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.

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.

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.
 

 

The heart-balloon ride. 

I'd never seen a queue like this before.
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.

 

The not so heavy heart. 

This happens to be the girl with no hands. 

She has a not heavy heart.

She carries it around with her erected and not so short, braids.

This heart is not so fitted for her body. 

Her body is not big enough to fit her heart.

The "cheer up love" heart.

I must, by all means, keep moving.
Until the answers come.
I tried total stillness.
But the only answer that hit me was the perfection of my breathing.

Art by Scampi.

 

Koboskoini heart.

Boήθησέ με να σκοτώσω το τέρας που παχαίνει.
Δε θέλω προσευχές. Ούτε κομποσκοίνι.
 

 

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.

 

The cloud heart.

My name is Cotton Puffs. But everybody calls me Cloud Muffs.
At the exact time of creation, I was your sole invention.
Your sky traveller.
Your dream catcher.
I'm as much of a mess as you are.
But I'll do what you ask.
I'll tell you the stories you wanna hear, dear. 
 

The charcoal factory hearts.

Left hands vs right hands.
Drops of difference.
 

 

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.
 

  

The beast's heart.

I call it a beast (not a monster).
So I'm waiting for it to transform into something clean, pristine.
It's fed me hassle in the past few days with its constant denial.

Denial, like a try with no steel.
Like a female fist tryin to balance on a soft mashmellow heel.
Like white paint covering black teeth. It's the toothpaste smile of the pussy beast.
Like riding a bicycle with a flat tire. Waiting for the fall. Or the applause.
Like sitting on a poker table with an ace of spades, adding hours on its wasted days.
Losing every bloody time.

Never a winner, this pussy beast. Never been to Troy. Never seen a forked eye. Never put out a cigarette on a wrist. Never kept tears in jars. Never really moved a muscle. 
Leaving it all to chance, the pussy beast forgot how to chew, breathe, whistle.
Unless the dice said otherwise.

This beast is a mess. A fuck up. A lifelong hustler.
Putting it publicly up here, its phase of atonement begins.
 

 

 



The coffee heart.

 

The small people were shocked seeing this while walking on a valley looking like a floor. They weren't sure what it was.

The japanese obachan put her fan down and gave the small people a shout:

 

Korewa onsen ja nai yo. Koohi desu. Kappu no naka ni oyogitai desuka?

 

With a little help from the obachans, they jumped in the giant cup.

And disappeared.

 

 

 

 

The dressed-up heart.

This kind-looking thing comes right next to you. Without shame, it dares to lean on you. It drags its tired hand towards you and hangs its hook from the bottom curve of your ear. It then gets a bit closer. And with saliva dripping out of its unformed mouth, it whispers in your ear:

Up in the hill, a dolphin swims,
Under the water, a polar bear sings,
Round and round the pirate's head spins,
Tic toc, tic toc, the skeleton grins.

Fuck first impressions.


Drawing made by Diana.

 

The carnival heart.

In PuErTo RiCO, YOU didn't see me dance.
You MISSED the thriller moves. And my body curves flirting with the shadows in the dim light.

Or MaYBe YOU didn't. Maybe you were there.

A dot in the CroWd. Hiding behind ThE glittering, snake performer with the head of a woman that was leading the carnival parade.
YOU had your hOOd up and waited for me to notice you with your hands in your pockets.
The Snake WomAn hissed. She belly danced just for you hoping to be kissed.
But you took NO notice of her. sHE was a symbol after all. A reFlection of EVIL.
You put your hood DOWN.
aND WAITED FOR ME to jump in it.
So you can take me with you, BACK to the land of the sane.

 

Spyros's heart. 

Spyros was very young at the time. Very young. He drew. All day, he drew. He made castles on land. Figs growing on fig trees. Fish rushing under the surface of the water. One day he made a cat. A purple cat with many legs and no whiskers. His mother slapped him.Spyros is an artist now. A painter. A sculptor. Everyone loves his work. Nobody visits him at home. As he still lives with his mother.  

 

The Ziggy Stardust hearts.

The Ziggys embarked on their giant spaceship.
Holding guitar-guns, they marched in like troopers.
Impatient, determined to take off and look for some kind of astrial leadership.

Throughout the journey, they came across other earth losers,
all  marching towards the unknown corners of infinity.
Looking for leaders of thought and dealers of affinity.

Slowly, earth turned into past, moon into future.
Hope went mute.
Calendars died.
Guitars took control.
Music survived.
 

 

The heart sweets.

Two.
Like the poles of one entity.
A morning mood. A night mood.
And in between, electricity, cunningly working on the vibes that will give birth to a human. Or a monster.
 

 

The flower petal heart.

In so many ideas conceived, there is riot.

A mindblowing twist in a book.
A strange ingredient in a plate of food.
A sense of randomness in a surreal painting.
A trouble maker's doings in a disciplined classroom.
A "but" in a sentence.
A truth that doesn't sound right.
A lie that's said too well.
A make-believe.

A petal in a heart. Just one.
 

 

A heart transplant on a blue body.

Dry some flowers, blue darling.

Go stand in front of a mirror, sad jasmine.

With a black marker, draw a vertical line under your left nipple, all the way down to where the human stomach begins.

Press a sharp knife over the line to make a section.

Ignore any fountainous blood popping out. Concentrate.

Using both hands, pull open both sides to the left and to the right (the same way a woman'd open her handbag to find her purse).

You should be facing, by now, your most important organ.

Pull it out with force. Ignore veins and other pipes. Bin the organ. Bin it.

With your bloody hand, pick the dry flowers and push them in. Rose petals, daisies, lilacs, orchids, anything goes, really.

Stitch the section with thin thread.

The world won't be different at all tomorrow.

You need not to care about that. You will have turned into memory.
 

 

The Disaronno heart.

Dan walked in the bar, took off his coat and sat on a stool.
He looked at the parade of bottles lined up behind the bartender.
He knew what he wanted to drink but as he was alone, a quick look at the parade seemed tempting.

So he gave it a try in case he changed his mind and wanted to try something different. Something just as strong. Something suitable for pain relief. Coz Dan, you see, carried a lot of scars. Just like Richard.

The bartender approached.
Dan  took another toke and exhaled the smoke from his nostrils. A buffalo on fire. Fuming with anger. Hurt to the bone. Disgusted with the connection between existence and existence.

"Jameson on the rocks", he said.

"Little lies" by Fleetwood Mac was playing on the background.
 

 

The polka dot hearts.

 A logical hypothesis that comes to mind: An ecstatic blur of swinging love with an exeption.

The basic rule of Persig states that the number of logical hypotheses that can explain any phenomenon is endless.

Therefore, I do not like my first sentence. Never been a fan of exclusion. Unless it's a personal choice.

Another attempt for a logical hypothesis: An ecstatic blur of swinging love with a dot that's been with all other dots at least once and patiently waits for a new arrival to the party.
 

The cooked heart.

With chinese lettuce and spicy tom-yum paste.

But I don't wanna talk bout the recipe here.
Wanna talk bout melting.

"Melt" is the most beautiful word in english language.

Melt is Hot.
Heat essential  when cooking.
The insides of heart expand.
Meat soft becomes.
High temperature burns the outside, bubbles form, like bubble-gum bubbles.
Bubbles become big, bigger, huge, gigantic, and poof, they explode scattering heart particles in the inside of oven.
It's a warm feeling, joy, relief, when you know heart is in warm place.
Most hearts in cold places.
Most hearts not served on plates.
People don't offer them. People keep them for themselves.
If you offer your heart for eating, dangerous. Risky.
Maybe you never get it back. Someone takes your heart and eats everything, even licks scattered bubble particles in oven.
Maybe you get it back because person doesn't wanna eat your heart but only wants to keep it warm.
Maybe person who wants your heart forgets heart in oven. And heart is burnt.
Idiot who wanna be chefs.
Nice but damn people.
Lovely, bright people.
How would all these people treat heart? Your heart?
Anyway.
This is not about heart.
This is about heat, you know wat I mean?
Melting comes with heat. Heat.

Coz it gets so hot sometimes HERE, that meanings get lost, words get mixed up, nouns want to be adjectives, exlclamation marks wanna replace question marks. HERE, nothing makes sense.

This is possibly why half of what I've tried to tell you has already melted.

 

The lorry driver's heart.

There are many lorry drivers in the outskirts of Delhi who like stopovers on the public toilets of the highways.

And people tell stories about them.

They like to stopover and shag donkeys, they say. Even goats.

They have waxed moustaches for the donkeys and goats to lick.

They've got stories to tell. But only to those who believe them. Coz they can smell suspicion on people's eyes from a handshake.

Me and Jyo met one of them. We sat on the ground and spoke for quite a while.

He was married. The love of his life was called Maanika.

She was a goat.

He did no donkeys.

 

 

The beetroot heart.

Beetroot was forked. Forked, exploited and cut into pieces.

juices started popping out of its round body,
drippin on the plate,
forming lines of red,
lines of different shades of red
that were not fucking "grey" but red instead,
a red sea on a plate with beetroot guts swimmin in the redness,
a yellow dip castaway on the side staring at the beetroot crying its eyes out
because it was being eaten
Despite its death the beetroot wasnt sad, nor melancholic,
it was a moment of beetroot enjoyment, a vegie-human intercourse where mouth, tongue, teeth, texture and vitamins become one.

And there were sighs, incomprehensible whispers, tears of pleasure, intimacy.

It was a profound realisation of the loss of a life. Helpless, addictive and ecstatic as fuck.