• Vol. 08
  • Chapter 04

Brush my Pig

preternatural; I've pig'd out
                                           I'm pooled-up, glassy eyes —
claw'd DMT in my tail saying: I love you
                                          with all my geometry; and you can
brush my pig whenever you want;
                                      furred like quivery butter; nose'd and eye
face-pressed into each other — you speak in kites
                        and I reply in diamonds; the text-drip bubblegum
and our blue-red y─źnyáng;
                          the non-symmetry our hoof'ing — like I'm near
you're nearer — we're in the same room;
                                            but the hearts are all coming out oval
and if I oink'd too honestly
                                            you'd stop brushing.

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