Prologue
I speak before thinking,
and the ink forgives me later.
Reality smells like a burnt subtitle.

Body I
Magenta hums beneath my skin—
a cheap neon heart beating backstage.
Black letters rain from the top margin,
each one heavier than the last “bro.”
They pile into soft despair,
a pile I nap inside.
Every oink now means help in lowercase.

Body II
The world misreads me as punchline,
but I’m really an open bracket without closure.
My script keeps rewriting itself in marker fumes.
Sometimes I improvise consciousness;
sometimes it improvises me.
Between us: a sigh-shaped scene.

DADA-Break
bro—oink—broink—
reality.exe not found
O I N K (soft reboot)

Closing
Tomorrow I’ll underline the silence,
call it progress.
The show must oink on.