O beast, O impure urn in which a nation’s sins are poured,
tonight my intent isn’t to subdue your hips,
or to unleash a weeping tornado in the cornfields of your hair
while I kiss you with my ennui-deadened lips.
What I seek to purchase from you is the heavy, dreamless sleep
that slips beneath the radar of remorse.
Such sleep’s your area of expertise, O liar whose nights are steeped
in mindlessness, more blank-brained than some corpses.
Gopher-toothed, vice has spoiled the freshness of my soul,
marking me for the same barren fate you call your own.
But whereas your granite breast contains a heart so hard
that crimes glance off it, leaving you unscarred,
I am forever haunted by the shadow of my pall.
I sleep with you because I’m scared to die in bed alone.