This chair is too small

Greasy, uncombed hair, and two smokes in the mouth
His holster prominantly strapped to his chest
Folding over stains and folds, unwashed in a month
Dripping on the inside, smelling through his vest

Hands crossed on his knees, finding life in his mind
Mindset same as his attire, landscapes of a nuclear winter
Twisted thoughts venturing, fleeting moments of neglegance
Plasma flames, microwaved from a tree, now a splinter