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On the spur of this moment, art is like any frozen body
I feel furnished to the floor tiles
Souped up opinions spilling over my eyes
Sickening eyes rolling over my nerves
Some cobwebs and clots holding up the hashes
Intent to speak, my necks popped out of the chest
Head still toiling to rivet all those prodigal nerves back and forth
There is still a rhythm left in the ears, musing till the feet
Fishing on the blood, a wood pecker found solace in my spines
All is well, until the neck returns to its coiled self