The language of dogs.
Dogs run in slavering packs.
Dogs are mouths; mouths with teeth.
That is all. The rest is incidental.
The language of birds.
Birds flit and fly in fractious nations.
They don't really like each other,
but they pretend like they do.
They are afraid to be alone.
Each and every one of them.
There are no real solitary birds.
Once they become solitary
they cease to truly be birds.
They become something else.
The language of frogs.
Frogs philosophize in families.
They rarely make actual physical contact,
but they are always surrounded by each other.
If I had to fuck a dog, a bird, or a frog,
I would go with the frog every time.
My cock speaks the language of the frog.
It philosophizes with them; slippery and slow.
My asshole speaks the language of the dog.
Anything a dog can't fuck, it shits on.
The language of the birds is wrapped up
so tight in my chest that I can barely take a breath with it.
It pinches and squeezes, flits and flutters.
(The Complete Fairy Tales of the Brothers Grimm (paperback ed. 1987), Vol. I, No. 33 p. 137)
