It was what the words were, what the words were for, it was the words that made it work, the man on the stand with the gun in his hand and a book of rules didn’t know this, didn’t understand this, that however many people you kill, lock up or break the words always come back, the important ones anyway like love, loyalty, anger, resistance, compassion, the words that build human cells as opposed to machines, and langauge, especialy this one, the one I am constricted to writing in, makes no sense but then neither do people so thats okay.
They tried to use it against us, they said you have borderline personality disorder, you are experiencing the Elliotic asthetic of self reflexive dislocation in a deracinated landscape. You must learn about the dispacement of desire.
But we said. No: we have been abandonded and are lost and cold in a culture barren of truth but we will find our way home eventualy.
So they said Ah, but you are still envisioning it in terms of cultural dialectics and a teleological ontology.
And we said: fuck off already we have poetry to write and gossip to talk.
And in this langauge are too many nouns and not enough verbs which is why we develop such a rigidity. Instead of flowing round the labels we become them.
But mostly the words work, all the things that are writen here are the ones I am brave enough to say and you are brave enough to listen to. It will be this that saves us in the end.