Tenderness is not the
capacity to feel. Tenderness is not lost on you. It is not a supplement for
solitude. It doesn’t leave you, but wants you. And in it there is a world of
sounds and sound’s ecstatic lack. It is not ordered but proceeds from its
mirror world. Tenderness doesn’t leave you at the pitch of your desires, it
doesn’t make an argument for or against any new or ceasing world. Tenderness is not a flag: It falls in
discordant parts and shapes, heaping up in cheaper disproportions and you sing
there, or not. Remain in the lack of its shape, sound; the blast mirror where
decay is; it is there, in decay also there is tenderness. In lack there is
everything, all given choices promised in the absence of all. Does not linger
too long in the realm of parenthood, in the body. But tenderness is, with
resistance, with bodies, without them. Tenderness is; rested and illusory.
And discord is not merely a
raised voice, a priapic lung, a red gesturing sack of cheeks and turning whites
of eyes. Discord, lush engulf of sadness, broken waters of sky. Violence is
there, inside and over,, it is not a Détournement; we’ve not hijacked
language. We live there, between the closed walls, the symbolic, the real, the
imaginary: All ligatures, heaving our bodies screaming into the order of words.
You’ve not taken the violence and horror
in order to disarm it. It is. You are. There are no tourniquets. What it means
it means despite you. Discord denies this, denies us; me: Useless impartial
anti-voice. Discord is not an idol, neither a mystery, neither a horror. It is
horror and joy, supplemented, mirrored,, the mirrors shredded in teeth it is
your spit,, my eye with it brimmed. Those corners of un-closable love, and for
us all.
