Everybody up on my prep steelo these days.
Thinking they iced out.
In they sperrys and J. Urban.
Don’t act like you’ve ever set foot on a Squash court.
10 years old.
I’m Space Jammin’ in a cube with a glass wall.
Flying like an eagle.
When the game copies.
You go next level.
You can buy the polo I’m wearing.
But you can’t buy my scars.
My stylist is a fucking boxer.
Punched in the face.
The bleeding Edge of style.
Gaining so much steez.
Loosing so much blood.
Get my boy Boyle to shoot the adaptation.
Written by Wes Andy.
Staring Stevie McQ.
Two and a half hours of a dug up corpse kitted out by Mr. Ned.
But even then.
It’s not enough.
People still be right clickin’
Saving my steeze to desktop.
They dressed by the Internet.
Stressed. Dying to forget.
Bout all these fuckin’ bloggers
Tryna step to Prep Imhotep.
Heritage brand afterlife.
Embalm me with the shreds of Yizzie Co-op OCBDs.
Organs stored in I banking gym bags.
Build me a tomb.
York Street and Broadway.
Try to re-blog a fucking Pyramid.
You know what this reminds me of don’t you boys and girls?
Yes. Funny Games by Michael Hanneke.
I always knew Michael Hanneke had his finger on the pulse of end-of-the-world abjection.
This proves I was right.
And I get that same thrill when I click on FYM as I do when I watch Hanneke films. A sick, sad, thrill.