Fuck Yeah Menswear

Fashion week post.

Post fashion week.

Post blog-era.

Postdated.

Postmodern.

Postmortem.

#dead.

One final gasp.

One last grunt.

Yearbook photo.

Dashboard Bombardment Society.

Founders.

Da goof troop.

Special Olympics.

At the OC.

No Brody.

Where’s ya boy?

On some McFly shit.

MIA from the photo.

Son, your moms needs to check her hands.

We eatin’ over here.

Stretched out waistbands.

Down bitches call me Calvin.

No Marky.

UN up in this bitch.

Bloggers without borders.

White privilege delegates.

Generally ethnic general assembly.

Yo Richie Rich.

If you want to put these boys in the canon.

And have them blast off like some pause-worthy firework.

You know who to holla at.

Been had selvedge fuses.

Been had Bin’s Bic.

But where the fuck was a blogger you ask?

You want the G’d up true Bollywood story?

No madras.

Was in the cut lookin’ mad fresco.

Raphael since day one.

Great master from the jump.

Manifesting human grandeur.

Fathering pupils in the workshop.

All that shit.

Nerds taking street shots.

While I’m painting the School of Athens.

Stanza della sprezzatura.

Peep the tribunal.

Judicial authority.

Unfuckwitable.

Vanishing point.

Dat boy Daiki in a polka dot robe with a finger to the heavens.

McNasty next to him.

Palm to the ground.

The eternal debate.

Abstract angelic Forms versus the particulars of EVAs on concrete.

The philosophers of our time.

Candide & Co.

The age of entitlement.

See, my life is simple.

I tend to my blog.

And stay away from the three great evils.

Boredom.

Vice.

And Fashion.

Fuck that shit.

Not even trying here.

Fuck any kind of pedigree we had going.

Dialing this one in.

Paint by numbers with this shit.

Lookbook A B C’s.

O is for Orange.

Saw the O face bros making OJ last season.

So we added a banana and a green apple.

Oh shit blogger.

Sarted on.

Our BDs just jumped up a price point.

Cause we mad fruity.

C is for carpet.

Racking our brains.

And our inspiration folders.

Who’s floor game is on point?

Shit son, you member when we smoked that droll up with Coggs?

Oh fuck man.

He rolled his dank with Penguin classic papes.

Kush wrapped in Cannery Row.

Told classic tales of sit downs with with OGs.

Wondering how much more he could have learned.

If he wasn’t on The Lean when they were dropping knowledge like that.

But shit son.

His crib’s on that Persian tip.

Let’s drop down some carpet.

Boom.

Buyers gonna blow us up so hard bro.

S is for stacks.

Stacks on stacks on stacks.

Mad literature, son.

Cause we deep.

Deep inside that e-tail fallopian.

No hetero.

L is for Ladder

Vintage.

Gritty.

Have you dudes even heard of Brim City?

Didn’t think so.

Cause we didn’t find this shit in some back alley.

H is for hammer.

Crush-.

Smash-.

Kill-.

-ing everything.

On behalf of Justice.

I let the steel speak.

Lookbook down.

Bricks.

About a ton.

Landed.

We fucking merked this shit so hard.

I think the model just threw up in his mouth a little.

Weird.

99 used to say you miss 100 percent of the shots you don’t take.

Blindfolded wrist shots from center ice.

Raining into the stands.

Uh well-a well-a well-a Ugh.

Tell me more.

Tell me more.

Err’body back from camp.

Swapping stories.

With mad emphasis.

Not bad, huh?

For some ignorants.

But who told the greatest tale?

Where does the narrative go when we’ve plundered the archives?

Exasperated the canon?

Raped and pillaged the catalog on some gully ass uptown shit?

Tryna sell a product.

Tryna push dust to the fiends.

Tryna pull the H-Tweedy over the eyes of the unsuspecting dashmunchers.

Soft shoeing those PR blasts with the best of ‘em.

Smoke and Mirrors.

Up on that vaudeville stage.

And all of a sudden.

Someone yells bullshit.

In the crowded theater we call #menswear.

Where bottom of the map Italian ish gets dressed up like Juliet.

And heritage gets tomatoed.

Or is is the other way around?

Go ask Rap.

Ugh.

Sometimes I just want some crusty ass old head editor to run up on me.

OD at CO-OP.

IRL at Neimans.

Smack me upside my cranial.

With the ill quickness.

Grab my grosgrain placket.

Lift me up off my feet.

Out of this shitty life.

And tell me.

“This is your story.”

But until then.

Style Sisyphus.

On that new new.

Couldn’t afford Celine.

So I ball hard on my carpus game.

OG charms up on my wristicles.

That shit bray.

Everyone needs a little support now and again.

RSI from all the RT’s.

Steezy Bandz.

Can I trade you?

This one’s shaped like Woost God’s koi tat.

Enough talk.

Where the fuck is my passion fruit lean?

I’m fighting my way to the pinnacle.

One round at a time.

Fuck your masthead.

I’m in the crow’s nest.

Sitting high above the crashing squals.

I’m in a space shuttle.

Floating high above the cosmos.

I’m deep below the Smithsonian.

Chillen in the cavernous underbelly.

Rewriting the history books.

Editing the scrolls.

Polishing the New World Order.

McNasty was a cobbler.

Trep laid wack tweets.

FYMW scrolled the holy post.

Get the hell up out your pleats.

Tumblr’s very own.

FYMW.

No hugs.

No kisses.

Private flights.

MacBook Airlines.

NYFW.

Shit’s lonely at 30,000 feet.

No team to put on.

No clique to rep.

No crew to call my own.

I fucks with me.

I’ve been on this dash too long.

And that starts to eat away at a blogger.

My main bitch turned her back on me.

I don’t have much to believe in.

So now I’m drowning in the purp.

Dove in head first.

Eggplant Cuci cashmere.

Violet suede Tods.

Orchid moleskin cargos.

Pansy patch pockets.

I’ve copped four grails this week.

I can explain.

Things are falling apart.

Crumbling.

Like Rogues.

When AC singed with The Signature.

Late night DM’s.

“You still working?”

Private messages.

“Are you blogging right now?”

One thing’s for certain.

My gift is my curse.

I left you unoriginal motherfuckers in my dust.

While you were blogging ‘bout Kirsten’s snaggle tooth.

And frontin’ with a full clip of gifs.

As if that was hard or some shit.

I was spitting that new new.

Snapping and blacking out.

Talking mad reckless.

Making these Internet gangsters my sons.

And now there’s nobody left to put some of this weight on.

The top of #menswear aint no place to raise a family.

Fuck that new Tumblr that you think you found.

Anon praise ballad.

The flyest fuck forever man.

Never be a shy guy.

BD on the cutaway guy.

Oh so fly guy.

Really stuntin’ when I dip dye.

Caufield on the Pitti fam.

Holden down these phonies.

I flip scripts.

When my blade trips.

Vents dip.

Twit clips.

Post dope dick pics.

Breasts blow open.

Bloggers Googling my knit slips.

Forearms on smash.

Showin’ off da mewelery.

Head hung low.

Ashamed of sartorial tomfoolery.

These shades gon cost you.

This fade gon cost you.

Unfollowing ya boy gon cost you.

I get paid for reblogs fool.

Pocket square, bracelets, lapel tool.

Staying up for days.

Basting in the sunshine.

Turkeys and sportcoats.

Holed up in the lab.

BBQing.

Bespoke.

Babes.

Qwerty.

I stay sprezzy.

Even when I’m by myself.

Tigallo for Polo.

Even when I’m by myself.

I fuck bitches.

Even when I’m by myself.

Hold on.

We’re going through the portal.

What’s on the other side?

Only what you take with you.

On that SD joint.

Red wool Ebbet’s.

Big ass yellow “M” emblazoned on top.

Mighty Menswear.

Cock that shit sideways.

Like it was ‘93.

And the golden age was still going strong.

Been a minute since I saw what the bird and Norman are up to.

Virgil and TNSIL.

But why take me with you?

You need to see.

Man’s reach exceeds his grasp.

I am Icarus.

Forget what they told you.

Sailing too close to the mother fucking Sun.

No Topsiders.

Cool is not impossible.

These wings are thornproof.

But enough talk.

Let’s hit that Steezgate, homie.

Take a roadtrip a million light years from home.

Fuck it, a million years into the sky.

See what the big homie Ra is up to.

Roll up with Goldie Hawn’s boo.

My team decked out in Nom de Guerre ‘10.

Berets and shit.

Countdown to sonning.

Sealed and buried for all time?

Do you know who you’re dealing with?

Passport to motherfucking trespass, my dude.

This galaxy or the next.

Fall back.

What you want is simply expensive.

The truly extraordinary is not permitted in science and industry.

Perhaps you’ll find more luck in your field.

Where people are happy to be mystified.

“We have your family”

That was 23 hours ago.

22 hours since I stormed out the Polizia’s HQ.

15 hours since I capped a fucking snitch.

1 hour since I decided there was only one way this would end.

It might already be too late.

Found this burner shoved in my ticket pocket.

Ransom note wrapped round it.

Letters cut from back issues of Leon.

“Cooperate or we put them in RTW”

Those sick fucks.

Kidnapped.

by RL Stevenson Black Label.

Got my kin held down.

Got my fam tied up.

G’s trapped in triangles.

Fighting the Stockholm syndrome.

Hostages laced in H&M.

God forbid.

Less than an hour.

Running through Pitti.

On Dainites.

Protect these soles.

From my bloodshed.

A sea of red coral.

Great Barrier steelo.

Even at my most vulnerable.

My most desperate.

My most human.

Potential threats all around me.

I stay clowning.

Finding Timo Weiland.

So I can punch them the fuck out.

But I can’t get distracted.

Reading that note over.

And over.

At the cafe last night.

Searching for clues.

Inside my espresso.

It doesn’t make any sense.

“Call when you are at the drop off”

“Bring us 100 unmarked, untraceable #fashion tags.”

“Who is your tailor?”

“We want to feature you on our Tumblr.”

“How do you feel about street style?”

Two-bit steez traffickers.

If they only knew.

P is home.

And like Albert said.

There’s no such thing as half way crooks.

An unacknowledged beast.

Overlooked and misunderstood.

Underrated.

The swagged out Grendel to these double breasted Beowulf’s.

These bloggers pass me over.

Replace me.

Like a Hoodyear welted Dainite.

Who will tell my tale?

Who will write my story?

The true story.

To garner acclaim ima have to Gardner this myself.

And you know what?

Fuck bespoke.

I’m hand poured.

Molded by the finest Italian craftsmen.

On some artisanal shit that would son a roped shoulder.

Clowns sitting down.

Playing with their iPhones.

Look at pictures of themselves.

Sitting down and playing with their iPhones.

Something like.

Rick Ross wearing a chain.

Of Rick Ross.

Wearing a chain of Rick Ross’ face.

But If these designers want to ride my coattails.

Sit on my shoulders.

P. Smitty socks like dolloped acrylic on a stone cold palette.

Call themselves crispy.

They can sure as hell try.

They don’t have my attention.

My mind is back at Grotte della Cervara.

Planning next season.

Next decade.

Next geological period.

Lookbooks for the Steelozoic.

I can’t front.

Lately I think things are looking up.

Ace calling himself a fucking table.

Maybe these kids finally figured it out.

Figured out how next level I am.

But these editors still run to see the latest collections.

Don’t fucking trip.

I’ve got style for all seasons.

Rain storm?

Herbs spending all day waxing their Barbours.

I just holler at some Florentine hoodrats who still rock Soaps.

Cause I’ve been here year after year.

Pre-Wooster era.

With my ear to the street.

Watching trends go by.

Buyers playing style catch up.

Hold up, shawty.

You’re gonna sprain something.

Swag isn’t built in a day.

Rome wasn’t built in a day.

But I fucking was.

Requiem for a denim head.

This is not a cry for help.

I’m in control.

I know my limits.

Sitting in health class.

16 years old.

Beasting with 3,000 posts to my name.

bigwilliesteelo92

Teachers tried to warn me.

Fuck you.

I don’t have a problem.

You MADD, son?

Mothers Against Denim Debate.

Bought my first 14oz off some shady sufu kid.

Gave it to me dirt cheap.

APC.

The gateway denim.

It was fun at first.

Just fucking around with my friends.

Seeing how crazy we could get our wallet fades without our rents finding out.

One night my mom found my stash when she was cleaning.

Some dope proxy ish.

She flipped the fuck out and washed them before I could stop her.

Six months and $200 gone just like that.

My friends lost interest.

To them it was just about cool stacks and fades to go with their tees and box snapbacks.

But I was hooked.

It took more and more to get that same feeling.

Started getting into some heavier shit.

16oz.

21oz.

32oz.

Getting so fucked up.

Getting so faded.

Jeans so stiff.

They were the only things keeping me on my feet.

Eyes bloodshot with selvage lines.

Shit got bad.

The night terrors.

Waking up in a cold sweat.

Sheets dyed with indigo.

One night my bros found me.

Curled up in the gutter.

Rubbing sandpaper all over myself.

Screaming.

Into the darkness.

MOMOTARO!

They saw the honeycombs on my legs.

Tried to talk to me about addiction.

But I don’t have a problem.

Fuck an intervention.

Stop calling my brothers and sisters.

I call my dick my pussy.

My crotch got so many whiskers.