1. Framed Oink

The pig does not sit in a meadow,
does not balance on a corporate logo,
does not fly.

The pig is framed,
matted in respectable beige,
like a polite relative
who has absolutely not
just rooted through the trash of your unconscious.

Inside the frame
everything is pencil-chaos:
grey storms,
orange flashes,
magenta emergencies.

Outside the frame
pure quiet paper.
Border-control for scribbles.

2. Arrival of the Line-Pig

First came the line,
nervous and caffeinated,
looping around nothing in particular.

Then the line tripped,
snagged on a curve,
and suddenly there was an ear,
long and theatrical,
half orange, half whisper.

The line panicked,
zigzagged,
and grew a forehead,
a doubtful brow,
an eye that understood too much.

“Ah,”
said the page,
“of course.
It’s a pig day.”

3. Magenta Diagnostics

Look at that streak under the eye,
the magenta bruise of over-feeling.

This pig has seen things:
the inside of the slaughterhouse dream,
the laboratories of optimization,
the supermarket neon where meat
forgets it used to be somebody.

DADA intervenes with a pink highlighter:
No realism today,
only neon empathy.

Each magenta patch is a protest sign:
I root therefore I am.
Bacon is just a badly edited autobiography.
Capitalism smells faintly of disinfectant and hay.

4. Snout as Question Mark

The snout leans forward,
soft triangle of stubbornness,
outlined in jittery graphite.

You think it is looking at you,
but actually
it is sniffing your narratives.

What did you grow up hearing
about pigs,
about dirt,
about bodies that are “too much”?

The snout catches the scent
of every proverb you swallowed:
“Schwein gehabt,”
“Schweinehund,”
“sweating like a pig,”
even though pigs barely sweat at all.

The snout files a complaint
with the Ministry of Metaphors.

5. Eye-Level Sociology

The eye is not cute.
It is busy.

It catalogues:
the price per kilo,
the number of clicks,
the distance between image and animal.

From this eye’s perspective
humans are a strange species
who outsource their cruelty
to architecture and packaging.

The pig-eye blinks once,
a slow shutter,
and saves a screenshot
of you looking at it looking at you.

Now you’re both in the dataset.

6. Pigture vs. Picture

This is clearly a pigture.
The category is important.

Pictures show what is there.
Pigtures show what is already missing.

A pigture is one frame
before the cut,
one stroke before erasure,
the still life of a life
that we routinely spell
as product.

DADA refuses this spelling.
It spells pig with extra letters:

P I G G H H ?

and underlines the question mark in orange.

7. Scribble Fur, Theory Fur

Every scribble is a hair,
and also a footnote.

The grey hatching says:
speciesism (see also: hierarchy).

The orange cross-hatching says:
warmth, intelligence, mud as misunderstood luxury.

The pink scrawl says nothing,
just grunts with fluorescent intensity:
oink-ink-ink.

In the archive of the SocioloVerse
someone will later misread these strokes
as mere texture,
forgetting that the pencil
was writing a critique at high speed.

8. Interview with the Pig

If you could hear it,
the pig would say:

“I am not your guilt mascot.
I am not only before and after photos.
I am curiosity with hooves.
I am nose-first phenomenology.
My method: sniff, dig, decide.”

“You invented the word ‘unclean’
to excuse your own mess.
Meanwhile I recycle leftovers
and compose avant-garde mud sculptures
with my entire body.”

“You frame me in beige
to make me gallery-suitable.
I accept.
The wall is warmer than the truck.”

The pig pauses,
scratches the paper from inside,
and adds:

“Also:
your species is incredibly weird
about noses.”

9. DADA Blessing

So here we are,
you outside the frame,
pig inside the storm of color,

both a little overdrawn,
both made of lines
that refuse to stay straight.

DADA raises a scribbled hoof
and blesses the scene:

— May your categories smear
like soft graphite.

— May you never again
say “just an animal”
without hearing this magenta snort
in the back of your mind.

— May your own face,
in some unguarded moment,
look as honestly unfinished
as this one.

10. Exit Through the Snout

At the very bottom corner
a tiny signature curls—
proof that a human hand
was here,
trying to keep up
with the oink of the idea.

The drawing ends,
but the pig does not.

It trots off the page,
leaving behind
a few stray lines
and the faint smell
of pink-orange resistance.

You close the pigture,
turn away—

and realize,
with a small,
grainy shock,

that somewhere under your own skin
a little scribbled animal
has started to root
for a different story.