I was licking a pig underwater
in my sub-desk disco nap dream,
but not in a weird way.
It was a cute little baby pig,
it was vital that it be licked,
and I’m the nurturing sort.
What was less clear:
Why would an underwater pig
require further moistening?
But such are the mysteries of life.
That was the last text I sent you
“I was licking a pig underwater,”
eager to bandy all this about.
But I’d missed the ferry.
By then, that cool vintage pistol you liked
had painted your genius
across the bedroom wall.
And I’m sick to death of suicide,
starting every day with mourning…
I want to talk about that pig.