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.
 

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.