Far beneath the sea,
I just want to be,
Terrified what I'll see,
Latent depth within my dreams,
I want to be,
I want to be...

Far beneath the sea,
I've fallen down,
Into this empty animosity,
Fearing what will come to be,
Depravity,
Depravity...

Far beneath the sea,
Single versus surfacing,
Foam now fills my being,
With endless enormity,
That is me,
That is me...

This is me,
This is me,
You will see,
Falling far beneath the sea.

Swooned by illicit felonies,
Abducted by my abomination's abnormities,
Collared by society,
Atrocity they make of my ideology,
Smutted is my impropriety to immorality,
Seams sewn from blasphemy,
Forming waves uncontrollably,
Capsizing my reality,
Aboard this shipwrecked audacity.

Far beneath the sea,
I want to be,
Growing cold gradually,
Drifting towards eternity,
Immaturity my morality,
Prodigy my immaturity.

Far beneath the sea,
Wishing to be free,
Crushed by pressure set onto me,
Breathless counting,
Breath unconvincing...

Far beneath the sea,
I want to be,
Swallowing my passing,
Choking on my obituary,
Stifling mortal ability,
In this sea,
Of my own unforthcoming...

Far beneath the sea,
I want to be,
Left lonely,
Lonely,
Lone as me.

Here is the object, the object of my heart,
With a description, let us start,
A subtle depiction, let the vague depart.
Travelling through my mind I am a seer.
I’m in love with an idea,
This idea is an untouchable spectre,
And with my intuitive detector,
I detect its origin, it’s in my soul,
But now with the desire coming in,
Coming in in bounds and flicks and one mighty roll,
I remember what the silence stole,
The silence of this concept,
And I reflect, on the reason why no answer is coming,
I must stave off this crumbling,
Crumbling of my heart, must keep it beating and drumming.
Oh why is it so unforthcoming?
Because I can’t imagine the words of another,
It would only be another word from my mind.
And I find, and I discover,
This idea is love with intricacy,
Such a delectable delicacy.
I feel it in its immediacy,
Concretely. But initially, lacking intimacy.
Where do I turn to find such a thing?
A connection beyond the cogitations,
With passionate love to bring,
A reflection of my desideration’s.
Consecrations of the heartbeats,
Longing is strong and hope never retreats.
You can do no wrong with love in your being,
That is what the world needs
For us to sow seeds,
But that’s not what I’m seeing,
I gander but do not witness,
The sprouts of love and peace,
Let’s plant them in the stillness,
And feel the release,
The seed that will grow,
Soon they will show,
And grow in emotive ways,
It never decays,
Come on now let’s increase,
All of our compassion and empathy,
We are not each other enemy.
A sudden caprice,
I feel it now and it is correct,
It’s helping me to connect.
And we need that so much more than you think,
For when we’re all gone and others remain,
The world will drink,
Our blood and our sweat and our pain.
It’s time to regain,
Our courage, let us stand tall,
And let forgiveness enthrall.

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.