A lumpy stage though the vineyards of Minervois, Corbières and Cabardes.
Some riders passing Team Condor slow down.
They wish to know how the poetry competition is going.
It seems it was not the easiest topic, the cuttlefish.
Arthur has come up with something:
A terrible scent
And dark swirling water
Luminescent flashes subsiding
Final drops fall to the sea.
Just one flaccid cuttlefish remains
In the stolen death box
Lilian Calmejane passes.
He catches the words subsiding and final and flaccid.
He hopes they are not a bad omen.
(They are. But not that bad. He will finish seventh, outridden by six other chasers who unlike him had team mates in the group to support them. Cort Nielsen for example, winning. Ion Izagirre, coming second. Bauke Mollema third. Just shows you).
That's cool, bro, says Sweezus. It's got, like...... immediacy.
Based on a true story, says Arthur
Bravo, Arthur, says Pablo.
Finished yours yet? asks Sweezus.
Working on it, says Pablo. This is it so far:
Not for you nor I, Marilyn
the way of the cuttlefish
I have not the specialised tentacles
to insert sperm sacs into an opening
near to your mouth
nor the patience to watch you
lay eggs a few hours later
but your sequined swimsuit
your golden hair flowing
the white rubber tyre
in which you float
encircled, undulating,
make me desirous
of a maritime connection.
Awesome, says Sweezus.
Winner, says Arthur.
Not yet, says Pablo. Sweezus must give us his poem.
Later, says Sweezus. You guys have upped the ante. Anyhow, we'd better get moving.
They get moving, and finish in creditable positions.
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