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.