Partizan Song, Prelude

The Partizan Song





[A Manuscript by]:





Walter Sebastian Adler


Dedicated to Dasha Andreavna Skorbogatova



“Don’t make me sad.

Don’t make me cry.

Sometimes love is not enough

And the Road gets tough; I don’t know why.

Keep making me laugh. Let’s go get high.

The Road is long but carry on,

Try to have fun in the meantime,

Choose your last words.

This is the last time.

You and I, we were born to die.”



Lana Del Rey










ACT ONE:   Str’ast





Set in New York City, 2012ce








My name is Sebastian Vasili Adon. I do believe some of that to still be the name I was born with. In the dead of winter, seven years into the Great Revolt; I was captured along with my gun slinging Haitian partner Watson Entwissle after a firefight in the icy heart of Moscow. We were taken three parts-alive by the Russian Federal Security Bureau and then turned over to their inner most secret police for a most highly spirited interrogation.

They ripped out poor Watson’s eyes; then broke most of my ribs as then beat us both for many days and soon I was pissing blood.

I will begin by saying that no matter what “changes” or revisions may occur in depiction of my narration that the world changed forever in a very specific way on the 1st of January 2012. Of course in the constellation of dates there cannot be one discovered moment of alteration total; but instead linkages of great historic movements; migrations toward our human evolution out of darkness and barbarity and inequality; into our natural way.

How does one chart such movements; such milestones when they are but realized memes? Realized intuitions that came that pass as world events based on total boldness.

I have not the arrogance to claim a high rank in the revolution. Or the audacity to claim that my role was of some significant aspect for I was but a staff sergeant in vast chain of command were the ranks of war to be applied to the ranks of those who fight for peace. I will have you the conscientious readers to know that I am a poet. Yes a poet; once who delights in making words tell stories; who if left to my own devices would have been happy as a small farmer and passionate lover of my wife and the word; had not the violence swept upon my lands.

Did you know that when the Oligarchy cannot conquer a rebellion they conquer its narrative? Did you know that the truth is not ever truly known except by those who saw a thing with their own eyes? How did it begin? Who was the leadership? What were the demands! These are oligarch questions because the small man or woman; the humble ones; those who submit themselves to a higher power and therefore love life; the children of the believers; we do not beg a political context for the world; one is thrust upon us.

Later on when I was asked or should I say interrogated with beatings, drugs and electricity why I joined the “Great Revolt” and became one its so-called “leaders” they asked me many times to declare the moment when I embraced these “zealous beliefs” or by what life event wedded my totality to this cause. They pestered me with these questions though throughout the events I had played no part except as a member of a small medical detachment putting our meager resources to good use.

They, they being the agents of the oligarchy referred me to a poem published in one of the newspapers of the underground press I had submitted. It was only once piece of the “evidence” against me, but they claimed my role larger than I ever knew it to be.

I am able to say that I understand the world differently because my memory is longer; because I read books about the past, because I enjoy reading and because as a poet, a sensitive soul I delight in writing down my base human ideas and sharing them; making common cause with other suffering souls.

They would beat us many times and make us many offers. It was fortunate the resistance wiped away my mind so I could betray only myself. In addition, that Watson Entwissle is a Haitian and therefore impossible to break.

They always beat me and referred me back to these poems. Poems they claimed were “proof” of my highest-level rebel involvement. The uprising had not at that time fully spread to the Russian Federation or the People’s Republic of China. But, I remembered nothing, well almost nothing well.

I did remember several things throughout the brutal interrogations that in a way sustained me through their inflicted brutality. Were these things real or imagined, implanted or devised I have no idea for I know neither science nor high-level majik.

I know that there is a secret sleeper organization called the Z.O.B. that is at war with those in total power called The Oligarchy that control the world system core. I know that no one knows what those three letters stands for nor are they originally in English. I know that agents of that Oligarchy raped and brutally murdered my wife while pregnant with my child; they burned my city, they killed my family and my friends, my friends of friends and even former lovers and then there were no ideas or beliefs I needed to then learn to fuel my un-ending resistance after those most hideous events. There after I then breathed in the smoke monster, drank only on blood and nourishing hate.

Finally, I know that an uprising began in a place called Ayiti and that it continues to this very day despite major quarantine and most disastrous set back. I know that on January 1st 1959; that the same revolution spread to the nation of Cuba and has been entrenched there sense were illiteracy has been irradiated and people live longer than in the United American States. And things come in threes, all things; for on 1st January 2012 that long quarantined revolt fought on the fringes of the developing word erupted on the streets of Port-Au-Prince and spread like wild fire worldwide.  I know that I am entitled to certain protections under the Geneva Accords I will not receive as a uniformed combat Pararescueman, shield 2952 of the 99th Airborne Detachment from Breuklyn Soviet, epicenter of the latest phase in our latest and most glorious uprising.

They then beat me for many more weeks. They ripped out my finger nails and drugged me into nightmarish worlds of grisly torture. They called me terrorist as though it were my surname. They demanded I tell them “who are my true leadership”, “where is Emma Solomon?” “Where is Avinadav DeBuitléir?” They have nothing to gain because I know nothing but what I have already told you. I am a poet who makes silly rhyming poems to bed young women.

You murdered my entire family, I periodically think inside me self.

Therefore, I joined the rebel alliance as uniformed Pararescueman 2952 of the 99th Airborne Detachment, known also as the Fighting 99th. It was we who helped re take Port Au Prince in 2010. It was we who took back Jerusalem in 66 112 and 1210.

And such was the only thing still etched in my mind under vast torture. Periodically I wondered if I could hear Watson screaming, but it is against the code of the Haitian gentleman to break under torture and I doubted therefore the screaming was coming from him.

In another life. Before knowledge of their atrocities sent me to first to Cuba; then to Haiti and Syria where I saw with my own eyes the fullness of genocide the Oligarchy was capable of. Before I read my Orwell, Marx, Zinn, Wallerstien, Chomsky, Mayakovsky, Hooks, Goldman, Rist, Kropotkin and many others. I was living on a kibbutz in the land of American occupied Israel writing small poems, working the land; laying sprinkler drip lines, making small art and being very much in love.

They refer me to some poem that supposedly appeared in something called the “Banshee News Service” several months ago. Of course I deny anything they claim I am party too. Banshee isn’t that a ghost, I ask. And a truncheon strikes my jaw.


The poem which is numbered #99: Human Patria,




It reads:





We consider your rallying and your hee-haws,

An aberrant and arbitrary designation!

We do not fly all flags evenly. That is sure.

Some had more to them than others, some, the very thread, the liniature was, earned.

There was a name tattooed on the back of her neck!

And we best believe she didn’t choose it.

When they splattered those fierce Syrians in the newspaper, did you feel it?

Did you feel their faces crack; their lives leave us?


Not one speck of a thing!

When they broke that hooker’s jaw for sport you still daily subscribed to late night flickering of the inter-web hand cock!

What time did the sunset in Babylon that day?

You vile fucking thief.

I make accusations on myself and at others.

When they scalped 800,000 was it just a cautionary tale that the niggers still can bleed more?


That’s just a breed of hyper-violent monkey.

Worse somehow, it grins at the notion of a good bleed.

Likes the site of an explosion far from home.

You’re paleness is to me unsettling,

But I could absolve it if you had some “human patria”.

What’s that?

Solidarity with your kind man!

Never mind.

When they kicked your face, broke all your teeth the first time did you beg your god to let you die one last time?

Did you plead, pissing blood to never again be their target?


Pile the corpses outside your village, offer your daughters bare breasted ass for rape.

You my pigeon holed associate are the vile ones.

The smidge I pick from my teeth.

You are a speck.

When inserted up her tight shaft, the softness of those pale legs were a cushion.

If I digress into sex. It is because I both hate police and love firm round breasts thus proving I am not any one’s martyr, no icon or virtue nor desirous of your speculations on my gray motives.

I am just a man and I fuck.

Both myself, women and the world back on to me fucks hardest.


Yes what!

Bleeding from my head like Syrians do,

The humiliation of 4,000 years of a petulant subjugation.

I’m am impervious to your zombie ways.

Your turn the other face.

Your blindness.


Your collaborator scheming.


When the noose is again about my neck at least I will go through the motions to die a hero.

At least, perhaps, as my last breath bellows Ya Basta Pig in face of my Roman enemy.

At least my gun will be completely empty when they finally taka the hill.


Damn you coward.

When there was no one left.

When it was just you, me, and the overwhelming urge to surrender.


The richest man in Babylon Mountain was to be just a pebble with a gold cane.

And I. Oh I.

I was invested in my brother and sister too. I wanted for strangers what my own self craved.

Human Patria! I say. Not so farfetched if a blan like me subscribes in totality.

And so right then and there,

Kissing her neck,

Wishing no one had done those things to her.

That name on her neck.

I will kill them all if I have to!!!

I’ll slaughter them all and feed them their own children as delicious meat pies!! RA! Baraka!!!

But tell me cousin, she asks…

If, when we avenge us;

Tell me that I at least will learn to know my Human Patria.

She soothes my tremors of delirious rage, she takes my callous hand; she says;

Absolve yourself of pastiness my eternal love,

For Human Patria relies, and in fact demands that the hero and heroine act not like monsters. Act not like Romans or Amerikanski, instead, she says;

Love me more than you hate the beast and the beast will have no power.

For to save one life, open one mind, live one on life with honor.

We strip the monsters of their claws when fighting vile monsters we become above them,

In conduct.

I will teach you man of Human Patria.


Ⱥdon to Dasha.




            Who or what, how now, why is Dasha?


After reading me this trifle wearing both a hideous and vaguely comical mask; one my interrogators then smashes my face with a truncheon again.

And such was the only evidence they ever presented me with.

A stupid, non-rhyming poem.

A ridiculous, minuscule Partizan Song.

Written in Gamatria, ah ha; you’d have to know what that is pig!

In another life I wrote a boat load of little poems. Interestingly enough, or perhaps commonly my mind retreats into itself to escape the shame or torture and also the unending pain of total human sympathy. My memories it seems are crafted devices, walls of data to waylay my opponents and thus shelter my closest friends and associates. What for are then these ridiculous poems? I call them but a masochistic hobby horse. Though they are not all without some talented intent.

I wrote them all to four various Russian women. Though that cannot be used to say that all four women were properly loved, or that I loved each with equal rigor. Poetry, song and art itself are manifestations yet they are not equal and they are not all backed up with the same stuff, the same longing, the same level of doing of deeds after words.

It should be clear that though I slept in and beside these four women over a period of some six years; I did only love one. And only one loved me.

Now they’re yelling something in Russian and I pretend as though I do not speak it not at all. But how could I not for all and every of my strangest loves taught me my greatest lessons in that language.

They are demanding all these pieces of myself I cannot even hope to deliver. These interrogators and also those four women.

It seems they are less interested in the recently murdered guard colonel my Haitian partner and I played the part of recent highway men to gun down dispatch. Less interested in our baser affiliations. It seems that the strong arm of the Russian Oligarchy is most concerned with a brief end of summer liaison that happened seven years prior with a young buxom émigré from the city of Penza whose name was Dasha Andreavna Moonskaya who for some time I called Dasha, or Natushka to more sweet.  Do not ask me to quantify my love and longing for I cannot. I cannot tell these tortures what names I had invented, or puzzling circumstances came upon me when I shed the privileges of my aristocracy, to make friends in the Russian quarter.

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