Facial Heart and at the End an Examination of Emotion and the False Metaphor of Economy

MTC Cronin

Gourd for the emotions. Always full, no matter how blank. Are there ever (any?) degrees of blankness? The beat missed by the smile? A painting of the heart revealing a face with eyes darting like tapping spoons and a mouth taking flight on wings of impressed glass? An eternity of hollowness humanizing itself, subconscious thoughts humped through the black of the eyes? The room around the mind is inhabited by observances of the body. They pose. Delicate, thin, tenuous, impalpable. Then crude, kicking, garish, like colours always taking over others. Warm, perhaps, like an altar, or a cold pale enthusiasm. Two faces together? So much anger that the moment becomes worthwhile; the marvellous dark dragon flies over the face and unmasks the prison and its thrashing inhabitants. So much desire that the viscera of the tongue climbs to lick the dust from love; drags love out to find its lost shoes of breath. Hear all that whistling through the tunnel of air that reaches the brain. Word-signatures avoiding coffins, finding coffins, sign the contract of the face, shine through layers of flesh! The moon is out again. The lovers are in their wallets. Following yourself becomes mandatory. What’s a corollary to skin?