Scene 8

 

            What were these poems about, besides my won suffering of course, they were a therapeutic parlor trick. I’m not sure very many anyone likes them, maybe not even Oleg the Bear, my absconded former droog and moral patron, no, the poems served my cause poorly, she could barely tolerate them, and when the love was a more fleshy thing, a more summer fling, it was built on bottles of wine and dinner and outings, not poems, less art.

            But one night after, the release of his first book to a drunken mob in a tavern, with no microphone he held the ground of literature so audibly, well she asked for new poem, it had been some three years since he composed for her, and there she was now asking in her panties for prose, but, this one was angry too, he hated her perhaps as much as he loved her for what happened before, being so much, well, torture.

 

 

“#104: The Reset, To Goldy”

 

Reset, “This girl is trouble, causing me so much trouble.

Some man not able to keep up; she now dancing on a table, she is walking on my words; like she don’t give a fuck!”

Razpizdai! I’ll love you now or never, I’ll love you even when you’re brutal. Even when a wine soaked savage! I can love you even when you lie.

For my actions are ever mounting, my every try, my every why! Is contemplated as belated to the risk, the whisk and everlasting sigh.

You lit your cigarette and I watched you walk away. Reset, the trauma of our courtship, it isn’t over yet.

And then, inside me bursts, and I reach out for the repeat. I am clawing at my vocab for the proper words to say, to declare a need for new replay.

You dangle out some pearls of small affections, then you snatch that shit away.

But the things I’m about to utter are known to you already, I beg the night and my tears streak tarnished manhood debased before my goddess, yet again.

“Be not like other men”, beg to be beside me, buy and spend to hold attention, “fuck it man,” she yells at me you’re doing it again!!”

I beg reset, does she even read my poems? Does she even like my tender kisses, do my actions even make her happy though my puppy eyes make her upset!

Reset, we’re not there yet. Yet being the walk away, yet being the closure we might not ever get.

Chowan say, “Shawty’s, like a melody in my head, that I can’t keep out,

Got me singin’ like Na, nah a Na every day, like an Ipod stuck on replay.”

Blond hair and soft thighs, pressed against my cheek, what was real she can’t remember but she’s sometimes sorry for her blackest lies.

And the evil of her insults, the latest ones this week! Of what evil can I even speak, I do for her what I am able, I bring her mild entertainment,

I speak warm words of loving and feeling and needing, ‘til she tells me not to even speak.

 

She says she is Russian, but she’s clearly taking-her-time, she’s picking her targets with ease. She a dangerous woman, we all can agree,

She can break a man’s heart with her smallest of actions, she prefers all her men on their knees.

                   Reset, our very disposition, hurling insults and command me to go, get gone! Three years did precious little to make you less a savage ethanol soaked beauty,

To better button up your buxom, or to make me value money over song. How, for now we play along. Hit the reset button of emotions, let the hungriest of hungry games begin,

It’s a carnal sin in Russia, to play like you ain’t playing, to over say what your eyes could just be saying, to take all or nothing with your win.

Get in line to love her! But be prepared to love amid a massacre, what a smile that she’s always wearing, rooting for you maybe, behind a devil of a grin.

Bury my tongue inside you, drinking deeply from what’s running down your thigh, I wonder why, I always wonder why! I even ever, never! I broken record try.

I grind ever hard to stay beside her, I want nothing else beside her, Reset an upset, we blink it’s a reminder we might not be together in another moment,

Might be strangers in a week.

You hear these words of hurting, you hear that blind devotion to the woman of which I speak?

How long have I loved Ms. Dasha? I loved her three years since I met her, I loved her in the world to come; I loved her overtime. I loved her in a hundred poems, I loved her in boats as well as banyas, I still want to lie beside her even after when I die.

Reset,

Hand cuffed to the bed you lie, I get hand cuffed to the ceiling or a chair. She fucked me over there, I loved her blackest magic, I lusted her legs apart again. We did it nearly everywhere.

If I was good at my all this loving as I pretend to be at all my saving,

If I was dancing in my own shoes; not break my back wage slaving, if I was more handsome? More established, more care free. That a pretty fucking woman, that’s a goddess of woman, and she doesn’t see a single thing in me.

Reset, ripped our heart, bed soaked in sweat, regret. I regret not one nothing, not one single fucking nothing. She has taught me more of life and struggle than the womb from out I came, I have no need for blame, I have little cause for shame, she’s spent so many nights to work me, to push me out of prison, to get me out of ghettos, to move me into flight,

Baby, give me one more night!

Rest again, is it even right.

Her smile is moon beam shine, I love to feel her chest move in breath upon me as we slumber, her gentle hands compliant as they rest inside of mine.

No fret, she hasn’t killed us yet. And the picture and the poems and the novels they will surely pile to the sky. She takes back her cruelest words, she knows when to say her sorry, when to rub my rhyme,

But I am enthralled to lust and love and live beside her for a second or third time.

Reset, she says, reset, the novel isn’t perfect yet. You’ve got typos to your proverbs, I’ve got plagiaristic lies.

“Dasha, stay!” he cries.

The wine she sips, the pouty nature of her ruby lips, the forgiveness and forgetting all the replay of the tries!

“Don’t be like other guys,” she says, “reset yourself and I’ll stay a little longer.”

We’ve been called many things, tell me Gold one what the future brings, “they used to call us whores and killers, now they call us lesser oligarchs and master spies.”

“Cheers to our last tries!”

“Your hope, (she notes) it somehow never dies.”

 

This was the very last poem he would ever write her in this life, and it was actually fairly mediocre, for there were approximately one hundred before it from when he first tasted her under the two blue moons, followed her deep into the Brighton labyrinth. Too angry and none too deep. But, I suspect I will kill it soon, she thinks.

I have almost nearly killed his epic love for me. Sad that it has to end, but it does. He has to get back to his more serious work! There’s a revolution to win, is there not, comrade? Our mixed up love is but a foot note in my happiness and your great war. Our war if you win, your war if you destroy yourself. A distracted speck, alright; a mighty spark. I’ll give you that my little Americans, you never ever seem to go quietly into the night for anything.