night.

Clean. Clean as good as you can.

The contrast between the cleanliness of the floor and the filth you are is important. Extremely important.

Lie on the floor. There's no point trying to cool the lava, no point expecting that.

I will definitely not punch you,

I'll paint you with pastels, writing my name on the contours of your bluish veins,

israeli art

Yesterday a smell of acetone filled the street


and I felt how I love you both,


You, who know I'm dead


And you, who's trying to kill me on an hourly basis.


Both of you undress me and see me the way I am,


only the other way round.


One reads the cover,


the other keeps rubbing lemon juice over the letters,


both of you make me accurate yet redundant.


The three of us are one; but distinct, totally different - through our great similarity.


I will not be attracted to any of you, since you stand in front of me holding mirrors.


I will try to love you more so that I can love me less.



These days, those years when we haven't talked to each other, when you've punished me and yourself by locking your jaws in a scorching accusation over what you do to your marriage. Your incompleteness is a dark stain growing slowly in front of my eyes, a black hole, a shark of emptiness tearing pieces off me, I feel like scratching my skin over walls and branches to get rid of its scream - please touch me.


You tell your brain: enough, go somewhere else; Ritalin, alcohol, something else - just to stop waiting.





If the world has two ends, I'm now at that other end, twice a week, when we manage it between her life and mine, I perform jaw-releasing and arse-muscle-relaxation for her, and she takes it all in. She sucks me and makes me dream of people falling.

Death and life are in the power of the tongue, and I trust more than just the tongue. Recently I've been thinking of the Stockholm syndrome - that they spent too much time worrying about the kidnapped, but did anyone ask themselves what was happening to the kidnappers? Out of compassion, I mean. We're all equal before the law until proven guilty, except those who are the opposite, who are most of the people I know.

I dream of kidnapping you, wanting to tie you up in a basement, make you babies, body and soul, cut your hair once a month with garden shears, wash you twice a day, feed you, water you, tie you with an iron chain to a pole stuck in the ground, with iron handcuffs that are much too tight - we would worry about the gangrene later; or maybe wouldn't. To fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, fuck you in both impossible and possible positions (I've nothing really against the possible; yet I keep ending up with the impossible), to break your rib so that I can create myself from it, this time in an improved version that would already be right for living with you, to make you inherit the world (4 sq. m. in all) through security cameras, so that I can observe you eating, pissing, dreaming, sleeping, shitting, smiling, crying. To put double locks on the doors, yet still be afraid all the time of the moment you'd get away from me, turning your gaze from me for just a second.





I want you to feel my earthquake,


To have you scorched like a tectonic plate seeking a continental shift,


To burn out of obsession,


To get fat from sorrow.


Cut the rest of your life, stick butterfly wings, create an assemblage in my shape


and never fall asleep.


Sticky, clingy heat and my breath is out, you hang your washing at night wearing your white dress, and I watch you - that's the only ritual left. 


You put the basket on the small table, stick the projector's plug into the socket, and I drink and watch you. That's our secret - he shouldn't know, he has become obsessive. You hang your washing at night and I watch. The air hardly moves, you examine your legs - no blue marks anymore, I'm disappearing from your body. You're barefoot.

I'd burn a whole city now, you say, and keep hanging moist white stains.


A Good Scar

A person's thoughts are his image; thoughts are ways to examine alternatives and decide between them. Neta Ahituv's report on circumcision is important and interesting, but lacks any thought, because it only presents one viewpoint - it doesn't for once try to present the opposite viewpoint.

Eran Sadeh realised "he couldn't do it to his son". "Do it" assumes that "it" is a bad thing. The failure here is assuming what is requested: I, for once, think that when I circumcised my sons I did them good. A survey conducted by the Israeli parenting portal had shown that 2 percent of parents who didn't circumcised their sons did it so as not to compromise the completeness of the human body. This assumes that completeness is a positive value. I think that completeness is a dangerous negative value - it leads to hubris and totalitarianism. How good was my father to me when he'd gave me as a body that wasn't complete - allowing me to acknowledge my being incomplete, my limits.

That same survey found that more than one percent of parents didn't go through circumcision because it was going to hurt their baby. This assumes that hurting a child is bad. I come from a school of thought where "He that spareth his rod hateth his son". Pain is one of the expressions of love. A child not being hurt by his parents will become a child that knows no boundaries.

Dr. Hanoch Ben Yami published an article called "The Victim of Circumcision". "Victim" (but also that which is sacrificed, sacrificial lambs) has negative connotations in Israel. "Holocaust victims" are those others who went like sheep to the slaughter, unlike us, Israelis, who'd never become victims. But in Judaism, "victim/sacrificial lamb" [korban] is strongly linked to closeness [kirva]. I sacrificed my son during circumcision for the love of God, and the love of my son. And so says the Zohar (Part A, 93 71): "Blessed are the people of Israel who willingly make sacrifices to God by sacrificing their sons for eight days".

Another claim against circumcision is that it's a road of no return. I actually find that this is the main argument for circumcision. My parenthood is expressed in that I give my son a fixed, clear and irreversible identify. Even if in the future he should with to rebel, he'd have to make an effort, and even then won't be able to erase the identity he rebelled against. I think this is a great identity gift.

Should you replace the mohel (religious circumciser) with a doctor? No. A doctor may perform the external deed, but cannot bring with him the spiritual and liturgical deposits as well as the deep secrets which the mohel brings to this ritual. Should the child be anaesthesized? No. Dr. Shinhar says: "When people can't decide whether to have their baby anaesthesized, I tell them to go for non-anaesthesized circumcision only if they themselves agree to having a tooth extracted without anaesthesia". Well, I approve of my father's decision not to anaesthesize me during my circumcision. Due to that approval, I have the moral right to circumcise my son without anaesthesia.

Why would I do that to him? See Gideon Ofrat's book "The Jewish Derrida". Circumcision is an identity-establishing wound. By afflicting my son with the Jewish wound I give him an identity. Ayelet, who with her partner Aharon decided not to circumcise their son, says: "My main feeling was that I give my child the option to decide for himself. It's his body, and I didn't want to do things to that body which he couldn't unwind."

Dear Ayelet, the Hebrew word for Circumcision, Mila, has two meanings: Brit Mila (circumcision), and Mila (word). When you talk to your son, you give him a mother tongue. That's a brutal thing to do, since you're deciding for him what his mother tongue should be. But by doing that you give him an identity, and that's a supreme act of love. Sadeh, having been circumcised, says sadly: "My parents placed a scar on my penis". A scar is an important thing. A scar creates an identity. Due to his scar, the old woman recognised Odysseus, allowing him to return home. There are many arguments against circumcision; and others for it. I decided for it.


Dr. Moshe Meir

Research Fellow at the Shalom Hartman Institute