Don't You Break My Heart

by Joseph Stevens

Think hard, think clean, think straight, think good,

don’t wanna wind up in a bad neighborhood.

Think cash, think wife, think kid, think home;

think whine, think grief, think bark, think moan.

Think car, think vacuum, think wine, think tea;

Think broom, think zoom— Think Earl Grey or PG?

Go to bed, go to school, go to university;

drink hard— work retard! And get your degree.

Think pot noodles, think chips, think of eating healthy

Think kebab, think lager, and think of grand old okabasi

Think late, night blurred sight — what’s on TV?

See the news, believe the truth, but what’s that shit got to do with me?

“Stop the war beats not bombs and we should all be free”

Speak your thoughts, speak your mind (as long as its clean).

Don’t be harsh, don’t be cruel and don’t to strangers talk

Every grown man with his mother is a pedophile of sorts.

Think of Freud, think of Buddha, think of Allah if you must

Think of Krishna, but mainly Jesus and appease your troubles thus—

Our father, who art in heaven…

Buy at Argos, buy at Tesco, breed children- one or two;

develop a secure attachment and they’ll be just like you.

Play a sport, read a book, enjoy yourself in degrees.

But all play and no work leaves Jack decrepit (and diseased).

Pay a debt, pay your mortgage and work a job the whole day through.

Don’t be late and don’t complain, they give their own cash to you.

Dance in a club and find a boy, or find a girl if a boy you be.

Find the blonde haired, the blue eyed, but don’t be too picky.

Don’t be rash, don’t be queer— don’t be too cocky, son.

See my mate over there, he plugs pricks like you for fun.

But think of laws, think of manners- aaah, you should have listened to us,

But since you’ve found yourself in trouble, you can solve your problem thus—

Our Father, who art in heaven…

Think of hate, think of the racist, think of anti-terrorism. Son,

Make sure you check his turban, we think it’s carrying a gun.

Think of war, think of panic, think of third world poverty—

Now how can we cure the pestilence that our empire once did bring?

—Think the concert, think the protest, think of the glorious celebrity:

So gorgeous; so benevolent; so full of generosity.

Think of Diana, think of Dando, think of daring Maddy McCann

Can anyone cure this kidnapped world? BOB GELDOFF CAN!

And now you find yourself down, but struggle on you must,

Repeat this malignant mantra, and solve your problem thus—

Bob Geldoff, who art in heaven…

Think of marks, think of grades, and boost your vocabulary.

Think of soap, think of the razor— stay presentable and clean.

Think of credit, think of debit, think of cash when you can afford,

Think of earning, limited learning, just enough to fit the mould.

Think of football, think of wrestling/poetry’s all for queers;

All too bloody artsy-fartsy, who’s getting in the beers?

Think of Bin Laden, think of Putin, them pesky Russians are back

Think of the east, full of Muslims, reason enough to attack.

Think of the Princes- Harry and William- growin’ up so fast,

now they put one in the army? Lord, please send him back.

Think of the crusades, think of justice, think of Afghanistan.

Think of our brave boys in Iraq (or are they fighting in Iran?)

Think of me, think of you, imagine us together in the fight!

Thank god they don’t recruit where us middle class boys hang out at night.

But now you’ve found yourself in trouble with your feet on foreign dust,

repeat this incantation and away your sorrows thus—

Dear Mr. Brown, who art in heaven...

Calculated Clutter

by Matthew Nerber

If the mathematician can prove that ,

Than it should be reasonable to

Assume

That all (of life’s) problems

Can be solved

Through equation.

I can define myself

Quite easily.

(body + thoughts) actions = I

Is it in all parameters of

Logic

To state that I am

Nothing more

Than the sum of all my parts?

One would assume.

(But)

It is still unclear (to me at least)

Why you believe the following equation

To be true:

I < Him.

Drowned Memories

by Christopher Feccio

Covered in plaster,

that’s how they stand.

No longer human; transformed

into a mixture of white and grey.

From a distance they may seem serene,

(Like seeing the ocean on a breezeless day)

almost too calm to approach.

But under the view of a bird,

you will see,

that there is nothing statuesque about them.

Their movements so calculated,

so perfectly precise,

they give the illusion of a painting.

They are simply lost,

lost forever in that moment,

when realizations take place.