I wish I could quit you.
I wish I could stand by my promise to not give one (let alone two, as we once discussed) flying fuck about what you say or do or don’t say and continue to undo but I can’t, goddamnit.
I just can’t.
And you know that. I know you know that. You’ve known it since you first dropped the flipshit A-Bomb post-humanitarian extrapolation that was Exmilitary and I went all wide-eyed goo-goo gaga manchild wild for the sneering fear and Antikytherian mechanics and kept up that yen through the GILF Sony snuff film that was The Money Store and then snuck it in the hard cock suicide Caligari bass trippings of NO LOVE DEEP WEB but then you got all avant prick (or kept it) and then there was the unexpected Government Plates which almost laid Mr. Mansi to the low panic waste but Niggas on the Moon? Y’all know that was some high rent antagonistic bullshit, right? “Featuring Björk”
And then you ran off to some sodden nowhere with a napkin note explaining how the whole affair was just a “conceptual art exhibition anchored by sound and vision” and had the audacity to tell me to “stay legend.”
I AM legend, motherfuckers! Was then and might be too if I could just walk away but I had to wait for Jenny Death to come in as the grand complement to Niggas and form the agitprop matrix that would be The Powers that B because, closure, man. Closure.
That shit’s off-set for sometime in February which would be all cool and fuck it if there wasn’t so suddenly this instrumental excursion, Fashion Week.
I want to call it bullshit but it isn’t. It’s an inspiring flirtation with big show loveless deportations, the uncountable beauty of the malformed few, new beast upswings, stocking Asian silence and whatever rhymes with fattened insurrection today and it separates itself from the Death Grips that I/we knew by its pronounced absence of Stefan’s mortal coiling and I don’t know if it’s just a cunt tease, a premature delivery or a stunt on vacancy but you call it a soundtrack but what the fuck does that mean?
Is this a new chapter or is it saltpeter? Some denuded culmination of coward’s disregard that’s fueled the last five years of warring?
Or is this the last trick up your sleeve? Will B never be?
It doesn’t matter does it? Because you know we both know the answer’s irrelevant and unavailable and our time together won’t come to an exit left until an hero proffers himself up for the many, uncivil dead and what then?
We move on, imagining peace in the shadowy breadth?
Fashion Week Tracklist:
01 – Runway J
02 – Runway E
03 – Runway N
04 – Runway N
05 – Runway Y
06 – Runway D
07 – Runway E
08 – Runway A
09 – Runway T
10 – Runway H
11 – Runway W
12 – Runway H
13 – Runway E
14 – Runway N