She’s Death (day 2529)

She’s got magic in her hands
And death between her lips
She sings every night a song
That makes me miss my ship
I don’t think I’ll ever send away
The blanket I had specially made
For every day as I sit here
I wish I’d found another lover
Who’d play to me sad sad songs
I could write down to remember
And out I’d go, apart from death
Reaching madly for sunlight.

Awake Seed (day 2450)

Who falls awake at night
Who lets the dreams stay away
Who brings the evening deep inside
Furrow brows some more

Who has time to wish away
Pine tree growing on the land
Little death beside a hearth
Rose denied its breath

Let wisdom become silence here
To tired awake at night
Needles upon the forest floor
In a hand, a growing seed

Relapse Saint (day 2368)

My lingering resists death,
It coddles a beat
That speaks only in a muffled tongue
Wishing for a silence
Evening powerlines consume.
Can you collapse here?
My traces will not forgive thee,
They will not remember thee,
And too long ago now
They set thee onto a passenger train
Curling up into a ball
And rambling onward
With wishes
Of a recovering saint
Collapsing into relapse.

Golden Cleft, Silver Leaf (day 1780)

To me it was the best I could
But in the end, I lament – misunderstood.
Like a diamond engulfed in a suave scarf
I rolled nonchalance, engulfed in Mars.

To be alone in a symbol of peace,
I had a golden cleft, a silver leaf;
A long row of butterflies
And I, wanting only to spread my wings to fly.

Easing words that did not become my name,
I reached a point to which I claimed!
And there I stood, as naked as death,
Where moments stood for my held breath.

20151219 - The Ranch - Ned Tobin - 63

Whiskey Tracks (day 1457)

A ground has beginnings:
Longing and forgivings;
Mandate in a bottle,
Lost without a harbour.

As blue sky’s winning,
Heart jumps spinning;
Lover and a well laid plan,
Governor’s left this land.

Help the lizard.
Death on a one way street,
Trucks getting really beat,
Dust covering wiskey tracks.

Whiskey Tracks - Lola Frost - Ned Tobin

Maker (day 1365)

I don’t want to hold hands with fate anymore,
I don’t want to believe there’s a right way,
Or that I have a significant impact on worth,
On death, or the elusive act thereof.

With whom shall I grow old with,
If I am not planning it out?
With what shall I enjoy, if gamblers
Keep convincing me I’m right.

Share my soul with wounded hearts!
Hardly healthy and needing.
Share my aches amongst the rocks!
Already scalded sourly
For I am no man fit for redemption,
I am no guest at the gates of fate
And I have brought no gifts for my maker.

Leftover Vixen (day 1208)

I’ve discovered a vixen
That wears death for flair.
She screams murder in the morning
And lifts weights with far off eyes.

I don’t care if you’re death
– Taxi waiting for a surprise –
I don’t care if you’re angling,
For mystery surprises me.

When leftover bottles
Start to yell “Yellow,” and my name,
I take offense to my obituaries
Scribed middle stanza.

I don’t care if you’re death
– Taxi waiting for a surprise –
I don’t care if you’re angling,
For mystery surprises me.

And late night as I’m wandering
Your plans flicker through my mind,
I’m leftover and gangrene
Slithering naked on the floor.

Importing (day 1207)

I am not a death trap,
I am an endless vortex
Of time wasting progress bars
Directing my attention left to right
Like I’m some kind of retro hippy
Looking for the signs.
I’m not a slow moving timeline,
I’m updated frequently;
Moving like a well oiled dance floor.
This is not death.
This is running.
Importing.
And I’m waiting.