Man:

The rose is flung, it’s set to die
The pale clouds begin to cry
As she walks away, faint and cold
My dark romance’s to unfold

And I look at the dark rose, dead
My soul congests with hate and dread
And I’m beset with darkness, great
Unable to flee love’s dark fate

Woman:

And all I see is ire, grim
As I walk, look away from him
I start to rue the days we had
My life’s begun, bitter and sad

I thought all would work out all right
And we would kiss o’er fine a night
But I was wrong, against my heart
I forced us to fore’er depart

Together:

But though in darkness, stride will we
Without the spark of love’s content
Our love shall live through agony
The second our lone roads we wend

And though we now are lone souls, stray
Not e’en death shall tear us away
For though we are sundered apart
We shall keep each other at heart

In the twilight of dreams
The hollow corridors echo
Louder than ever before
The walls are smeared
In nostalgia
Memories creep in
And congests weary minds
Of youths stripped of youth
Circumstance makes
The heart grow old

In our refusal
To lay down our arms
To the hollow
We march onwards
Like intrepid lions
Cognizant of unkind truth
The way is long
If we crumble now
We may never recover.

The box in which I lay is glass
Walls adorned with paper flowers
Fragility is fragrant and congests the space
That which I inhabit and all that exists
A projector plays across the room
Our fondest, our darkest, our forever unknowns
What can you see from where you are?
Do you feel my anguish, how I slowly crack inside?
I hear a tune playing, pleasant and warm
A familiarity I can’t place but that I welcome nonetheless
Sadness permeates as I finally recognize the twinkle of your laugh, a sound frozen in time
How am I meant to go through life without you here?
I feel you in my soul, in my heart, and you survive in my mind
How can I reconcile the things you will never see, the older you that you can never be?
The walls begin to break, my cruelest mirror
I would give anything to be near you again, hold you dear
I will live the rest of my days aching for you and wishing someone understood
How nothing will ever be the same
Now that you’re gone

i will never not associate the bicycle
with my grandfather
and those many summers:
many a summers ago
when i'd go back to the "old country"
and spend the summers there...
mostly... fishing... cycling...
reading books...
etc. etc.

acronym... what's u.a.s.c.?
   i know how prepositions shouldn't
be involved in acronym building
so i left one out...
since there's only one: of...

unconscious arithmetic
<of> spatial coordination...
it's the "word salad" approximate of what
i feel when i aggressively cycle
through urban traffic...
as much as country roads are worth
the otherwise mundane perspective flatness
of Roding Valley: from the teasing
of the A406 through to the sq. mile....

up-hill is interesting not because it is:
a generic interest...
it's interesting because
i poker my mind...
and wonder... will i give up somewhere
along the climb?
plus... hills imply: off-loads...
off-load periods where there's no
peddling involved and you swoon down
a hill in some aerodynamic fashion...

it's not like riding a horse...
because... well... with a horse there's this
whole: "symbiosis" spectacle...
but... the horse has gravity covered...
you're attached to the legs and torso
and there's only the head to fiddle with...
but at a gallop?
in this sort of symbiosis?
what's a pumpernickel to a ******* windmill?

cars are too stable...
the gravity is punch is too centred that it's
practically non-existent...
and having been in a car crash before...
that probably the only thrill...
loco-motion: crazy when everything
has to be compared to walking...
dare i say: i abhor running...

if loco-motion isn't etymologically
rooted in the spanish word: loco...
and... i will not deal with the origins of motion
then it is: crazy speed...
no?

but it's not like i'm a bicycle doing math
in my head... unconscious arithmetic is
not a prefix to the compound of the phrase
(in acronym): u.a.s.c.:
unconscious arithmetic of spatial coordination...
but when any sports is involved...
a soccer pass... a hockey flick:
it's "thinking" the unthinkable...
because there clearly isn't any thinking involved...
not by the Cartesian res cogitans standards...

how would automation and
all the sporting "clarifications" fit into
the res extensa: i can only think of writing:
when having res cogitans as genesis...

obviously i had to come up with...
my own... res vanus: the empty thing...

it's just so: i tak to jest:
zapierdala litera po literze...
he's ******* around with one letter at a time...
notice how some of these words
have pronoun inclusion parameters...
i.e. if i were to say he drank...
i'd say:                 pił...
if i were to say she drank...
i'd say:            piła...
although piła is somehow synonymous with
saw: literally: war-saw...
not: i see, i saw...
that would also invite a pronoun
to an otherwise pronoun-free word: (to) see
widzieć...
i.e. he saw:               (on) widział
i.e. she saw:               (ona) widziała...
the brackets are optional...

- you can go through a whole book of Prus
and maybe spot the pronoun JA once... twice...
but in english? it's almost unavoidable:
always with the *******: i i i i, aye, i, i, i...

- perhaps Nietzsche can be cited as "saying"
something along the lines of...
'all the best thoughts come when one is walking...'
i once carried a notepad like...
like that kangaroo pouch of mine...
settling for the night's parade of stars
usually settling with some strong
lager and some citric acid sprinkle in
a churchyard of a graveyard...

- the great aspect of cycling is that no
"real" thought: comes to mind...
all the concerns for moral oughts:
ploughing the concern for traffic
comes primo...

minor incident at the local library...
picking up recycling bags...
the very unforthcoming librarian
consumed by a "conference"...
knock-knock... who's there?
cycle round and speaking through glass...
if i'd like a confrontation over
a surgical mask...
no... the expectation of being english
rubbed off on me in ways
that i utilise my own interpretation
of "it"...
the old lady imploring next to me
was scolded by the librarian...
why they won't leave the bags outside...
because some ethnic pauper story decided
to gobble a stash of 'em oranges for not
good reason while me and her only wanted
two bundles...

how i refrained myself from ushering in:
*******....
                       busy-bodies...
a life that screams:
why wasn't i born rich... instead, happy?
what will the busy-bodies do when all
these restrictions are fall-out boo boo?

that i did cycle past a gavin mcinnes doppelganger
up to collier row mount is no excuse:
but how often can someone mistake a doppelganger
for someone famous?
probably often... i was once stopped
in the street being some supposed Richard...

kinks - living on a thin line...
it has a nice "twang" to it...
like nazareth's hair of a dog has a "nice"
cowbell: broom-broom...

unconscious arithmetic (of) spatial coordination...
Leibniz was also a librarian...
i could be a road-sweeper...
i'd apply myself to the duties of the body...
but then make a quick-exit with my brainzzzzz...

- i could have been a father...
but then i did just perform self-genocide on
a mia khalifa clip and i'm filled with: (a) swell(-ing)...

levellers - carry me...
anything to drag me awaay from norse
mythology and tongue-in-tow...
from anything superior germanic...
i was close to scribbling a doodle
on the window-panes: hyper-glass...

of the isles: the celtic "jingle":
it's not that morose Scandinavian loop of
artefacts "leftover"...
but it's truer than towing-twos...

you can't expect a footballer to make
a cross via "thinking"...
what narrative of moral ought i:
ought i not congests the ******* custard?
unconscious arithmetic of spatial coordination:
is verbiage: i know...
but what else do you call it...
a cyclist feeling comfortable
when a truck passes him by...
a ******* walrus too...

        i like working my way around objects
that might **** me... it leaves me with
a sense of respect... for the time when i might use
them to pass a roundabout...
****'s sake...
looking over one's shoulder
igniting the "normie" manufacture of
indicator concerning a choice of direction...

- i re(a)d too much of Heidegger...
i read too little, esp. the newspapers and
within such confines?
who's fudge packaging the proper sort of goods?
i'm blind-rage-drunk from time to time:
here we are... lingua franca bullshitting...

that there was somehow an empire:
insomniac...
the sun so clearly borne:
that the moon started pulling clown faces...
and now... reducing assets to something prior
to... before the Angevins?

Phillip Augustus... primo... source...
why wouldn't i start to feel
disgust for the mythological blonde...
i'm more in favour of arab spring...
concoctions wtih Aztec...
basically i'd **** anything that wriggles...
savvy?
i'm so tired of feeling:
beside this square: squat... solo...
i can marry bride death:
legally... via the jurisprudence of
a Belgium... i can marry death without
having to execute  (a) terrorist plough...

- by drinking i'm numbing  my senses...
i'm also numbing the excavation projects...
tow-two-tying....
but it's a lot more interesting to grovel
onto a hill with a heaving:
when will my mind... "give up"...

grieving: ***: the stirrup...
it's not like a ******* pizza-esque
"reinvention"...
wankers Tod of Milan:
spaghetti fiddlers...
by some... the best hoard of 'em.

The leaves crackle
beneath boots heavy
with our tension.

The thread winds
and it winds
and it winds,
stretched taut

with every word
yelled quietly.
A game of telephone

family gossip factory
pumping out misspoken
and misheard
words. Peacemaker

sticking their nose in the
cerulean fire.
On forced walks

we pick pinecones
and get pricked
by their sharp
edges hard enough

to cause pain,
not quite to bleed.
Outside the pine walls

where my windpipe
can fall open
hearth smoke drifts and congests
and it smells like autumn.