The glitter along pig’s jawline is shiny and pig knows it, the blue on pig’s cheeks
is dreamy and it perfectly accentuates that pig doesn’t have any; pig doesn’t like admitting
    pig’s brain is visible when positioned straight below pig’s spinal chord but

                         “   that’s anatomy, baby  ”

    it’s what all pig’s bartenders have told pig.

                            Pig leads with pig’s chin, pig’s forehead forgetting to turn until the jaw leaves it no alternative,
                keeping the area under a constant state of wrinkle and, assumingely, angry about it. Pig, having once used
                    pig’s fingers (long, pale, and widely considered pig’s best attribute) to smooth the chaos
            in a bargain attempt at sex appeal no longer lifts them above eye level, as what were once a prize are now
                                                        pickled and pudgy and filled with straight vodka should, bartender forgive,
                                                                                                                    pig’s glass not be.

        Hard to look at, and pig is hard to look at,
        we look at pig anyway.

        Our eyes settling in
          on pig’s, 
      we find they take up half
     pig’s face and sit a decimal point
                away from extinction.    

    Misty hit and a pretty stare into the corner to show you pig is
mysterious, pig’s irises swim on the constant verge of overflow and pig’s eyelids
            consist of dead skin that forgot to fall.

    pig’s sweater continues to quietly try and keep from associating pig’s skin.
            Frayed and pink and resentful of having been worn solely by a skeletal rhinoceros
it remains largely un-flattering yet unsettled over its decision to do so.
        It was going places, it’s not happy to be where it is right now nor does it like
                    the feeling of wax shell introduced to delicate fabric
                            it is empathetic and proud of how soft it can be
                        when a head is placed neatly upon the wearer’s shoulder,
                                though, admittedly, it can’t imagine why
                                    one would be.

            Pig, unaware of pig’s sweater’s complex, strokes the 10% cotton blend with
    one hand and groping for the plunger that’s always
                                there with the other
                       pig opens up to unplug a hum from one
                bottom rib to another.

                            Excelling at the sport and altogether enjoying the vibration pig
                appears possessed or dead or a lucky combination of the two until, scooping
                                      down through the lungs, pig arches out a spackled rattle in D and
                            coughing up a cigarette, despite never having smoked one,
                    pig proceeds out of courtesy to offer it to the
                                next stool over.

                        Pig, watching pig’s chivalry in the mirror,
            is momentarily distracted by how good pig
           looks in bad lighting pig stops     suddenly serious                
                                            and reels pig’s eyelashes out
                                    another inch to accentuate the vulnerability.

   Playing with the shadow, pig leans
toward us with the top left shoulder of
                                 pig’s dark side and
                    attempting to place pig’s elbow
    debonairly on the bar, begins to say  

    “       ”

    swaying with the dislodge,
pig misses the bar halfway through
                              thus instead opting to
                swing head first to the piano that
            wasn’t there three minutes ago.

                    Sitting nowhere but atop the piano itself, pig forces pig’s
                      atoms into a waltz pig and the plunger happily conduct
                  themselves, leaving the hysteria and remaining residue with
                    nowhere to go but pig’s right eye  ;  ballooning up into
                                                                                                a ball of blue
                                                                acrylic about half the size of pig’s
                                                                    face and sweating.

    Pig, high off the swelling
          and tickled by pig’s proximity to ivory, attempts to launch into
  pig’s magnum opus, coincidently a work of genius in pig’s head and
nowhere else, until tragically, dammed by the inflammation,
        pigs hands stop before reaching the keys
      leaving the bar silent and pig staring lidless into the opposite corner.
            Unaware and
        pig slides head first from pig’s perch,
pig’s torso disappearing while pig’s feet,  
forgetting to follow,  remain visible and conducting as the rest of pig sits below
chewing tile and dripping.

It’s not until pig suddenly shouts
      and until the zero people in the bar decide to do so,
                    that the bartender leans over
    hands pig a napkin
  and says
        there’re oils in pig’s teeth and a piece of lettuce.