#TRENDSETTER: CONGRATULATIONS TO ‘STREET SERENADE APPAREL’’s GIANNA ROSS @ the #WCWFashionShow

#TRENDSETTER, Fashion

By: Steven Underwood

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#Wcwfashionshow set it off with Gianna (or Gia, as she is affectionately called)’s ode to the Streets.

Yesterday, New Jersey native, Gianna Ross, released her street inspired collection for Street Serenade Apparel. Her line focused on the dynamic looks of rap, hip-hop and black culture, celebrating the fierce nobility in our nouveau noir generation. The bold Centenary University Alum’s showcase stunted, featuring several of her sorors as models for her collection.

“Heart Beat Of The Streets”

An ode to the Streets, Culture, & the People that arose from it. Using the streets as our muse & embracing our journey, from the ground up🥀✊🏻✊🏼✊🏽✊🏾✊🏿

Do what Janelle Monae said: Femme the future and follow her Movement!

IG: streetserenadeapparel

IG (Owner): Gia_lizz

Like, Comment and Follow for a close look at this artist’s journey!

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#INSPIRE: LOVE FOR GQ

#TRENDSETTER, Articles, Non-Fiction

“I want to be an authentic, unapologetic warrior for black culture and the culture of the street and how it moves. My thing is most importantly to change the narrative of the black race. I can’t relate to anything that isn’t about that.” — Love, formerly Sean Diddy Combs, for GQ April 2018.

Here are a few of my favorite pictures from his shoot. Got any favorites? Comment below!

#LISTEN: KISS THE BOY BY KEIYNAN LONSDALE

#TRENDSETTER, Music

By: Steven Underwood

Listen to LEGEND OF

TOMORROW’s Keiynan Lonsdale’s newest single about love, happiness and acceptance. Keiynan Lonsdale is not only known for playing Kid Flash/Wally West on THE FLASH, but coming out as bisexual earlier this year.

For other versions, head over to http://keiynan.com/

Like the song? Comment below!

#DEADPOOL: DONALD GLOVER LEAKS FANTASTIC ‘DEADPOOL’ SCRIPT VIA TWITTER

#TRENDSETTER, Articles, Culture

By: Steven Underwood

“For the record: I wasn’t too busy to work on Deadpool.” Tweeted Donald Glover, moments before dropping a 14 thread false pilot episode, featuring topical jokes such as Sanaa Lathan biting Beyoncé’s and Tekashi69’s (lack of) rap skills. This BOMB dropped just after Glover and his brother parted ways with the Deadpool animated series, where “differences” in creativity were cited. (Pictures below).

After reviewing the script, Glover stated that it was likely his “different” approach that scared away the prospectively lucrative deal.

By different, I of course mean Black.

What do you think? Do you agree Sanaa Lathan bit Beyoncé’s face? Where do you imagine Gambino’s series fitting in? Comment below

#ICONIC: RIHANNA THE COVER OF VOGUE PARIS

Fashion

Liking Rihanna’s style from the Vogue Paris cover? Comment with your favorite look and where you hope to see the singing-songwriting mogul next.

#CLOUDEDVISIONAPPAREEL: VINTAGE COOGI PULLOVER

Fashion

FOUND HERE

Popular during the 1990s era of the Notorious B.I.G, Coogi is still one of the most popular brands within the hip-hop community. 

PRICE: 150.00

Label: Coogi Australia 

Tag Size: Large 

Fits Like: Large/ X-Large (Can worn over-sized, as shown on model) 

Pit to Pit: 27 inches 

Length: 25.5 inches 

Sleeve Length: 19.5 inches 

100% Mercerized Cotton 

*For additional details please email CloudedVisionApparel@gmail.com

#LISTEN: BLAQUEWORD’s SUNDAY SIT BACK PLAYLIST

Articles, Music

Sit back and enjoy a little vibe while you scroll through some more social media savagery.

//tools.applemusic.com/embed/v1/playlist/pl.u-11zBX83HKW2428?country=us

Like, Comment and Subscribe! Don’t forget to subscribe to our Patreon here for exclusive content every week!

#NYFW: 5 Stages of Grief

Fashion

NYFW come and you ain’t go? Well, that’s on you love. I ain’t got tickets, but I do know the pain you going through.

First, it starts with the phase I like to call: REALITY. You look at that calendar and realize despite the promises you made last year, you did not in fact save or request tickets for Fashion week.


Second, you BARTER. You look through your contact list at every friend, family member, or Fashion blogger you met at an odd party you weren’t invited to but crashe dro network. No ones came through.


Third, You hunt. So now that you can’t finagle in by favors, you’re going to want to look for any and all ways to push through that Versace designed ceiling into the promised land. You get to searching for all off-brand Fashion week events. The ticket prices beat you back down to reality. You’re poor. You’re sad. You’re pathetic. 


Fourth, you break down in agony. How could you have forgotten? This is your fault and you know it. You don’t deserve Fashion Week. You are a churl, a peasant and this event is for the Fashion Gods. 

Your friends eye you like you’re trippin’. They’re concerned not for you but for their clout hitting numbers as low as Trump approval rating following four natural disasters in a row.


Finally, you ease on down. You sit and open your IPhone and settle down on some good ol’social media: where you can watch the highlights in peace. You promise yourself you will go next year.

Foresight

Non-Fiction, Poetry

By: Steven Underwood

Mirror,Mirror, cast upon me

Tell me anything I don’t see in the dark.
A bog of memberance.

Plagues inside me.

Scars so wide and deep within.

Tumoured sorrows,

Why was I cursed to live?

I drown in marshes

Swallow sadness, dirt and grime

I taste tomorrow,

I recoil,

Then, I hope you’ll save today.
Mirror,

Broke inside me,

Is this the reflection I paid to see?
Our hearts go forward,

Placed on scaling,

I wonder whose a true strength goes on.

Yours is tempered,

Sheltered from love,

But too many holes

And punctured plights .

Mine is golden,

Swelled too large and —

Surely it can no longer beat.
Mirror, Mirror —

Locked inside me,

Keep the light off of me,

My shame is that i fear always,

A lonely, cold destiny.

Mirror, mirror —

Please come for me.

I cant live on,

Please watch from here on,

Keep these shadows off of–

Save me from the world to be.

Im a saddened sun,

Whose lost intensity.

Black Cat Blues

Art, Non-Fiction, Poetry

 

A Poem for the first day of Black History Month.

by Steven Underwood

 

***

The Black Graymalkin is never free;

Though liberated in city it appears to be;

Its leash, like thread, vanish in the eye;

But still held in chains till feline die.

 

Onyx Graymalkin, your roar is low,

If you are to speak, who would know?

Dense Graymalkin, you are meek,

Though your pelt is velvet, sleek.

Observant Graymalkin, you lurk in shade,

You hide from the daylight that whiteness made.

 

Black Graymalkin, are you me?

How cruel a society do you flee?

From whose ebony Pride are you bred?

From what dark skin do you shed?

 

Toil, Graymalkin, they will fear;

No love for loved ones you hold dear.

This world is black, dark like pitch;

And from your trouble this land grow rich.

Flee, Graymalkin, don’t you stray;

The present is black because you’re black all day.

 

We the People in a Less Perfect Union

Art, Articles, Culture, Non-Fiction, Poetry

Sometimes, it’s better to look at the world through poetry until it starts to make a lick of sense.

***

On Monday, he wasn’t our president, and we celebrated the legacy of a man with as many faults as he had virtues. The skies held their breath, and a world of bright blue became bleak and cried. We remembered how we love the rain, but this was different.

Together, We investigated the landscape of the world. We judged the people of the time: for treating people like cattle, for their shameful attitudes, for their racism. We couldn’t see how these people, relatives, and friends to many of us, couldn’t see what was going on in front of them. That same day, we ignored many obvious clues that history was licking its fingertips and turning a few pages backward in its book just for emphasis.

On Tuesday, We pressed our thumbs to small digital boxes and opened Twitter. We discussed “Dr. King’s Dream,” and judged the black community according to it. Are we honoring him when we kneel during a pledge of allegiance? Is calling a white person racist acting in his image? Dr. King’s progeny got into the tabloids and said Dr. King would’ve liked Donald Trump. Our world cracked at the seams.

On Wednesday, We steeled ourselves for the worse, and found that our best metals were but rust: we would lose Barrack Obama. The skies remained gray, but the winds whipped with a sheering coldness. Tempers were high, and we fought each other. We lashed out, without really knowing what we were lashing out f. Anger for anger’s sake, a test of those chains we swore would remain. Both to unite us, and to shackle our ambitions.

On Thursday, We maintained the song of Monday. Dr. King’s progeny’s comments sang again. I stare blankly at the screen for a moment. This is someone who knew him best, isn’t it? I re-read a line by Fredrick Douglas, and I make us remember.
“Power concedes nothing without a Demand…It never did and it never will. Find out just what any people will quietly submit to and you have found out the exact measure of injustice and wrong which will be imposed upon them, and these will continue till they are resisted with either words or blows or with both. “
I take to this new world of zeroes and ones, and I make a declarative. “If we are to believe MLK would’ve supported Trump, then maybe MLK isn’t the person we should look up to?”
Few comment. Many have a feeling. The words hang in the air.
On Friday, the sky wept upon his head. Orange flushes down his face and drips onto the American soil beneath his feet. The brown in the soil becomes stained in chemical lies. We shake our hands and test these chains. We meditate on what others have decided for us. We ask ourselves how people could be so ignorant. We judge the people for many things: for their racism, for their bigotry, for their sexism, for their phobias.
History hasn’t turned her page.
The page becomes wet and the ink runs down the page. Our name runs with it. These symbols hold no more meaning.
On Saturday, we ask ourselves if we can be united when these important things have no more meaning.

Love with Hip-Hop

Art, Non-Fiction, Poetry

Hip-hop has the humanizing effect: it exists without gender, a body but is very definite and powerful human force. This is a poem regarding how I fell in love with hip-hop and all of its facets.

By Steven Underwood

The concrete jungle gave birth to the love of my life;

We met in my mama’s womb, I loved her on Monday mornings over the radio to the smell of fried potatoes and grits.

She be fickle, like the ether pounding her stereo speakers;

A chaotic rhythm: a smooth beat; the Deejay and the word-smith in her soul;

They explode together: unhinged.

She be quick-witted, the soles of her reeboks and Adidas changing course

And destination faster than anticipated.

I call her Hip, and she is the rhythm of the streets.

I kiss her, and she tastes like mid, tear drops, welfare cheese and too many broken promises.

Her voice sounds like the first crescendo of a Saturday night, like the last chime on a Sunday morning.

The concrete jungle gave birth to the love of my life;

We met on long car rides on a Philly Friday night, I loved him in prepubescent rages when rebellion filled my blood and constitution strengthened mine tongue.

He be beautifully savage, so mean when he just needs to be honest;

Sometimes I look him in the eye, and hear the legacy of a people burdened,

perturbed, bountied, bloodied and beaten.

He is my savage dissonance on a silent hill that bare witness to a macabre scenery;

I named him Hop, and he is the cold honesty, my thrilling passion.

He lashes with his tongue.

I kiss him, and he tastes like Hennessey, black-and-milds and too many repressions.

His voice is rough like a broken knuckle on a balled fist, like skin smacking the park mulch.

The concrete jungle gave birth to my best relationship;

We came together at the same time, but love each other different.

With him, I’m gentle, I hold him to my heart in a dark room where our anger can’t escape

Her, I’m rough, our electricity bounces off each block, like the lamp lights which guide us home.

Together, I’s become We’s,

You becomes a crew.

We hunt, love and kiss on the light of midnight;

We talk about what is new in the world,

We cry — we anguish over what is old.

We do our little dance to drums.

We mix these rhythms with something old too, something ancestral.

We like to make music to the conditions that built up our huts in this concrete jungle.

People are jealous of the sounds we make when we love together,

The wet, savage patter of our celebration.

They call us rap, and they are afraid of the primality of our songs.

We kiss, and it smell like how freedom feel; like the heartbreak of being just a friend;

She feel like the hot shower of a Candy Rain; She touches me in shapes of tic-tac-toe: all hugs and kisses. He feels the first steps of liberation; Our hearts collide; Our minds move into one synchronized beat; I twerk, she dabs; we become us — become a family, becoming individuals.

The concrete jungle gave me love.