Besedila: The Sound Of Animals Fighting. I, The Swan.

I, the Swan am beautiful and phallic. Brushed.
Canvas draped, paint peeled.
Gallons of something puddles and you take the pictures.

Hurl stones around breaths.
There will be shadows and holes.

I, the Swan am beautiful and a desist in space between being and idea.

I, the Swan am beautiful and phallic. Brushed.
Neck stiff, a stone-ed image of different male.
Words will work swollen kindered knees to the floor.

Canvas draped, paint peeled.
Gallons of something puddles and you take the pictures.

I, the Swan am beautiful and phallic.
Canvas draped, can I feel?
I, the Swan am beautiful and phallic.
Canvas draped, can I feel?

He picked up a large white vase and pitched it.
Sharp porcelain lined the shapless pool of liquid formed by its contents.
Of the man that pulled at my feathers.

The artist, the true manifestation of struggle.
The shattered porcelain greeted back with fresh wounds.
Memories. To be, naked.

I, the Swan am beautiful and phallic.
Canvas draped, can I feel?