Pararescue men of Breuklyn Soviet

#015:
Pararescuemen
Of the
Breuklyn Soviet

image
I was flying!

She said:
“That’s what dead men on magic carpets do.”
The Cold Coast and Leaden Casket of the Breuklyn Soviet departed;
And now I’m just a brightly colored parachute,
Draped over a handsome smiling corpse,
Just a wild memory to you.

And a paratrooper leaps out over ten thousand free fall landings!
Falling for you hard and ever forwards is what I trained in all my other lives to do.
You’ve got no nostalgia for that place that you are made from? She asks.
I remember trials to hold the simple two feet of crimson earth on which I’m standing,
I declare!
I remember working you for hours.
I remember passing notes across an Ocean,
Begging you to come.
Do you have any idea how miles I’ve fell to forget my gods my darling?
Look Upwards!
There are many more to surely come.
“And you’ll return to me the minute I demand it,” she declares.
“I know how hard you worked to steal that fire,
And I know that just to keep me warm forever,
You will surely bring me some.”

But put simply,
I’m so long trapped in hell!

“Inside your head two different breeds of competing demon dwell.
And it is not my place to dance or fuck for both of them,” she said.

When our peerless passion eyes are changing color
From a host of sleepless evil nights,
That means the devils peering out you,
Look out, Old Soul!
It’s surely true.

I asked for her the fullest of forgiveness.
As ashen eyes of silver overtake the oldness of my pastness sorrows with the fires of the new.
I stare into the inkwell of mother night and ask for mercy.
“You will be ignored,” she said.
You must stare down your indifferent maker and fight battle after battle against a million savage evils as contained within the universe of tragedies playing out like motion pictures inside you fearsome head.

The conviction that divine forces root for you is but amusement.

No, the gods they spit on us and pass grapes as we in darkness losing die.
You are but speck! Is all she knows to cry.
For the love of god man,
Lay down that fight and fight to love besides me,
If help is coming it will not be from above.
Unless those are paratroopers with the Banshee Otriad! I did remind her.
Don’t look back!
This I warned her.
My past is a black wolf and it will devour us alive.
The dead will bury the dead.

Seeking the fleshy hosts of their earthly protagonists.
Fearing possession,
Most endearing.
Ti Pianai zycjek li ti chornay volk?
She asked.
Are you a drunk rabbit or a black wolf?
I asked her.
What words are these.
I am a piller of salt!
And she took my hand and whispered the things you did in other lives were not your fault.

When her eyes flash in postpartum midnight hours, I am seized with a frenzy.
In normalhood hers are black sea blue.
But hers turn a certain ashen silver from the sleep deprivations of liaison,
staring into madness, she will then stare into you.
Right back!
You’ve brought down the walls and you’ve howled at the moon,
And they cut your locks, and your limbs.
And rendered you howling, for an arrogant savage.
For god has only three letters of good.

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