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The Double

  • Dave Shortt 
  • 3 min read

non-Euclidean beings, evolved from 2-D where one slides along, to where the 2 becomes a topology of karma, inescapably tight-bound around whatever evolving slightness, whatever hinted-at mystery, a projected felt space (intermingled with flesh) of feedings & feedbacks, of social & antisocial, of nano-synapses experimenting with surrender & freedom (drowning out dialectical cries), of organic immersion in regeneration & decay, incorporating enzyme’d & hormone’d information, existential electromagnetic violences & pacifyings, growths squaring cancerously, if they’re not resolving & putting in remission the pounding mental ocean in whose mists a World-Soul seems to hover, reflecting like a warm ghost /

With her caged cat (her puss-friend), she is the plumbing the wiring the build, the non-carnivorous catwoman, gift of the Careful Ages, ageless now as her eyes sweep the train’s compartment from behind owl-eyed glasses, scanning in Bubastis theophany, sweeping like 2 spotlights as her exit prepares itself in this night of who she is, ‘only she could know,’ the cat-planet can no longer read the sibylline oracle, censored like schedule 4, while patchwork masonry rescues the standing columns at empty Delphi, as she goes, under iPhone flag, in the defenselessness, under the cover of the Other (?)

Made mistakes shimmering, endless, wrong, under repercussions of expulsion, exile & don’t, don’t / Painted savages, face paint, strokes of color, depictions of travels grown streaky, mascara’d shortcomings running into earth-tones of landscapes, genuinely staining their personalities, ruining the point of an illusory majority / A painting ‘I love you’ filling out an oil & canvas void, in degrees of squeeze & release of impasto / Which lives were one? one that couldn’t be another? from naive shapes possibly waken fusing potencies, coalescing blisses, compression of judgments, while an individual mandates its proper life, soulfelt /

Story, allegory, ‘known not meant,’ pretty kitty touch & touch, a quantum of ally, kin, sprinkled with polyfluoroalkyl / Dreams that might be neolithic regressions but no cattle or sheep or any other animals were present, leaving a hypothesis of flashbacks to infancy / Who are we? who is that? sleep is a veil that in passing behind one could realize or not a m-m-m-Meditator & God is Dostoevsky crawling the streets of St. Petersburg, learning by heart the life of each word in interfaces of the prose’d worlds / & it’s she, propping up, creating a man-being gone into algorithms of sacrifice, leading down into an onion-domed cavern where a rattling tongue (nearly swallowed) bats around the genesis of companion aesthetics unstoried & raw, a chase in play, whose congruencies are heroic avatars or whorled flowers, annihilative, reductive as sadness /

but these words are only posted

on a tree somewhere in the heart

of an oak forest where no one

will ever find them

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