This one time, at band camp, I was smoking a blunt in an alley and met this dude, he was fucked up on lean and weed. Shortly after meeting him I threw up purple lean, left him a blunt and stumbled to my car. At times, you need to peer over the edge, just to stop falling off.
He doesn’t walk in
he slides
slick like spilled lean,
high as hell
and twice as loud.
This god don’t sit on clouds.
He crashes on stained couches,
taps ash on the floor,
tells you flat out
"Even heaven’s got a cover charge now."
He rolls L’s like prayers,
tight, sacrilegious,
stuffed with the last hopes
of boys who never made it past 18.
The beat follows him
like a curse,
or a memory
he doesn’t want to remember.
Bass lines like bruises.
Hooks like relapse.
He smells like sweat, weed, and regret.
Laughs like a broken needle.
Says he once baptized a man
in bong water and blunt smoke
called it holy
because the man finally cried.
He ain’t divine.
He’s just the sound
of a joint lit with shaking hands
in the backseat of a life
no one’s driving anymore.
And when you ask him
what salvation costs,
he exhales and says:
“Whatever you’ve got left.”
Read this on Substack where it first appeared — if you’re into that sort of thing.
