When I look for gold

for John Stiles 

(Silence)

Strongly

Strangely

slowly;

lke a child in water

a child I once cared for.

Seems to me I am more what Barthes describes as a "clerk"

than a priestly "author".

Post-revolutionary I might be

but there is still a narcissism, an enjoyment,

sound, even song.

Is there the fragmentation of ecstasy...?

Is there fragmentation in ecstasy?

I'm in a lecture.

Alex Duttman is in the chair.

Christophe Merke is discussing chapters 1-5 in Adorno's "Aesthetic Theory".  Someone eulogises Beckett.

I look at the pen in Merke's hands,

he's so confident it still has the top on.

It has a white dot,

which means its a "Parker",

(actually it means it"s a Paper-Mate Florian later explains,

joking that Merke is parking his thoughts in theory.)

Anyway, whatever it is, it's not gold

Like the one I used to have,

the one I was given in Truro

and which I lost when I worked on the parks in Southwark.

I look around the room,

there is hardly any gold anywhere

Walking back that evening, I promise myself, that i will buy some when I get paid.

Days pass, til it's Monday evening.

I'm so tired I go to bed early

trembling like a baby.

Is this flu or tiredness?

Kleinian renegotiation

or Lacanian fragmentation?

Rebirth or regression?

Was it induced by the Vivaldi I was listening to earlier?

Going to bed isn"t easy anymore.

Mike Parsons