THE CHURCH OF JESUS CHRIST OF CHAIN-SMOKING SAINTS
You’ll give your life to him. His mouth will smell like a lagoon. He’ll lick you down the spine, fold you out like gas station sandwich paper. Fill you up with tamrin’ and guava juice type sweet promises, and God, he will smoke you like a cigarette at a bus stop to make sure you’re still on fire for him. Before he flicks you into the gutter, you’ll sizzle on your dying hiss:
Happiness isn’t a tomorrow thing,
I am a cigarette and God, his hit, his puff, is you and me.