The Body Is Nothing But Someone Else to Overcome

Kurtz Loggia didn't know how to initially respond during the odd, finicky lull burnt over so many nights without having markedly a single disturbance to his phelgmatic existence within a smallish fifthteen-by-eighteen foot apartment condominium where he stayed whenever he wasn't outgoing with reprehensible attempts at summoning an artistically meaningful living by nosing his way into the illicit care of homely village spinsters who were once talentless socialites like himself, but nowaday were complacent in soliciting the company of surly dotards with dubious pretence, an aspirant poet-cum-philander who was also philanthropic, he arrogantly often thought, in that he gave himself to these ugly faced women who were very clearly attracted to him as much out of pity regarding him and his seemingly airtight density in behavior and perplexing attempts at arousing favor at nearly no cost against his admittedly skewed moral compasses(he kept many, and threw each little tinny clattering mechanical clock ready as he screws another one to befit his quixotic, often affluent jejune jaunts across whichever paradigm he coarsely asked for direction from, finding himself always exasperated with the task of outdoing his previous incarnation or pseudonym hardly a good joke let akone a caper proper for a living hard on); it was precipitious that this morning, Kurtz arose from wavewhite slumber, and discovered with immense but inscrutable pleasure, that he was no longer the same body that formerly made him such an obsequious, fatuous interlocutor who stood for years for nothing of any real consequence other than to have his own burgeoning disgust keep him in the loop of amorous Tyrolean bed sheets and so squarely patronized by a litany of creatures who lived so long on the dying fumes of a man who would not have to stay stuck in the pits for much longer.

It would appear that this movement alighting Destiny and the pugilist swiping cheaply at the constellations Kurtz was born under has been written with a wide thoroughness to even see his nadir end within his own lifetime.

He smiled with a smile etched not from his own lips, and the incongruous shape his new incarnation would create when he tried making an internal reflection that would make his miraculous semblance, newborn but freed from any sign of infancy or fledgling stages of gestation that would be otherwise the worn features of age squandered and ravaged by unkind deterioration of the flesh when pampered with the clamored overtures of the people who would eat any person if they looked good enough to be put down.

He soon decided that his art would come not from aping the prelapsarian lapses of predecessors all vanquished by the ignominy of culture and the curators who pervade it like swollen lice, brownish as the festering scabs they too bite from when the hand it does not know feels them feed.

That all along, there was someone great awaiting to flourish where what felt to be the simulacra of obsolescence in living right faded away from him, not even to simmer cooly to dry off the immaculate form that welcomed grooming with a butcher's precision, and cut himself primly until the point of no return had him walk reddening, as if flattered to even embody such perfection and poetry in a single physical structure would make him faint and descend flat against the glass, wheyface in sighing pouring where the smear of his hand will wave farewell effusively to a man he already cannot recall having shared the same bed and utensils as the former.

The taste of serenity went hollow inside his head and later that afternoon, he could have sworn the draft outside made him go running to the coldest ends of the earth he could see, and then the journey took him places where he, some may charitably imagine, were places he always thought he could travel too, but never had the courage beforehand, as if the bird was afraid to fly because his nest bled out the forsworn severance against the sky for having canopied such a pitiable lifeform, and for it not only to die in its present state, but that it must believe it is flying when it dies, forevermore high and astray the baby bird flies with feathers of a cardinal that does not leave, but glides with uneasy confidence onward.

Kurtz Loggia was newly a man he had never seen except for what his premonitions knew he would never amount to, and if so, only as the prototype for someone he despondently understood deep down in his steepening heart where a deep recess resided brought him near to empty tears on his knees scuffed and crying at the temple of so many vulvic impasse, tepidly waiting for the cessation of the man they glowered at sourly would shrink in his nakedness, and so spring forth a type of man who didn't creak so much at the seams.

They too, those myriad mean-mouthed spinsters, daydream of Kurtz becoming a man who would look beyond his gifted endowment as a superior one, and look at the past he perished behind as one would survey a school peer from long-ago with remote supremacy at the hapless effrontry some born in lesser shape will take upon when they struggle to be palpable despite having been so hollow when returned to ears perched there at impossible altitudes, mountains where the better part of ourselves listen partioned from the agony their primitive beginnings unanswered by someone unable to reply kindly by any manner other than a mute, taciturn nearsightedness.

One would imagine that between paradise and primordial selves that extinguished like topsoil, there was no coming back between that empty black separating two men from one purgatory that was an entire lifetime, and that was enough for both to rest their quarrel sagely upon.

One imagines the prolonged seconds living his previous self: Seething calciferous screams barely utterable as the discarded body fanned like hissing eaves against a jagged gulch where the same uniform flanks lf shale were crying as if mewling newborns haunted death with the pangs of untenanted teeth, not in the right shape or size when fitted shut, closed for any appearance of movement around jowls to be otherwise unpainted by any qualifying period or not only then this should make it possible as if there was singing in the same ivory-blue aerosphere under sifted years and dirt, then only did the glance of the Herculean successor has perhaps contemplated, albeit meekly with ineluctable push of Destiny again alive within a bifurcated whole entire person, curiously went back searching again for some kind of similarty to himselfthat would permanently cement a long submerged half abstaining that people who saw something holistic now where he walked in his vast serge form shadowward so later to even split atomistic off his languishing perfection incarnate, these minted fists too to face being estucacheoned into a sudden rawhide impermanence encroaching the most lonely intermission left out among himself formerly, his reflexive hindsight handed him a second take altogether, bookeneded with a cryptic vision in his solitude forewarning him in the back of his hearing mind, teasing diabolical at his humanity that he was eternally unfixable, perhaps: he could almost collapse when the wind came coughing an unfinished, abrupt shout in the dark of endless about-face Kurtz surmised, then succumbed instead to following the heraldic brokenness near a foreglimpse. 

Kurt was loved only when his body became elevated with handsome catafalque over what remains were burnt without a single tear to staunch where he crumbled, so dearly to no one.

Not even the self he looked at himself with, an exterminating shyness attacking his awareness of a strife finally overcome.