“Sometimes the Vodka Drinks You”
Maria encounters Sebastian again arriving early at the Tavern.
“Sebastian is a tragic, but somewhat romantic man. He is not from the world of 21st century America that is for sure. He is more American than Russian. He is Russian by insertion, and assertion. When I kiss him I kiss air. I kiss a ghost. I kiss a dead man with wings. It’s not unpleasable, but I can’t write back to send mom over with it or my babushka.”
“If we had not brought any of his fucking amazing poetry; this might be akin to a cabaret show with just talk of some tits and some sprinkling of war stories. But we cut it with poems, to liven the mood. Make things classy for you and the comfort of the future! We need it to be all French and shit, so the bleakness and the misery next door can be swept away with smoked tea, black beer and various fish. It’s not Vodka, remember, it’s for the care of spiritual traumatic wounds.”
“Full disclosure, we cannot tell you the audience what any of these men did or didn’t do in Syria because it will be used by their secret polices to persecute them. More talk of love and Vodka! Meddling in U.S. elections is expensive and gets me thirsty all over again.”
#14: Sometimes the Vodka Drinks You
What does an evil half Americano know about the Ghosts of Russian Christmas past?
If sirens of suffering call-free-for-all_
_then have your crew insert wax in their ears and bind your bleeding heart to the mast!
Look at your most tragic failures,
Look at your past!
Your sister, your brother, your comrade, the love of your life: raped and abused
Self-murder imprisoned and her young body used:
The die is cast.
You toast to our fortitude?
Look in the mirror and see the accused!
Who put the world on your shoulders man?!
There was nothing one person ever asked you to be,
Nothing they asked you to do.
No one expected a miracle.
You battle demons still in their name,
And when it was done the world was exactly the same, man it’s too true:
Sometimes you drink to remember,
Sometimes you drink to forget.
And sometimes the vodka drinks you.
The card said:
“Ya tbya verejnum glaz najom.”
So I went up to Brighton Boston.
To consult with a gangster named Medvinsky.
You had better turn that walk into some kind of fearsome-forward-run.
“Get gone, Get done.”
Get yourself a final lavish Turkish bath,
You lost a lot,
She lost a bit,
We’ve all lost something over flesh chase bullshit,
A fait complit_ it’s done.
Since you won’t take a lap dance down on Brighton 7 as down payment on your solitude,
We can’t build you back until you repay the debt accrued,
Passport change your latitude,
It’s your very Westy attitude we’ve come to question!
So make adjustments to the clout,
You thought you could throw about.
Settle up and out.
Take a shot then,
You have to settle up with the Voorhis down in Oceania,
That won’t be fun.
“Gde bolit tovarish?”
“Did you even stop to think about the things that you two unleashed?
With passion pens, with cold war sword play, and with gun!
It was your morals that she prayed on with her callous kick box on the night she almost killed you.”
“Not for sport. For fun.”
“You had best turn in your 8 shot, because she’s gone and punched your midnight ticket now!”
“She’s removed the bullets from your gun.”
There’s no blame in this situation. You two just forgot your host nation, class and social station.
And lost in excited trepidation you made war.
But in all that war you’ve been making,
You were changing nothing
See the score?
And shortly one dead Russian escort
And one badly tortured gun man is all there will be to show totality of foolishness:
The things, you and she were fighting for.
Let’s do a shot for good intentions now a bloody mess under duress:
What Medvinsky says is partly true:
“Sometimes you drink to remember,
Sometimes you drink to forget.
And sometimes the vodka drinks you.”
Sometimes, I too get drunk. And I drive my car,
In figure eight circles around the Adonaev Loop in Coop city,
The only street which bears my name.
And from the wheel of my Civic I survey a high rise brick kingdom.
All I can see!
Sometimes I drink to remember, sometimes I drink to forget.
And sometimes the vodka drinks me.
It’s a bevy of victimless crimes.
There are no children playing at these midnight hours,
Most of the times,
Or those that are carry various calibers as they carry on trade in West Indian nickels and dimes.
With each kiss of Stolichnaya I get further from all the accusing faces of friends lost,
And, lubricated by the demons still waters I am forgiven for my yet unfulfilled promises.
And, that which such promises cost.
I sip and shoot shot and bottle tip.
And the ghosts of past make clever cheers:
They say as I sip.
To the last drop, a fast viscosity, a deadly drip.
Cheers to little Malka who’s daddy abused her, and who’s foreign baby’s father used her like a Siberian doll and fled leaving a teenage mother with child in the slums of Shahoun Daled!
Shot to my useless head.
Cheers to Maya captured and bonded to brothels at the age of sixteen,
Pale white tits all the gawk of Montreal’s flying flesh carnival scene.
Long white lines of supine mortgage,
Traumas of the slave trade never fully known_ what they made her do.
Time supine, also prone.
Third shot for Rahula, also called Jeremy McGaffey,
A soldier, a comrade martyr now dead, and all the dark things he saw before putting two rounds in his tough brilliant head.
For all that they went through these three in particular abused an accosted,
I empty the bottle to my useless gestures exhausted,
Having arrived too late to have saved them and too weak to have healed them, and play pretend knights making promises into a sad mockery.
Sometimes I drink to remember.
Sometimes I drink to forget.
And sometimes the vodka drinks me.
I awoke in hand cuffs black hood folded blind.
And it wasn’t just another Saturday night wilding-wild-West Indian
On the loose in Coney Island of the mind,
Truncated by tell-the-boys-in-blue I won’t be easy.
They had laid their hard hands on me.
Stop the tape. Pause.
Something struck the Gulliver out of nowhere_ it gyrated my warbles.
This time, maybe; my past had caught me.
That then said;
My first thought was of my baby, my lady who is even tougher than I am.
Good thing your woman’s hidden said the voice in my head.
A loser or a winner is in the end always picking up taps for the devil at dinner.
When I say baby, I should say goddess, she’s a warrior.
Or just several shots short of serial killer,
A base sinner invited into your house for the small talk most certainly, also her chest, high heels and the promise of dinner.
She loves me because I am a good man.
You can, only hurt a Real man by destroying his goodness and if he be a hard man,
No kid’s gloves_
_you can only do that by hurting people he loves.
I’ve been interrogated before.
There many ways to do it,
You can purchase a good deal of information via third party use of shill, mark or whore.
When people don’t know what they’re fighting for…
Or stacked shocks, shock headed peter_a drill with a small bore.
But who’s keeping score, anymore.
I was trained in district Florentine.
I have mental blueprints to up the ante of an occupation, or increase the flicker flame of fire on a low boiling international class war.
What for? What was in it for me?
I was tapped long ago on my shoulder by a series of sirens
And enlisted in a long simmer struggle to even a score,
Against the forces of Razpizdia, general a-pathology bloody feuds based little more than mistranslated folk lore.
To Hit back,
And coordinate the American arm of a general attack on behalf of the wretched run miserable, the abused and the victimized poor!
Oh that’s adorable, he’s a man with ideals. Let’s get him out of his country and rip out his teeth with some plyers so he can see exactly how real change making feels!
The prelude to a good long torturing is an offer you can’t refuse.
Already assume you have nothing to lose.
False positive clues to dissuade and amuse as they work to disfigure,
And of course to abuse.
They said I was born chosen, but I keep on choosing battles that my lady says that I’m destined to lose.
That’s what she said.
And when panting and longing and holding me tightly, through the calling of names
But only she is the one I allow in my head.
The trick is to talk in circles,
Keep asking for cigarettes,
Saying nothing makes them think you know more than you do.
Once the beatings begin you must meditate your way through the blood and the swelling.
So master art of storytelling.
So when that occurs you can only betray yourself via you’re capture and give long accounts of imaginary conspirators.
And try and make sure you don’t know where your woman is being hidden
A pale horse with pale rider will give no account of the devastations witnessed passing though places he’s ridden.
You can beat a man into saying almost anything.
You can try and buy him, make him sing tunes you want him to sing. Strike his face with a truncheon cuffed to chair he’s got nowhere to run.
And if they know who you are they just might do it for fun.
But having done this before, if you want to get to my family you’d better be legion, better have monstrous tentacles, bottomless pockets, or know how to properly swim.
For I know the face of the devil and Invest adequately in keeping my loved ones from him.
I hide my woman in Haiti. Just cause you can see her golden blonde hair from space, well that don’t mean you can fight your way through eleven million Haitians. Has nothing to do with race.
I’m one popular fucking blan these days. They say no good deed goes unpunished, and but I have my ways.
Maria Silverrtova reads:
Russians have counter insurgency down to a T.
The Ts for ‘torture the shit out of everyone’. Best believe these days several are gunning for Vasa, Vasa is near me.
It’s a long game, it’s a late stage in the war.
A fist crunches my face, then a bucket of water.
I’ve brought a box cutter on a plane before.
Before it was cool.
Who am I?
Fool, if you allow yourself to be coffined they will attempt it using descriptive pejoratives.
I’m new school.
I have spoken to you at length in Babylonian, but parable take away, here’s the golden rule:
Don’t pose a question that you do not intend in a timely fashion to unravel.
I am a man of three colors. Red black and green. I’m in the business of Chechen resistance, this involves travel.
In my rounds and deployments you’d have no idea of the suffering I’ve seen.
It’s less a riddle to fuck the answers out of me.
But just in case they get me, know that when my families safe, and Ichkerias’ free, and most of the world is a place where it’s safe for your pasty white children to be,
And then we can agree that when you open your eyes and turn off your TV,
Then you will collaborate with a Chechen like me, and the resistance generally.
These are hard cuffs. I’m not going anywhere. I zone out.
And I dream of the mountains, the scent of my baby’s hair. I know she’s safe, I know they gonna break me out. Unpleasant nights until that occurs, no doubt.
Soon as these wolves know they got Vasa the gunslinger, I can hear them shout.
Ya tbya verjnum glas najum.
I’m gonna cut your fucking eyes out!
Do your worst motherfuckers. I’ve heard these words before.
You ain’t getting nothing but nonsense from the lips of a rebel implore,
Ladies and gentlemen my name is Vasyli Pveada, also called Sebastian Adonaev.
I see what I see,
Also called Blacksmith Winter, my nom de guerre. They gave it to me.
The world is on fire and you’re all in a tower on top of a hill, for the blood that they spill, for our loved ones they kill, listen to we.
The armed wing of the Democratic Confederalism movement has long arms and old soul memories, we will not stop fighting, until every last man woman and child is free.