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Jackson Pollock In My Noseâ
Cordoned deep in my left nostril there exists a spiral art Jackson Pollock drip-drop genius, honking crimson masterpieces on a two-ply canvas. His potential for greatness is only limited to a hemoglobin splatter. He stands mute, an envious response; I think he is acting snotty. This medium yields no etchings, only elevated Kleenex bills. He can splatter whenever he wants. Last night, that scarlet genius/bandit came and stole my larynx. I think he intends to use it as a nose whistle; a shrill breath down the swollen passage. A lozenge for my existence; he chooses to spray to his own accord.