Under the rules of capitalism,

A fair trade is one where both parties agree on the value placed on the transaction.

The existence of demand 

Demands a supply. 

He considers himself a tradesman - 

Toolbag’s leather strap weighing heavy 

on a well-worked-out shoulder,

Soliciting clientèle under a cherry red haze

Elevator music, techno drums: 

a hard,

Cyclical thrum.

His wink says 

‘trust me -

I’ll give you a good deal. I’ve done this for years.
I’m an artisan.’ 

His clients are usually on a one-time basis - Slightly nervous hagglers, their knees press
together as they

Consider their price. 

Fiddle with their hands,

A ring turned around a ring finger 

(Wasn’t that bad luck once?)

Coiffed hair and teetering brow 

Showing a slight lack of conviction

as they barter 

and wrangle each other from across a heavy smoker room. 

She weighs him up.
13 stone, or 14.

His callouses claim experience

Of a well-measured callousness. 

An alchemist, perhaps - he’s used to mixing the right with the wrong, 

Turning shit into liquid gold. 

His smile says ‘I know you already. I know what you need.’ 

His wrists are coiled and turning. 

He’s already warmed up. 

The fear tastes like metal in her mouth. 

She licks the back of her teeth, and then her lips, to taste it. 

She shivers. It tastes like money. 

The one thing not mentioned in the rules of fair trade, in this economy 

Is the advantage of the tradesman.

He spends every day weighing

The cost of every ingredient, every hour,

what each client will pay

If he just plays it right. 

And if she has a need,

And if the need runs deep, 

The gold runs so much quicker from the Alembic. 

And when a little runs over 

He collects some for himself

With a fervent bash of the pestle 

Leaving marks against the mortar 

Quickening breath ionises
the air 

Her lips part 

And her tongue moves silently 

To taste the gold 

He so skilfully made 

From the shit that she
brought him - 

Offered him with a pensive glance across

A red-thudded room. 

When one is skilled at barter

The price agreed can slip slightly out of place.

With one indelicate motion, drunk on prowess 

He spills the Alembic

And gold - it’s quick to harden. 

Her price and his reward
harden quick 

Sticking tough against her lips,

Her stomach,

Her back and her bits.

She’d ask him to stop but for the taste 

Of gold that he’d promised her -

Keeping her in stasis. 

So she can’t ask for a refund.

But she can move her tongue.

And run it across the hard gold,

And it tastes like fear
and money.