Tumblr’s very own.
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.
When AC singed with The Signature.
Late night DM’s.
“You still working?”
“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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Less than an hour.
Running through Pitti.
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.
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.
The swagged out Grendel to these double breasted Beowulf’s.
These bloggers pass me over.
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?
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.
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 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.
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.
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.
Teachers tried to warn me.
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.
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.
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.
Into the darkness.
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.
That shit is mad overrated.
The kid is back on his grizzy.
But don’t call it a comeback.
Been had slapping Moncler ass wearing hoes upside their dome piece.
With a godddamn mitten.
It’s been a busy fucking winter.
Ya feel me?
Détente type shit.
Inspiration board (Cold War remix) feat. MC Ford and Lil’ Brezhnev.
Ad libs slicker than your lezzy haircut.
More twisted than your barber’s mustache.
Cleaner than your new brogue booties.
Have the ever sniffed the city’s salt?
Leather sole obsessive compulsive disorder.
Leaders steez out crisply dressed.
Skipping NYFW all together.
Richy hit up dude.
But who wants to be another booty shakin’ hoe in The Tong Song?
But who wants to kick it with 20 plus broads?
When you’ve got a cockblock parading as a press junket.
When all the good dickwear has already graced Euro catwalks.
When you’re already the heart of the city.
Only Built 4 Lincoln Center aint swag.
Itineraries aint swag.
#fashunz aint swag.
I’ll roll my trousers.
Double down on four-in-handies.
And sip my Rozay all alone.
I get the Twitters tweetin’.
I get the Tumblrs tumblin’.
Y’all get shot at.
@Reply me, homie.
I do the shooting.
See you street skeezers at (capsule).
I do the recruiting.
Did y’all motherfuckers see that collabo with Gents Quart?
On some serious next level self-referential shit.
Crispyest drop in a minute for real, real.
You probably think that real G’s move in silence.
Well, fuck that noise.
Or lack thereof.
My speakers go hammer.
Had no idea that work had even gone live.
I was busy tearing the motherfucking roof off Magic City.
Going ham with Brick Squad.
Juaquin and me.
Making it thunderstorm.
Silk squares raining down.
While these skrippers do it with no hands.
Radric and Otis.
Suited and booted.
Ed Greens looking all tough.
Lardini with the tags still hanging off.
Slapping the weave off your baby mama.
If she thinks it’s okay to put her paws on soft shoulders.
Where they do that at?
Stay doe boy fresh.
And catch a few bodies.
When flat front lames try to front.
Sizzurp match my V-Neck.
Merino match the clique I claim.
See y’all motherfuckers in hell.
Ruminations on menswear domination.
Collection behind us.
Future in front of us.
Lost in each other’s eyes.
Nothing can stop us.
Just two bros.
In the frat party we call #menswear.
Where the only rule is.
#browear before #hoewear.
Shotgunning brewskis, pigeons, and brogues on the reg.
Crossfaded and sipping on porkslaps.
Rolling spliffs with the finest from Cone Mills.
Indigo dyed kush.
Still don’t get it?
Me and my bros been running this shit since jump street.
Macking on thin chicks.
Keg stands in slim fits.
Blew off the CFDA’s to play with their Wes Andy train set.
India expansion pack.
Two Amish assassins on the Pong table.
Button up body bags for F/W 11.
Sent Gant to dig through the archives.
Of Swedish hospitals.
Tryna get an “a” added to that birth certificate.
Board room meetings on how to continually son groms.
Still getting hive fives.
From when they popped that Filson collabo cherry.
Johnny Utahs of retail.
Chambray burglar masks in J Crizzy.
Slingshots in safety deposit boxes.
Tie steez secrets stolen from The Major.
Double breasted dragons.
Side scrolling and stomping wack fucks in the streets.
The illest OGs.
Ripping bongs faster than you can say oxford cloth button down.
But when you grind this hard.
Sometimes you need a break.
Unlike my trou game.
Getting cray cray in the Catskillz.
All bros in attendance.
Bus full of runway slam pieces en route.
Dead stock Lokos in the fridge.
Went to grab Brulé’s finest out my tote.
Instead of nine types of paper stock, my hand brushed rigid denim and soft wool.
There it was.
Hidden by my bros when I wasn’t looking.
The kit to end all kits.
D. Suzuk’s 5th.
Turned to look behind me.
All my bros standing there laughing.
Got down on one knee.
Put the whole kit on at once.
Bros crisping bros.
T’was the night before Crispymas.
When all through the house.
Not a blogger was stirring.
Not even the scrubs who still use Typepad.
Their J. Crew camp socks were hung by the chimney with care.
In hopes that Saint Steezus soon would be there.
But on the real.
Things are gonna be a little different this year.
Because I’ve Tumbl’d my list.
I’ve checked that motherfucker twice.
And it’s safe to say.
None of you clowns are even remotely nice.
You’re not even worth a lump of coal.
Or an Aeropostale giftcard.
So don’t bother staying up late.
Waiting for the sound of tassel loafs.
Scurrying across your rooftop.
Don’t leave me a plate of fresh dub monks.
And a tall glass of High Life.
Nah, fuck that noise.
I’m leaving my red barn jacket and 12” Beans at the Northern most pole.
And skipping town.
Hitting up Firenze.
With loved ones.
My family of linens and ginghams.
My vintage Schwinn sleigh.
And I aint making no fucking toys.
I’ll be too busy sonning herbs.
Like the corny dude with that fake Twitter handle tryna ride my coattails.
Do I look like Vinny G?
Like editors who think I ghostwrite J. Peterman bars.
Do I look like Johnny O?
They say this is the season of giving.
So I might as well toss all you suckas a bone.
And a steezy New Year.