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.