TIRED
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.
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