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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=573271" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Sonnets for '58</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">1</div><div style="margin:10px 0">’58, the year he’d come a thousand miles.<br>From post Olympic Melbourne<br>setting new records for broken homes,<br>babies began to boom.<br>The beaut Asian wore pink socks, spoke<br>great English, knew her brandy-lime-and-soda,<br>read Das Kapital in secret.<br>Her mentor the opium professor<br>got himself fired by the embassy of correctness,<br>qualified as Best Man and wrote a novel.<br>The year Dad fell in love at the Victory Monument<br>the Generals burned the pipes,<br>the year of the bantamweight champ<br>of nineteen fifty eight.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>2</div><div style="margin:10px 0">She dreamt of long journeys, by ship & caravel<br>to the birthplace of Marco Polo<br>the chalets of joie de vivre<br>the mansion of savoir faire.<br>she woke around sunset, bicycled the black canals<br>& headed for the fairy lights, Pat Pong.<br>She became his precious object, a waiting game<br>when war was cold and recreational.<br>After the last tête à tête Uncle Ho had said<br>there was no turning back, when she engaged,<br>the ship tied up, weighed anchor<br>in measureless fathoms of mud, from which<br>the gorgon’s knot of water hyacinth<br>grew such pink & purple flowers.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>3 Golfing News</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Who were the other men, & and why should we know?<br>Father’s Agfachrome plots a mystery,<br>the bikini dream sipping champagne<br>from a silver golf trophy.<br>A dark haired banker with good quads<br>by her side, not touching the merchandise.<br>Neither posed, nor casually exact<br>as the compose, then tilt, then veer away<br>from text book convention.<br>Well, I like the way the bikini’s frilled<br>& Dad’s out of the picture<br>like an inferred God<br>taking this, as usual, before I was born.<br>All that ’fifties Adam & Eve stuff.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>4</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Her sister, my aunt, Head Matron<br>at the anti-venin unit in Wireless Road<br>took her by the hand.<br>Remember me, sister. <br>They stood by the flared throats<br>of bronze King Cobras<br>sunbaking in concrete pits<br>that stank of piss and reptilian self-loathing.<br>Older Sis was one for pills:<br>Here, take these, and remember – hygiene.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Adam+Aitken">Adam Aitken</a><div class=q>
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’58, the year he’d come a thousand miles.
From post Olympic Melbourne
setting new records for broken homes,
babies began to boom.
The beaut Asian wore pink socks, spoke
great English, knew her brandy-lime-and-soda,
read Das Kapital in secre..."></div>
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