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.
 

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.