On the beach and with honors
we bury the clocks,
funeral for the alarm clock.
Then, on a cycling steed
we circle the island
and there is no podium for the winner.
They wrote our names
with white brushstrokes and backwards,
just like in Tourmalet,
launched for a month, they are
lost in the peloton,
saved against the clock,
in the arms of the sofa, they are
swimming against the pedal,
sunk in the general classification,
but afloat.
Chromes, playing cards, shadows, naps,
old books and an exploit
that appears on the television.
Queens at the beach bar
look at a short man
who left his jersey in the sand.
Flying goal meat,
fleet of sprinting jellyfish.
August is finally coming,
September is already here, they are
lost in the peloton
saved against the clock,
in the arms of the sofa, they are
swimming against the pedal,
sunken overall,
but afloat.
Fifteen Januarys later,
with July already approaching,
our feet can't take any more
and an absent, inert sun burns us.
As they go
down the three o'clock pass
with newspapers from eighty-six
guarding their chests, and they go, they go
getting out of control
they repeat the same song
without seeing Paris, and they go, and they go
lost in the peloton
saved against the clock,
in the arms of the sofa, they go
swimming in coaster,
sunk in the general,
but afloat.
Antiheroes.

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