Fuck Poem with Language Borrowed from Brothers Karamazov

         Perhaps only the happy dead of winter can slow the creeping mold
                           on the loaf of brown bread your mother handed over.
The ultimate consolation prize, meaning you will leave, but I should not starve.
                                    In the same breath, a priest would tell you:
this is my body, broken for you, he might offer a more common prayer,
                           avoid every kind of falsehood, especially to yourself.
                  Fill in your own jokes about whiskey and confession here,
but never mention how I asked for a dirtier secret, which I then gleefully retold.
                                                      When I asked you to shock me I meant,
                  tell me about the incandescent moments before you come,
not something as pedestrian as the tale of your first lover, now dead.
         Soon it will be spring and we can return to being the pagans
we have always wanted to be,
                  and I can be convicted of nearly half of what I’ve actually done.
         Active love is labor and fortitude, but to be a villain you must learn
how the constant black hat is a tiresome pose, and never pretend
                                                      that it is backbreaking work.
                           I’m sorry I can say nothing more consoling to you,
except come back to our bed so we can give people the harsh, dreadful thing
         they so desire, since everyone sees themselves in a tragedy,
                                                      especially one with a happy end.