Speed Smoke

the same fat f*cks keep coming here every night, the same youthful twits, twisted on their favorite chemical concoctions and smug to the world, especially to a greasy chicken joint and its cyanide chewing staff. but that speed smoke, that's my five minutes in the sun, my podium, my telescope, my textbook, and my lover. for those short seconds I am the son of Zoroaster, master of my own dimensions, peering curiously through cheap glass into inferior galaxies with whimsical interest.