Subspecies of suburbia
subtitled The Twister,
makar of mixed metals,
mercenary as mercury
my mastermixer.
Hidden in his hoodie
thinblack an’ threadbare,
high as a horsefly he                        
goldplates the gangplank                 
from Backwards under Burbs          
to Sin City centre.                            
Minted in his image I’m
alchemist’s apprentice
craving this countercraft.
You want bling? I can blag it,
pale an’ pocked as a planet
cos I don’t do daylight
an’ gold dust dulls me,                     
sweating like a sweatshop,
stench like a stinkstone
over a festering flame.
I’ve invested in a                    
one-way, no-win
gamble for glamchips,            
dig for dolebuds in the dirt
recess of recession.
Come kiss the cauldron,
tip the mitt with quick silver                     
bling me the blingstone,
powder, piss, an’ pepper.
Tweet The Twist mix the fix.                     
But a watched pot don’t jackpot
so close yer lids, let
my master mix magic
fumes that mouth Smoke me.           
Then crucible cracks,
nukes nega nuggets
an’ chemicals choke me.                                      
Exploding expletives,
I down tools, dare to                        
outmidas my master                                  
and get the yo-heave-ho…
Fired, I’m fired up with
my master’s master
the thought-fox of Fort Knox,
nickname The Canon,
godfather of gold.
So I counterfeit the mould,                        
don the don of a don,
an’ become The Canon’s convoy.             
Come closer, come
watch the wordsmith wax
chemical cacophony,
lies laced with lucre.
Here pants a punter,
high priest of the high rise,
gangplank gangsta.                          
Croaks the cold Canon,
Fetch me a fifty,             
I’ll ice you with interest.
Canon keeps covenant,
pays back the payback
and gangsta’s gagging for
the rags-rich recipe.                
Check me, crows The Canon,           
master mix millions:
ground chalk to gold chain.
Kiss my Canon balls!
Canon plants a nugget,
giltseed in coat sleeve.            
Watch him switch the batch,
whitewash the black ash.
Gold! groans the gangsta,
bling blinds the blinker.
Wants to whip the mix,
Canon flicks his wrist,
an’ conjures more carats
that blink and bling Bite me!            
They’re fired as fireflies
higher than hi-fives…
I could tell a tale                     
how the horseman of hell
got a grand from the gangsta
for the rich quick mix                       
but this bard’s behind bars,             
my sentence is censored
an’ gold dust dulls me.
But flick me a fifty
An’ I’ll twist my tongue
to craft a conclusion:
The Canon’s a con
who’s got it cold coming:                 
trick the trade you get tried,             
gag The Guild you get Guilty,                              
fuck with fire you get fried.