rebel-hearts
where do rebel hearts go for a stroll?
10 October 2016
29 September 2014
The little tomato heart.
You missed out, I'm tellin ya, on how bloody little tomato went over to the slaughterhouse the other day ya, when the butchers were out pickin hairs with twizers from the turned-ancient dead sheep bodies, laughin their asses out on protein. But shed no tears, stay on with your waterproof mascara, coz little tomato didnt hang out there for long, just popped in for a "hi" ya. It was on the way out that she defined the reason of her colour. And still reached home intactO.
27 April 2014
The Playmobil heart affair.
There were no roads, higways, rivers, lakes.
No talking either, all mouths were zipped.
There were no prairies, valleys, gorges, snowflakes.
It was all made of paper, plastic and things that beeped.
In the fake city with the neon lights,
the plastic boy could not carry the giant carnation on his back.
His only hope to go on a silent date, was to use his remote.
23 April 2014
The Fix heart.
It was some time ago. It happened repeatedly or maybe just once. It lasted a hundred sand-timer turns or maybe a single wink. I don't quite remember.
We were trapped amongst commuting shadows in a carriage that was trapped amongst other connected carriages on a train trapped amongst other crossing lines. And then this panic landed, remember? We hit the doors, you broke the windows with your fists, kicked the shadows in the balls and worked our way to the exit with the help of a harp player.
When we reached to the top, the air was morphine.
It took me ages to realise that down there in the darkness, I could barely see the reflection of myself in your teeth or the eyes soaking me up. It was rather uncomforting.
And now that I look back with a mind clear as June, I remember, how you were not even there. You were air. A perfect fix without a name of wide circulation.
17 April 2014
The heart-balloon ride.
A queue of aged people.
With walking sticks.
Pill-intake reminders in their hands.
Wheelchairs rolled by helpers.
Such sickness spreading in the air.
I'd seen queues outside pharmacies. Or banks. Even hospitals.
But never in front of a fig tree.
All of them betting their remaining drops of life for a magnificent and could-be-last, heart-balloon ride.
28 March 2014
Mr. Klein's heart.
Mr. Klein was a clean man, with manners any misfit would envy. A mixture of stinky french fromage and austrian, bitter snow from the Mexican Alps. He was an honest lier, a hardworking reader, a soft vandal, a platonic husband, a thirsty dreamer. Mr. Klein was a graceful pilot, always "mastering" the wheel while getting high on Chavela Vargas. His pet was a fly that flapped its wings so fast, everything twisted. Even words.
Yeah... Mr. Klein Mein was very, very beaumarchais.
Picture obtained from Graffitiboxshop.
8 March 2014
Beba's heart.
For the International Women's Day.
I will not fall. I will walk those heels to the end of the road, to the end of time.
And you will laugh.
And ridicule me.
And you'll insert in your clean, vaginal-looking mouth of normality big, fat words like abnormality, degradation, biology, religion.
You will do this with the power given to you by some equally big, fat, sickening, paganistic icon or social circle that taught you who and what to trust and believe in.
And at the end of the road, I'll turn around ever so gracefully to see if you've changed your mind.
And I suspect austerity will have been erased from your face. You will not frown.
Time will have fed you evolution of ideas and acceptance.
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