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The Good Week
by Samuel Moulton



You knew me as Attila,
the empiricist,
the corporeally ensconced
Epicurean, filling myself
with silly mathematics

dirty fucking sophists

you were convinced of my position
when I squinted at you
in ambivalent disbelief for
bringing me a flower incongruous
with the pattern on your skirt

slutty witch-docteress

after surviving a plane crash,
unharmed, however, I have
gained a reverence for
the controlled predictability
of particular phenomenal pleasures

spoon-bending misanthrope

but, because I already
feel adept at un-collapsing,
I helplessly regret
the mellow and careless means
with which I held your fragile self

they say clairvoyants cannot truly love



a line, (a blue one)




My Dearest Samuel,


The God of my gods is crestfallen, for he has cleaved in two his sons

and now I have no prayer outside of you. I have been crying, guiding not my pen.

My hands are numb enough to be cut off. I had seen romance and commitment at

the bloody spit inside of skulls—though now I cannot recognize my teeth. Have we

not both undead lovers? Only yours, however, seems of Hell.


Love forever, in the darkness,




a line, (a blue one)




Last night I ejaculated

On an ugly woman’s


Victorian pillow

Fuck you feathers



a line, (a blue one)




I love you
She murmured
One hand
In the wind
The other open
Facing skyward
And in bloom
And wanting to
Be filled

It’s not important
How she died
But that the
Pallid wilting of her
Sufficed to shake
My face of
Sap and grain
To loose my tongue
And move
I love you too



a line, (a blue one)




I was once in an affair

With a despondent physicist

Who specialized in motion study

So she told me calm and coldly


You should lose yourself much less here

Take your next orgasm as

A cliff, rather than horizon—

To be measured, not predicted


And so I climb with fingertips

Crystalized in rotten hazel

Turpentine on my eyelashes

Pine tar smeared across my chest


Bits of sour bark and algae

Dripping from my bloated tongue

I advanced where darkness broods

To stand nude on a precipice


And shout down for affirmation

Behold the sky has fallen twice



a line, (a blue one)


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