Vincent's profile

Most guys like a pert rack It's not Zen perhaps But it's real enough To bother minds amiss with that.

We, inch meat locked in time’s soliloquies, Can’t touch her. We in a flap with the duff stuff, Rumbled by our haloes of ammonia Can’t touch her. She now in a place beyond the drone of our brash rotations. No more will the rhetorical dust run her down. She in the void we can’t labour our minds around, Yet she from there can still touch us. Weave the flimsy leaves of Deuteronomy into garlands As the unhinged might do, Go alliterative and solemn all you like, No banjo requiem can sully her now. ...

Himmler won't dance I soaked him in water overnight. He's such a starched Old world sourpuss.

I wended my way to Burger Heaven In lederhosen and green alpine hat And with burger brooding in my hand There I sat While up on the wall MTV told me where my mind Should be at.