Percy Shelley’s (…..) and Harry Percy’s (…..)

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Of the colour blue. Of the colour
Of rising corn and flourishing betel
Walls sing. Rocks blast. Trees speak.
In this coming week, the oppositional powers
Will grow more weak.

I watch, as their stories become unconvincing to
Their own ear-drum. As their confidences stutter,
And as their war cries mutter that Harry Percy,
On oppositions show no mercy. That mercy and tolerance
Are feminine concepts. This is a masculine force

To lead us, to caretake of us, to show us,
To teach us, to feed us — wherever we are, from
The luckiest libertine to the unluckiest fetus. To take us
Under that wing and to give us protection.
We make love in the future — the way true patriots do.

People have hacked speaking of 1984. People who
Don’t read that kinda thing speak of a future for our kids
Without pawns of the “international” and forces “divisive”
Of patriotic mandates that kiss and realize you.
Have spoken of 1984. Will literature be tried of treason?

Now, I grow a shabby beard and I hide behind it when I can,
It makes me look manly, I hope, and I
Try to keep things clean. More manly Oppositions, in History,
Have cracked in the face of the scepter. But, their specters,
When they’ve spoken, command language with ease

And such ghosts of lost causes and brotherhood weakened
Have taken their time and have, over time, been led down.
The art you draw by picking blood, will only be blood held as
Frozen, and when the kettle boils things over,
As blood will return to town.

A dejected Sanath Jayasuriya returns to the pavilion



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