Idée Fixe
By Matthew Brothers
*
So, you see, sigh, swallowed by shame; sickened.
You swim in the cleanse, feeding the bursting red.
The cycle surely starts again, and soon;
you crumple and swoon.
*
Staring at the spectacular moon,
you hope you can hold off.
Don’t engage, don’t engage, don’t
engage.
*
Euphoric seconds, that’s all she wrote,
all the shame to bare for seconds.
Seconds. Seconds. You engage in
seconds.
*
The soulful swell of sorrow and disgust spew up,
Siamese cats strut, pounce swift, and never feel your shame.
The shame is for you and yet could spring on all,
but no reaction should be the same.
*
At least, you hope, no one shudders in the same style as you,
your suffering is special and holds you just above swine.
Sand, silt, and saxophone guilt.
The thought of the process is like sweet music.
*
You feel you should not stop,
it is a summer’s shining swing.
Shame is not full of stinging,
at least not at first.
