La Lingre, Act 1. Scene 8.

[Scene 8]



Adelina had been originally introduced to him first on the 12th of April, 2012 which was also in fact her biological 26th birthday, how auspicious. She was and is quite baby faced while strikingly attractive and slender like a modal, maybe even more than the Euro-American conception of impossible physique. She has auburn hair, but it was dyed blond in Russia while she was gone.

She lovingly smiles without much hardship, but is always a real smile coming from a place of actual enjoyment to share company with others. Her physical life span at birth was over two hundred years, but she was irradiated in Tank City, like everyone in Tank City living in a closed city near the nuclear arsenal and testing facilities.

She might have lived indefinitely in her body as it was born, but she’s actually dying slowly of cancer. Her spine has bulging disks and has developed scoliosis, though she hides the tremendous pain with mediation and constant yoga. She in the meantime has looked 17 for a decade.

Sebastian Adon had been interviewing for acceptance at Shrakasa Brandeis; you had pay your way into the camps after all; and had become a correspondence and bemused ally of her casual friend, a Ukrainian Jewish fashion photographer named Oleg Megved; also known playfully by his modals as Oleg the Bear, which is exactly that which his name means in Russian.

Oleg and Sebastian had met a year prior at a Gypsy Festival, called the Bohemian Festival in the borderlands between Brooklyn and Queens. Their post-soviet bromance revolved around Sebastian’s incredibly reckless pursuit of the girlfriend of a ferocious Russian businessperson named Dmitry Khulushin Koch.  A manipulative and tragic digger of gold previously mentioned named Dasha Skorbogatova. Sebastian proceeded while perusing this quite taken woman to compose upwards of sixty-four poems. However, most of them spoke more to his suffering and poverty of agency rather than any particular thing about the woman he sought to steal.

And shortly after the revolution called the ‘Great Revolt in the United States’ began.

By the time she was really done, he defeated  her with him he would composed those sixty four odd poems and several hundred-page novel, though the novel too like the poems were not really about her, they were about his suffering demons and tragic  beliefs. You need to have more than five hundred American in the bank to carry off a Russian woman from a well-resourced man, even if he cracks her face once in a while with the ultra violence. That then said this literary courtship impressed mostly Oleg Medved who took to calling Sebastian “the American Mayakovsky”, and introducing him to Boston’s many Russian women.

Moreover, that was how on her birthday, still very much “in love” with Dasha Skorbogatova; Sebastian met Adelina. And they began texting each other just perhaps two weeks later. Texting him daily words in Russian. Tring to educate him and get in his head.

Later, perhaps six months of texting words in Russian later, well then it was the Fall of 2013 and Sebastian Adon, in an effort to overwhelm her skepticism of any amorous or literary thing he was capable of producing.

He wrote her a new kind of Post-Soviet love poem; one that didn’t even cause him any suffering and he wrote for her alone, and performed it on a gaslight street corner of the Waltham Camps near Prospect Ave.

She beamed, and he recited;


“She Sometimes Amazed Me; How much!”

Сама иногда поражаюсь как меня много.


To my love: Adelina Anatolievna Blazhennaya


Every time we kiss it takes me out of this place!

And there will be more time for kisses!

Hold me fast and take my tongue from me as well as all my new found essence.

Absorb for me and let me then carry you further than ever before.

When man is submerged in the flood water of his longing,

When the rapids break the legs below him,

Voluptuous folds of over powered temptations yielding bed sheet utterances, belonging.

The desire to muster his best qualities,

His full works brought to bear for that singular woman thrust before him.

As my rough parts are made a puppy faced rabbit!

And my soul into a naked exposure,

Your hands, hips lips a flush of all endless ways to bring the winter to better closure.

And then tight ripped verse.

To chainsaw the rough cut marble of composition, to bash apart the inadequacy of poor form which might hint that all done for you was not unique.


Comrade Blazhennaya! You sometimes amaze me how much.

Such, I shall tell you what rights mean to me, dare we be glutted, yet so cold in Babylon make plain your wishes, I will get us free!


I see you not judging, or hiding well judgments!

From my past escapades or the demons in me!

Not judging we! I am beyond aleaved that we is now two and has been cleaved down from three.

Yet, wet lips still spout insurrection.

They bite the tongue, I bite my tongue in only one language. And lips which once from words but strike keys into bloody history, misconception.

See the melee!

See the thrill of “to us impending victory”

She asks:

                        “How many of your poems sound close to same? The want of affection of a daughter from Russia, the toll of such women, the toll of your struggle, the playing too hard of no rules at the game!”

She says:

                        “Take a short blade and cut the warble off the words, trim the American vernacular down to half the size.

Surmise, drop vanity, your chornay like use of countless profanity. Make again proud form, verse you rehearse until ere ready to perform.”

“Make language a beautiful thing!”

No instrument to bludgeon about thy demons an enemy’s down with the Winter and up with future, the coming of Spring!”

“And who,” she asks “art thou biggest enemy? Thyself-Thyself Comrade, squandering don’t you dare, stare, look in the mirror see the source of past troubles, he’s laughing at you or crying at you! Comrade take care.”


“Thyself if so untrue is pleasing to no one, not one single no one, not even the darkness in you,” she declare.


I respond; “Comrade Blazhennaya, my sweet Adelina I will moan every moment touching you and beside you render myself a smiling man with a past of no great countenance, you’re not like other woman we can’t be labeled by our continents!”

“Our consonants!”

“Most wanton. Touching you or looking through!”

“I long every day for your touch!”

She sometimes amazed me how much!

Сама иногда поражаюсь как меня много.


Scheming into dreaming, another bridge called Karlov!? I love to dream beside you, separated by nothing but desire, but happy always for the dreaming we do.

The duct tape that when I lived impoverished I used to patch my dressing shoe.

Take that blade that you were offered,

Cast that thing aside!

Seize control that vessel, bleed it red or bleed it blue.

What mean that Haitian flag to you?


“Talk of love or talk of sin or talk of rights;

You are too happy now to die before winter has finished setting in.”

I want nothing more or train robs, nothing more of winless fights.

“I want us to dream of ways to win!”

It’s all or nothing motherfucker! She imitates; “For a Baha’i Russo-Haitian fighting Irish you sure still like to make your dradel spin.


“What’s now not haunting you ought make your words more beautiful,” she says, “No more Victor Gin.”

“And are not small beautiful moments, dreams and things, smells and tastes and landscapes also dangerous to make tunes and tomes too?” she asks.

“Are not sad barricade ballets just belligerencies to thine enemy self?”

“Do not invite fire into your home, the Victory Gin is for self-murdering men, who don’t know how to begin the sniff of a win. Onto the shelf.”

“Your guns and your bullets your lies and worthless desires of dueling with devils!


“DREAM CORRRECT! You command my respect, your humor in nightly visitations to Burma to Paris to Trinidad; you call that all love, your love is forever suspect!”

When I see the smile of Comrade Blazhennaya, I know her as a plural woman.

I profess her my longing and I take her commands.

A woman who like I is disconnected from aspects of realty so she might better love the place where she lands.

A pause again, cheers to now and cheers to never again; might never loving trysts rip out hearts asunder, might never ideals take needless lives, cost rivers red of blood, denying life all grace or wonder.

I cheers to total truthfulness, a pause’ I’LL SEE YOU; WHEN?

Again and Again and Again.

I speak freely before you, I dare.

Until fireworks over Bagan’s skies are but a symphony of promises kept to me and you, and Blood red balloons of the Banshee insurrection not a spark compare.

She asks:

“What for then comrade! When you kiss my lips and write your poems on the softness of my stare; what is you’ve set yourself to do?”


“If you promise we, or the entire Breuklyn Soviet our liberation true then mark my words your words will return to stab a blade in you, and dash yourself and burn apart for the emptiness of the promises you sew.”

My hand overtakes her finger, her hand on the clutch.

She sometimes amazed me how much!

Сама иногда поражаюсь как меня много.

How much she knew my heart and yearned to know the plots of my soul. And perhaps I could amaze her too, not with all the adventures to come or the tall orders of deeds I had promised her and the world I could do,

I say.

“Just remain by my side and all of the happy you put on to me, I’ll reflect it actions right back on to you.”




She smiled and smiled and smiled, and we kissed and kissed and kissed; and when her Red kiawagon tumbled off in sputters into the night back to the settlements on the Brighton-Alston line, I loved her and missed her immediately though we would dream together every night for nearly two years. Yes, doubt my claims to love, but I did love her and she did me under impossible conditions.

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