Samuel Durant Poet Free verse

Cursed Realization

Golden brown
and wafting
in the air,
mingling
with the
dust, flecks
of nothing
clinging to
the wanton
parallel 
streams that
dripped from
my nostrils,
burgundy and
thick
from a fleshly
gravy boat.
 
I was walking
around on the
base of my eyeball,
trying to see what 
it would feel like.
I didn't feel
anything, probably
because I realized I
was dreaming.
Cursed realization.
 
The bus-stop
between realization
and consciousness
 is littered with
leftover entrails.
 
Better get to work,
men, we're on
contract, here.
 
Fat and muscular,
and, of course,
wearing a wifebeater.
 
Countenance bearing
flab coated in what
could have been 
grass clippings
dyed heliotrope.
 
Bus stop, sidewalk, brain matter
strewn, resembling lucky charms;

entrails stain the
daily news with golden
brown.
 
Soakin' it up.
 
Snow shovel, blistered
ring finger, shucked
from a stroke. Wet, now,
is the
plastic handle.
 
A crater of pulpy
pink sponge beef,
dripping body-bilge. 
Dust was
wafting into it,
specks of nothing
clinging to the
rim.

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