NEW ACCOUNT

I'm deleting this one.
My name is Vince.
Light as a feather, stiff as a stone
Ignorance is bliss no wise woman's failed to mention and surely some koan suggests 'neglect leads to perfection' but the more I turn my face from the crowd. The more I feel my backs' increasingly compelled. For the sake of escape, to turn a knife on itself, a knife of relief, from all the petty insight and finally I'll sleep, I'll sleep through the night. Bored as fuck with this street corner-cover.Study of a face in a figure. surveying this language as a game surveilence of this language as the plague. the dimension of persistence condemns. This portrait of karma, crafted in accident,text book seduction, minus the text in the language of ghosts. And so we ran, like the wolves were biting, the inhibitions of their prey kept them from screaming. "scratch my back and I will stab you in yours." So I chose to live this life alone, without the teeth marks. But I predict, I'll have to sink my fangs in someone else's heart to heal my own. Just a victim's split, one part for the wolves, one part for you. But I'll grow weary soon, weary of this fractal code, weary of this hallway lined with ghosts. Just a scratch upon the skin, a drop of blood to let them in their words will cause the sweetest fracture from a stone's throw. Just a scratch upon the skin, a drop of blood to welcome them parasitic, viral critics, or lovers, like spirits mingling in the mist that we crafted, a starving jury, let them eat shit from our trembling hands. The heat for heat's sake, on this Barnard block of Congress. Deductively speaking, the polar of progress well maybe I put too much faith in the accident entranced, we danced toward the ripest display of escape let the starving ghosts feats, from this flesh, from these bones, let them all feast. In this chess game of language, forced to sit so I play all alone, watch the bathos drift forth like the petals from a wild crafted rose.
AIM-Why So Plastic
Deviant art- Why So Plastic (link)
Nothing's so lucid as the promise of dreams, but these pills we found just make me sleep. There's nothing quite so pure as the written word my dear, so lets have ourselves a little poem. Until the will to speak loses urgency. Our animal indecency in print is so blase. Its about the bell tower, at the golden hour. Angel of the spires climbs here steel cage staircase spine, angle of desire. Ascend the wrought iron, one by one, wrung by wrung. Is it the rising roof line that makes me feel so swallowed whole, or the way my body barely pricks the sky,the same as a century's worth of virgin's blood that's passed through my longing veins,scheming to convince my aching mind that pleasure's got nothing on the miracle of need. Nothing's so purile as meter and rhyme when you can't see the ground from that ledge and this perch is so far, far from the nest. Gravity doesn't grant me the privilege of failure my bough never breaks, I don't stumble into anything. So I climb and I carve my initials in the bark with that feather I found but its all so contrived. My genes didn't bless me with the foresight of a sage but I know how this will end, in apologies and ink on the page. A slowly constructed crow quilled confession of my spirit to all of you, black waterproof ink scars the board, so hot-pressed, pristine and pure. A slowly constructed manifestation of "to tremble", as base as a bridge in a song and less like the poem that I promised you. Nothing's so lurid as haiku-detat on sidewalks in white outlined chalk, all I've got is this ink smeared lines. With our voices in harmony, the offering, of a crow quilled threnody. I have one tattoo.
HEROES:
Your Heroes will fail you.
I love her more then anything!
Tell me I'm right to think that there could be nothing better
then making you my bride and slowly growing old together.
No one and nothing could ever compare.
Beauty both mind and body;
I couldn't ask for anything more.
i play drums.