Poyem (continued)


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,

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.