The Golden Age

Fresh for 88, YOU SUCKERS
And I wore logo emblazoned tracksuit bottoms
An Africa medallion bounced with ruckus
While headphones leaked beats hot from
Brooklyn bodegas to a newsagent in the shire
Where racks restrained the only black faces
In a jazzy magazine with no prior
Distribution in such places

Life ain’t nothing but bitches and money
And Treat her like a Prostitute
Were straight lines that cold done me
In. Pop-pop-dem-a-shoot
Silver shields wrapped aired hi-tops
A graffitied jumper cost mum fifty-five pounds
Cracking my neck to kill a cop
Safe rebellion sounds

Just like this. My sister grounded
She doesn’t give a bugger about
Us and left the top off the Head
And Shoulders. I stayed out
Of it, on the bed, music scratching loud
Studying Big Daddy Kane’s spray-on flat-top
And fat gold chains while downstairs were rows
Something about to drop

It’s…A Teenage Love
The movement set me apart
From the weevily push and shove
Of boys thirsty to leave their mark
As undisputed kings of the village
White Nigger, they shouted
Perched, smoking on the edge
Of the bars from which they led
One another on
Think you’re a fucking black man
Stupid rap songs
I ran from the brook to the dam
The other side of the tracks from me
Buzzing, The Hunted Child
My very own ghetto fantasy
Not just a style