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Is it?

What is this heart? It hides in darkness like a singular truffle beneath mossy forest floor. It is heart and not a quantitive emotion laid on measuring scales like a mass of muscle tensing under knife glare.

It is not elaborate gildings cast by gluttons garish, golden frame. To be sniffed at by a brooding boar. Plucked, shaken, brushed bare.

It has a mouth filled with graveyard earth and spine made from steel. It holds reflections constructed from innards, etched on metallic sheets, like small, subtle daguerreotypes held in memory palm.

What is this heart? It is light and transparency, like Stendhal's Salzburg crystal form. Hidden, softly glistening in salt mines where hikikomori come to stare. It is not the salt that sits on skin or the crystal that forms your glass. It is ungraspable.

It is housed in Calle's address book. On pages thumbed and moistened by strange man's stagnant sweat. A scrawled entry, to be located and called upon with possessive contrary demand.

What is heart but a proposal embedded in Peter Liversidge courier font. Sent surrendering to folly fingertips. Red's black mass amassed, redressed and pressed. Printed solid in inky state for eyes stuck on pages lingering like a child's pva play.

It is the longing narrative in Stewart's miniatures. The vermillion in rape's black harvest seed. A synthetic strand of skin. A talisman.

It is in flight from wars fought with nostalgia eyes. Boxed in bats belfry swooping state. Painted and plastered on gallery walls. Invisible, informed.

It is an origami bone made from portō, valhalla, dīluere. What is this heart if not homeless? An extract, excerption, of derelict vowel, letter and grain. To be sealed like tights in resin block steadied by voyeurs gaze.

It is prized like a trophy from Mendieta mossy depths. Punctured by teeth, handled in rough fingertips. It is the feeding of empty shells- cut in private, publicly punctured porcelain strewn in silence.

It is.

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