Heart puke.

Function in disaster.
Finish in style.


Unknown source of street art.

 

The heart shadow.

"Don't jump",

yelled the shadow looking upwards from below.
 

 

The incomplete, angry red.

"Damn you, woman. Where's the rest of the body?" yelled the red angrily.

The red had no clue what it was anymore.
It was not lost. It was incomplete.

Was it part of human lips? Was it the top of a heart without its bottom? Was it nippless boobs seen from above?

So the red waited.

And waited.

And progressively got more pissed off but waited.

Until eventually, a sense of belonging came.

 

 

The Berlin heart.

He.

He's a tease, so at ease.
He's a thrill, an all-time chill.
A blend of spices, tickling my throat.
An air-balloon, a blue lagoon.
He's a twister, an immaculate Mister.
Didn't talk to him much. Didn't walk on him much, either.
I got the vibe though.
Berlin.

Berlin is masculine.

Definitely.

 

 

The hair-made heart (assumption).

Wet.
Thin.
Long enough.
Creation after death.
Unknown source.
Logical source: Human head.
Irrational sources: Human Ear. Human Nose. Human Arm. Human Leg. Human Genitals.

Clues for other sources: Horse tail. Extended snake tongue. Wire, sad due to its inability to achieve rebirth as hair.


Thanks to Konstantina for sending me the heart.

 

 

 

The mending heart.

Hi.I am a thread.

I belong to the Mending Heart Kingdom. The Mending Heart Kingdom is based on a big castle, filthy-looking on the outside but flower-scented on the inside. Our Kindgdom castle has thin, long legs made of steel that facilitate its movement.

Truth is, when the kingdom castle visits the world, at times, it steps on bumps, sleeping policemen or bodies sunbathing on the beach. That's when things fall inside. Needles pinch threads, scissors cut threads, yellow threads mix with red threads, threads get caught on zips. Threads are the passive receivers of our kingdom movement.

And the gladiators too. Coz when the castle does stop on Heartbroken Lands, all us threads come out and start unrolling.

We mend people's hearts, you see.
 

 

The door handle heart.

Oh, that goddamn handle.
That opens heaven's doors,
pushes piles of dirt under the carpet
brings Vegas home
puts silicon in one's bed
leaves cheap lipstick marks on expensive sheets,
makes fake promises.

It ain't hiding behind that door, man. Look somewhere else.

The Funky Cookies hearts.

Gin & Tonic.
Whiskey on the rocks.
Tequilla shots.
Black rum. Straight. Myer's.
Pint of budvar.
Vodka orange.

All cancelled out when facing that on a date.
Time to get tipsy with some colour, I say.

 

 

The Tortellini heart.

The tortellini heart comes from a country looking like a boot. With grace it dances in the boiling water, flirting with the salt, teasing the cream.

The tortellini heart's got other organs too. In its body all sorts of ingredients are hidden.

To such an extent that when eaten, one gets the pleasure not of eating pasta but of devouring a body, soft, alive.

In our days, where things alive are under the wing of global protection, consumption of the tortellini heart signifies the renaissance of canibalism in western culture.

 

The oregano chip heart.

Summer is all about yoghurt:

Yoghurt spreading out in your stomach.
Yoghurt on sunburns.
Yoghurt dripping out of one's mouth.
Yoghurt-coloured pebbles on the beach.
Waves looking like lines of yoghurt from a distance.
Pina coladas with could-be-yoghurt in them.
Refreshing yoghurt cakes melting in every mouthfull.
Yoghurt wars on a hot summer day.

Yog.

A yog is a crisp that has the shape of a heart.

Can a yog hurt?

Not if it comes in the shape of a heart.
 

 

The London heart.

During a stroll in London, this heart stood out on a shop window.
Yes. I felt the love.
And I'd never trade that for a prize.

 

 

The Rose Petal Heart.

Spring is here.
Looking pale pink and dull.
April's rose petal was not shaped purposefully, cut out with shiny scissors.
April's rose petal was found at a baptism far away from the city.
Where bees hum and flowers grow without building reflections on their petals.

 

 

 

The flour heart.

 

Patricia was about seven months pregnant. She'd never made a spinach pie before so off she went to mix all the ingredients and work the dough. Slow moves and padam padam on the background. The dough knew where this was going. The dough laughed and twisted on the kitchen surface. The dough giggled, splattered Pat with tiny bits of flour pride. When it became convinced that Pat was going to make something out of it no matter what, the dough gave up. So it let Pat go on with her work. With love.

 



 

 

 

The rock heart.

 

Sea salt washes everythin away, they say. Some time after this picture was taken, the same heart could be hardly seen. Salt washes everythin away, I say. Salt contributes to things being ephemeral, I add.