Cerealbox Religion And The Coincidence Of Devotion [version 3]

while i was reading this someone got locked in the bathroom and we had to pause to bust them out. all times other than this one, the scene will not save you. updated as of 4.20

here’s how to be the izzy capulong of la. don’t let anything hang too long. not yourself. not the sad things you write. 

i’ve been so horny i can’t write. culture writers used to be greasy alcoholic guys who theorize about parties but now they’re hot girls who do k and write from within them. i spell traces name in lines and harley says im suspiciously good at that. by the end of the night we’re all nameless. what good writer wasn’t disappeared by their vices.

after the party me and the hot girl artists go to remedy and at first we talk about the pains of the industry until her potential fuck shows up and she turns and says to me omg so crazy how u finished that entire plate i could never do that id get so full” yeah i actually burned a lot of calories trying not to kill myself but tell me what time the next party starts so i know when to make myself throw up 

i put the ed in clouted. call me a joi the way i make him buss. 

the way explorers searched for china. the way a devotee searches for salvation. i search for the afters. the sounding fathers. the trumpet that heralded my coming of age. maybe in a heaven type way. maybe in a midwest emo type of way. you’re cutting an apple on the bus and pointing the knife at me and i realized what he meant when he said death won’t bring friends and flowers to your grave.

i have a dead friend. i’m always having dreams where i do the things i can’t. i write songs i don’t hate. i kickflip at high speeds. and i speak to you as my friend and you touch me and neither of us flinch but you’re jealous of ohio because it doesn’t have to hold me. 

we’re six blocks from where we were friends. ten blocks from where we were lovers. ginsberg is three fucks away from whitman. you’ve been inside me and we’ve never been farther apart.

ayo homie is this not the body you loved me in once??? and now we are on opposite sides of each others hearts??? wack as hell. i’m so lonely but at least i can piss with the door open.

you don’t get it. i screwed my way across the arrondissements. fucked my way to housing and warm meals. taught that boy with the beercan cock about mitski while we fogged up the windows and he cooked me ratatouille out of the can. sewed myself back up to skate home and climb the bridge over the highway. orpheus returning home alone in cum stained pajama pants. the poet chooses the memory and into my spiky pubes i shaved a map to the center of paris. 

i guard my heart very carefully. like those dudes at the gates of troy who got this weird wood horse. “we’re friends, aren’t we?” at this point it’s more up to you than me dude. he hates me but he knows what my butthole looks like. the coincidence of devotion. 

i need to be a virgin again.

winnie sees me and asks me for drugs before she asks me if i’m ok. i tell her im feeling used so she offers me coke. 

lucas tells me he loves me out of nowhere so i always expect him to ask me for something right after. he doesn’t and now i feel weird

in an act of cereal box religion i’ll ask what the hell im at the center of. whitman talks about painters and actors and pfaffs the way i talk about djs and substackers and creative directors. god have mercy on the displaced children of maneros - we have such a bad history of italian restaurant by day club by night type places. 

here’s how to be the izzy capulong of new york. do not party with your heroes during new york fashion week you’ll have a bad enough time that youd rather k hole at clandos and the guy everyone wants to be will ask — totally earnestly — “are you attracted to me because i look like a lesbian?” in the back of his forever-22 car you’ll have to say i love your music but there’s no good answer to that question. he knows where i live now, like that song courtney wrote about him.

do not party with your heroes during new york fashion week you’ll get too high and unknowingly offer hunter schafer poppers. even if you die in the pleather love seat at the pornhub party your friends can still use ur name at the door

don’t party with your heroes during new york fashion week. the guy who’s into teenagers will hit on you 

do not party with your heroes during new york fashion week someone will write auto fictive poetry about you and then read it in an exterminators basement

do not party with your heroes during new york fashion week. the way i love makes me relapse. do you masturbate to a younger version of me? will i hate you by the time im your age? will you remember what my butthole looked like the night before i turned 22?