DISMEMBERED MEMORY


My mind's become a Magnadoodle toy:
its picture is quite frequently erased -
though not because the finger of a boy
has wiped it clean, but - may His name by praised! -
because God's providentially destroyed
the memory. What's the forgotten use
of old Pythagoras? For once I knew
his theorem, but now 'hypotenuse'
is just a noise like cock-a-doodle-do,
And 'e is mc squared'
has got me running scared.

What is my name? What's my phone number then?
Ten sixty-six? - The Number of the Beast
is 999, of that I'm sure. Big Ben
is Scotland's highest mountain - or the least
loved Member for the Labour Whip. . . ? My heart
is empty, for my head's not there. The void
is just a pond reflecting without art
syllabic nonsense, slippy Sigmund Freud.
My mind's a palimpsest,
a host without a guest.

Before the final curtain hits the floor,
a scrim obscures the stage, so when the front
is lighted up the back is seen no more,
and to and fro old recollections shunt,
derailed by faulty points. But now a spoon
puts something tasty in my mouth and I
forget to swallow: where is the spittoon?
What's sure is hazardous and truth's a lie.
And now my cosmic soul
is one immense black hole.