tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11718286.post-1140090000222275432006-02-16T03:34:00.000+01:002006-02-18T09:28:08.216+01:00<span style="font-family: arial;">He sits in a puddle of sebaceous pus.... a turgid mass of putrid, vile smelling sebum that weeps softly out of a golf ball sized cyst on his inner thigh. Black trouser starts sticking to his leg as the viscid juice oozes south, a cinnabar and yellowish double cream, coating his balls in cystic coagulation.... a smell so indescribably repugnant, acts as an emetic to retch a violent bilious chunderstorm, a lapful of the previous night's sashimi. Peeled layers of concentric necrotic tissue speckled with tiny mouths, the b-roads of the pus highway that finally flood their gates, released from their rotting subterraneous prison. Soothing balm of relief to the now deflated hard-boiled hillock entrapped within, a wrenching agony of taut flesh,tension and stress fuelled by whiskey and Jamón Ibérico, the pleasurable toxins of the fatherland. His bow-legged buggered stance resumes a normal gait as he enters the natatorium and falls into a deep sleep, lulled by the twittering birds of dawn.</span>Rundaashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17692580836733451783noreply@blogger.com