Tracing Blurry Lines (day 1844)

My eyes have become the blurry vision
Of what they once used to see,
Fading sunlight in a white-washed
Washing machine.
The deck has become stained
With forgotten footsteps,
Leaving only smears
As marks on my mind.
And I delicately touch rough bark
Encircling our plum tree,
Tracing lines from hither to tither
Like the vision I once used to see.

Tracing Blurry Lines by Ned Tobin

Sheets in Pages (day 1747)

I could write your pages onto sheets of my unkempt bed
Slowly cycling the in-seam with the hem,
And rolling each corner up like a cigarette to smoke slowly
Because love here is so thick it’s impassable;
Between eyes of surrender and a heart of
I’m never letting go.
So I blot my pen into deep white sensories
Circumnavigating each prior night’s creases – expertly –
Until my final stroke has been felt and embraced
As if it were written upon thy own lined back.

Dionysians (day 1740)

I’ve written about an ancient earth
Left to crawl alone, alone.
Shaken and blurred with ghastly turd
To wrastle for each their top.
All in time a second chance
To few artistic Dionysians,
Who left their mark in deep white sand,
Unintelligible and very discreet.

Dionysions by Ned Tobin

A Dream (day 1689)

I hung onto raindrops
That caressed a blurry,
Single paned window
Sitting empty in a dusty house,
Too tall for company.
I flicked white paint
Peeling along the border,
Imagining my memory
Washed away by a doorbell
That signalled good news.
Of course, a dream
Only dreams,
For never has a swan been seen
Basking among scarred lands:
Desolate trees with
Children’s toys scattered,
Left behind in a moments rush
Towards a meaning to all this silence.

Afternoon Buzz (day 1594)

I hear the sounds of last night’s rain
Dripping off the guitar man upstairs
Like he’s drinking an unmarked bottle of wine
With candles stuffed inside
Green colored empties everywhere.
His pancake heart is shifting
As his torn-bottom baggy jeans scuff
His unease like a broken pencil
And no sharpener.
But two fifteen will buy a slow drip
In a soft-white ceramic self-logo
– Without refill – from a beanie-topped
Organic cycler that always smiles
And talks in soft tones to her cute co-worker
Humoring her choice in music.

Morning Smells (day 1543)

Your morning smells make me aware
I’ve become a sitting star
Awaiting on a little white spell
To wake me of my mist.
So long as I can keep a smile
That tames my licking tongue,
I will, at once, begin my day
Indulging in my desires.

Drift (day 1494)

A funny situation has left me struggling,
Self medicated anxiety turning yellow, brown and white.
Upside down and round and round,
There’s nothing left here now.
It used to be a lasting impression
Behind safety walls and rusty cars;
Tall grass means it’s summer.
I am a drifter,
Drifting whisper,
Into my drift I sweat.