Poyem (continued)

Continuing:

Still exercised at odd times in memoriam
M. F. whom I have now the sense of having
barely known. The Goldsmiths slogan-mural
could have been any mid-league social theorist
of past three decades. Better by far the stuff
that made them wince, even when opprobrious,
vampire-weakened.

No common rhizome routes ergot through to argot,
syndicate signalling to fruiting brain-rot.
Goldsmiths is rival turf, its ecosystem
ill-disposed towards us. Might be guilty
projection, panic flashes around New Cross.
By acid he meant psyche-manifesting
stroke lysergic.

Has anyone ever seen it? I mean the psyche -
topos of affect, global image depot.
On acid I saw blood gurgling from sewers,
a floating skull, that sort of thing; then tie-dye
coloured Mandelbrotian swirls, an anodyne
enough default. I can get weirder on
some hours' sleep-debt.

But he wrote to get seriously defaced,
make legible the ungovernable within
our fixed stars' governance, their frozen whim
our flexible command. Goldsmiths abides
his punked-out sangfroid, seething like a state.
The psyche keeps schtum, having with the cosmos
zero contract.