A malignant cell
Stands awkwardly over an installation of
Fast food refuse, (nah man) – broken glass, drug wraps
And a not-so-soft dog shit
Which has been spray-painted gold. Bear jokes.
The cell screws his round face up
Into square windows, trying to lay claim
To more of the same.
He loiters in the disused garages
And by the retired lifts
Fingering his sword and wishing
It might be a pen so he can ‘spit’
“Fool I’m out for glory, so don’t ignore me
Da Swagga Don is known, to bruck manz bone.
I’ll take ya ring and I’ll take ya ‘fing’
Reppin’ to da end coz my endz is everyfing”
The ‘Don’ fights at nothing.
Tilting at windmills in the N15 spa.
Honouring his code, he knows his boundaries.
He represents paedophilia and domestic abuse,
National Front and benefit fraud.
Arching his neck and
Staring out the top deck, screw face at the back seats
He can’t ride the bus to the land of the unknown
‘Coz mans tell him he’s a soulja
A brand of clone, dressed in layers of words
He stashes his treasure at Gash Endz
She loves to hate, the same things as him.
Day in, night out he smokes and stares
With obsessive compulsion he recites his rhyme
Underpinning his values and self-affirming his name.
Short-term pleasure leads to a life of blame.
“Fuck you. Fuck them”
No one in history has ever mustered the vitriol
To claim,
I DON’T CARE...
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