The nicotine stains on my brain are the diarrhea brown of the nearly and merely satisfied mailings of big tobacco’s deathly shit. Their tubular bells burn cyanic tunes on my ganglions toasting the filaments of my grey matter with transitory satisfaction as I give my life by degrees for less than a hit.
The colour spume from my black lung is acrid slime against my hollow throat and sends the message that I’m still breathing against the odds through blackened lungs caked with tar. I breath in and wheeze out. I breath in and wheeze out. I’m well down the road, just forty years old.