by Chris Buchanan
We fight for Bayer Heroin,
unsubtle assassins with knives tied to rifles.
We fight for King and Kaiser,
for homes and lovers, real or imagined,
for sweet milky Weetabix warmed in a tin
and brothers, alliances we’ve steeled between us
We fight for the Internet access
the minister promised to keep us connected,
to keep us alive and listening to Lily Allen
here, where even Geri Halliwell now fears to tread.
Sometimes we just like it. Drumbeats tied to violence.
Circumstance, conquest, convictions,
feathers or leaders, posters or sons.
For Hannah or London
or some other capital
we care for.