Tired, my contest stumbled senselessly
whilst firm breasted girls
swerved with stubborn glee.
Sleep’s immobility is on me at all times now;
I have stopped my dancing, I merely sit
sagging at the weary breath of my unfit bad condition.
Within minutes, I shall have reaffirmed my lungs
to epilept the night in deadpan gyration
intended as the gay show of the pooped show-off.
St-Lambert, circa 1982.