Was I the only guest at the wedding
who thought that the bride looked fat and the groom
seemed drunk? The sense of unease in the room
made it all feel more like a beheading
than a celebration. The church was warm.
The audience grew confused and torpid;
we wanted to leave but, to our alarm,
a bridesmaid appeared dressed as Cupid
and threw little flowers at the couple.
This tasteless show with the floral arrows
preceded the exchanging of the vows.
Although I applauded, I sensed trouble,
for things begun badly only grow worse:
a beaten foal becomes an evil horse.

I live in a dump: this wretched hovel
I rent by the week is dark and noisy,
smells a bit like a Mexican brothel,
and infects me—first it was pleurisy,
then some kind of bronchitis, then head lice.
But like a fool I adapt to squalor,
living in dirt while mocking avarice;
no, accepting indigence is not valor,
nor is it proof of intrepidity
to suffer for nothing, to live in filth,
jeering others for their cupidity.
Although I spurn those who desire wealth
I deserve no credit for not trying
to sell my soul: the devil’s not buying.

The warden knew me so he broke the rules
and let me sit in the electric chair;
although the wrist cuffs could bind Hercules
and the leather cowl smells of burning hair,
the device is strangely comfortable.
The wood is good, the seat and arms are smooth,
and the bracing feels perfectly stable.
It seems as though it were designed to soothe,
and could be restful if one did not know
that this is what more literate inmates
have named the throne of infinite sorrow,
where no man reigns for long, then abdicates.
I sat there once, for an amusing lark,
but now I light no lamps, and dread the dark.

The third bottle was the first mistake,
the one from which all others followed—
we poured until each glass overflowed,
invited all our friends to partake,
and then drank more than we could endure,
mistaking transgression for pleasure.
To be a devotee of excess
is like worshipping a substitute:
one bows to the temple prostitute
as though she were the living goddess,
the female form of what men adore—
but one knows this woman is a whore
and feels abased to utter the prayer.
This worship is not praise, but despair.