The Right Fist

Scented with cigarettes, perfumed with puke, with a nose of throat cancer, notes of pollution and bile, and a body of rotting crisps, I have just caught a sneeze - and with it, the stench of his innards. Smearing itself into a pocket, seeping into the life-lines and the love-lines of the palm, sliming around in my fingers, knuckling down under the nails - on the stench lingers, on and on and on.

Normally, the left fist stops such sneezes. The lazy left fist! Who never picks up a pen to write, never is called on in the lonely hours, as the night grows dark and late, is allergic to wrist-watches, and never bothers to shake a hand or flag a cab... And why not today? The lazy left fist is on strike, lounging around in his buttcrack, fiddling with hairballs, and savouring the smell down there instead.

(I think the left Fist is French, btw.)