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
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
two 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
Weeeelllll, that's a whole other conversation. I've been wanting to start a Mark thread for some time now but keep chickening out. He does mean something and the legacy is worth picking over.... And fighting over.
I know what I like and what I value and what I trust... And I know what I think is toxic.
I find "acid communism" such an enormously surprising phrase coming from him. And knowing him he really didn't mean LSD. But that turn towards "consciousness raising" is startling, so totally at odds with the cold-rationalist hippie-hating he was so entrenched in.
Strange sort of wounded attachment to the ego, which half the time he wanted to dissolve into anonymous cybernetic feedback loops, and the other half he wanted to stage as a magnificent glam beast - both ways of getting "seriously defaced", but neither involving any softening of edges, any fuzzing of possible selves.