In the Sixties
that's the one, the glorious fun,
my first gorgeous slow sex, in
a kitchen, while borsch was cooked
that's the one, the Beatles the kaftans,
the hair, the kinky-boots along the street,
and hash smoked in chilly twilight, as the
pouting police drove by;
that's the one, the decade, the one hundred
and twelve months, no fame, living in the shade
and getting drunk and laid, and not understanding
love or "feelings", or how the world was made
that's the one, my decade, with black pubic hair
(now turned white) and cigarettes and ale and songs
of Ireland and America, sung glorious in group of
horny-handed boys; on into the night
that's the one, the only decade, with leather waistcoats,
Levi jeans, Picasso, Art Pepper and fake jumping beans;
just sell me this glory, this knight-bloated fiction, your
drama and expertise, like Benny goodmnan on his trapeze
and now fifty years gone by, I've travelled on, to pastures,
loans and mobile, dancing phones; rebellious off-spring now
in tow, their decade, beginning the same, steamy, furtive show;
and when the bus of doom draws close, and the angel asks
me,"where to go?", I'll trip my fingers on his bow, saying,
"through the sixties, please take me slow,"
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