Ink scratches obedience into rhythm.
Puppies?—no—metaphors with tails.

They chase syntax, chew grammar,
fetch surrealism from the void.

A leash made of laughter,
a command spelled backwards: sit → tis.

The page drools devotion,
black strokes bark philosophy.

DADA says: collars are circular logic.
Desire wears fur when words run out.

Each snout a signature,
each paw a manifesto.

We roll in the absurd,
we lick the sublime,
we sniff at the boundaries of sense.

Conclusion:
Art is a trick we taught ourselves—
and forgot the safe word.