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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