Tomborrow (Poetry Version)
Future President or Union Worker For sale
Fetus and Prostatic fluid already included
Don't worry, we sold the ignorance influence
Just add love and want, a village unveiled
Its your own personal carcass. Just $5 dollars.
5 for the rubber, and the priceless moment where it breaks is free
We even included multiple shouts synonomous to emergency
This deal is once in a life time, buy it now, and we'll include another "Tomborrow"
Victoria hung up posters of futures on her wall.
She bought tickets to their orchestra of sin.
The ticket cost was a trashcan full of rubber Trojan reveries,
she showed up on Decemeber 16th, 1995.
The stagnant smell of her sweat filled the concert hall.
The trombones played moans in G-flat, while the drums
Released melliflous whispers of lovers. The singer screeched reality
into Victoria's ear. A month later she heard the message.
Acceptance came in the form of a raging pink behemoth.
It's brow covered in sweat as it beat down upon Victoria's composure
With its four arms. Disgrace, shame, revenge and mortality.
And it stared down upon her with its one eye, transfixed at
Her very soul, boring a hole through her and staring at the second
Victoria. Vomiting out the contents of truth schedulized her
Life. No more monthly bleeding from the soul hole. Not today.
How does hope seep into a young womans mind and body. What
kind penetrates her every nerve and takes control of her like
a puppet master does a mannequin? the deadly, vicious, toxic
smoke that excretes out of broken factory commercials, or
orgasmic light, shining through the black hate that becomes.
Today, on this April 14, 1996, that factory exploded. Victoria
weeped like an executioner screams for mercy.
On the May of '96. Her four-armed cyclops was sucked out of
her. A packaged conception, left in a jar to suffer the pain of
anothers ignorance. The clinic, a graveyard of futures. Victoria
left the place, her eyes leaking shame, her brow furrowed in
deep, dark, threating regret. Her heart was broken. Shattered.
But still beating thanks to the attrition that broke her down. Her
pupils, oblaque lenses that saw nothing but the past. Two souls
died on the day of May 21st, 1996. One shell continues today.
Like a baby in a vice-grip, the shame turns her faucet
It drip-drops and overflows her capacity for God's Elements.
Firey passion. Icey hate. Solid earth determination.
Watery, liquidy sorrow. And windy, breezy, regret.
Now a hurrican rips apart her sense of logic.
The rain drops are seeds of memory, crying for her.
-Dedicated to Johnathon Murphy. The cousin who never was.
