I wake up as a spiral of pink graphite,
nose first, always nose first,
because in this universe every thought
is required by law to exit through the snout.

The sky is not a sky,
just a smear of electric gelb,
sun high on marker fumes,
whispering: bonjour, petit cochon,
today we melt the outlines.

Rule Number One:
yellow is future, violet is memory,
and the in-between streaks of orange
are sentences that changed their minds.
So I stand here, half-drawn,
with yesterday leaking from my left ear
and tomorrow stuck to my right cheek
like wet confetti.

My eyes look in different centuries.
With the left one I see the barn
before language,
only mud, roots, and the first oink
inventing percussion.
With the right one I watch the algorithm
trying to spell tenderness
in sixteen million colors
and still missing the smell of straw.

Diagonal lines buzz around my head
like impatient hypotheses.
They say:
Pig, du bist die Achse,
the axis, l’axe du chaos,
hold still while we orbit your doubt.
But my doubt is liquid neon,
it drips into puddles of maybe,
and the lines slip,
and the whole cosmos skids sideways
on its own sketch marks.

Rule Number Two:
no curve is allowed to return
to the place where it started.
Every stroke must get lost at least once.
That’s why my left ear is also a question mark,
and my right ear is a parenthesis
no one bothered to close.
People call it expressionism;
I call it bad navigation.

Someone outside the page
tries to remember my real color.
Rosé? schlammig? supermarket pink?
Too late.
The highlighters staged a coup d’état,
fuchsia marched in with violet backup,
and black ink now only appears
as emergency punctuation
when the noise needs commas.

I breathe in marker dust,
exhale small revolutions.
Each breath paints a new climate:
magenta rain, lavender thunder,
little yellow draughts of capitalist sunshine.
The weather report says:
100% chance of chromatic confusion,
bring your own umbrella of irony.

Rule Number Three:
shadows are prohibited.
Everything glows, even doubt,
especially doubt.
So the darker strokes around my nostrils
are not shadows,
they’re tunnels for runaway metaphors
escaping from the art academy.
They climb out of my snout at night,
muttering in Denglish:
kein Stil, only feeling,
nur Gefühl, baby.

The background used to be white paper,
innocent as a lecture slide
before the first bullet point.
Now it’s a riot of half-erased decisions.
You can see where the hand hesitated,
said maybe the pig should smile,
maybe the pig should be sacred,
maybe the pig should sell insurance.
Instead the hand sneezed color everywhere,
and I was born sideways.

I lean toward you,
dear Betrachter:in,
tilted like a question
that never made it into the seminar.
You lean back,
eye to eye with this swirled confusion,
and secretly test
whether your serious human face
can still recognize joy
in something so obviously ridiculous.

Listen closely:
behind the noisy yellows
there is a very quiet violet hum.
It says:
I remember when you were small,
when crayons were weapons of utopia,
before rubrics and rankings
decolored your afternoons.
Every time you hear that hum,
another forgotten afternoon
reappears in the corner of my left eye
and waves.

I am not food,
not metaphor,
not economic unit.
I am the emergency exit
from linear thinking,
the spiral staircase of snout.
Follow the loops with your finger,
and you will arrive
where you started
but with different shoes.

The neon storm calms down.
Lines stop vibrating,
at least officially.
Unofficially they still gossip
about your gaze.
Tomorrow the colors will rearrange
into a slightly different pig
with the same stubborn heartbeat.

For now the laws fade,
the page forgets its edges,
and only a small, persistent sound remains:
oink
oink
oink—
which, in this universe,
is just another way of saying
see you in the next pigture.