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.