from: The Alcohalted Bobble-headed 20’s

did a big pooh in the morning,
firm, bit dry, needed a push,
but long & clean, not much
aftercare, and I hoped it wasn’
the highlight of my day. I had
a job interview, I was going
to miss the appointment, I had
to get off the bus half way
because I only had enough
for one section, it was in the news—
Inspectors were on the Routes
making Drivers accountable,
they came on in twos, checking
tickets, before the rfid,
when we used cassette tape
and discman, phones without memory,
internet still with the military,
anyway I got there, was hired,
by the office relocation company.
I explained my lateness, he sniffs
the air, I’m guessing, and smelt the
whole story and why a well mannered
white man in his early twenties would
be this poor in the middle of the week.
they employed a handful of nationals
to run the teams, and filled the trucks
with traveller. we’d arrive at the depot,
get into the moving trucks, in the rear,
Animammals International: A.I., in the dark—
and drive in darkness all the way back
to where most of us had left the city from,
getting out at the foot of a building casting
shadows for hundreds of metres, move
everything out, desks, monitors, coffee cups,
water coolers, boxes of personal items,
down the lifts, into the truck, up into
another skyscraper, or a smaller building
for shrinking, or perfected business. as a reading
male I was often on the unpack side, the
placement team, referring to a floor map,
colour coded down to where the bobble heads
went on what side of the Dell.

Glasses of Wine

We live a vestal existence
To walk through an endless dim corridor
Glasses of wine,
The ring of your glass,
Circles the conversation,
As it matches your finger,
Stolen from the mirror that keeps time,
I find it hard to tell you,

Trying to recall an old passport,
The sadness with hopes,
Disparage our angels love,

Empty bottles of fine wines,
Messages corked inside ,
The glass coffins drift away

Raise your glass toast a cheer,
You own an empire of silk and cadavers,
Timber off cuts stacked atop one another,
The bonfire will rage,
When my pockets are emptied of song,
We will dance slowly till dawn,
When I finally get home.

the Sabine town

I had wanted to say more before about the sounds

on the winding streets of the little Sabine town

at this time of the evening; the fumbling voices

carried high by the big acoustics, interspersed

by the fired exclamation – the careless drawl

of high Latium, the meaning of which lies

in the delivery, not the words, which is just as well.

Anyway the recoil is tremendous, and my memory

of it like stone, and the spaces between stone,

the voices dissipating as they rise to the high

open sky like a veritable Tower of Babel.

Later, the silences, heavy doors, the drill

of a pitch-perfect Lambretta;  later still

the ill-defined silences, the scraping of furniture,

footsteps shuffling, a cough; and a fit of laughter

between the high walls rises, falls; and turns

intricate corners to me. I stop to take it in;

resume, thru the old town, out the castle walls

and up the main drag toward the northern suburbs –

a good walk on a natural high of pills and liqueur.


I remember with fondness now my mother’s apartment,

the small east-facing balcony with a long view

of the resplendent Apennines. After she died

I slept in her bed for two weeks, and cleared out.


9 October 2015

Within: the longest Day.

Within: the longest Day.
Philip Tayler 18-11-2015

At the end of the final, long day; much is due
the question arises – who am I? who are you?
The seers and mystics; I believe they speak true
They honestly, compassionately, endlessly say
the false self, the ego; is crucial to Slay.

Destroy the persistent, yet paper thin labels,
unbinding physicality and ego’s iron cables,
no more false constructs or socialized fables.
Melting as Ice, yet reforming as dew,
The way of the eternal, the way of the New.

Searching for truth, everlasting love song
sensing witness’ presence, for which I so long
To return back home, where the awakened belong.
Beyond love and pain, the great and ingrate
letting go of it all, the ultimate state.

Looking deep within; where the muse often hides
finding compassion, intuition; wonder besides
where peace and contentment truly resides.
Deep in the heart, Deep in the Mind-gently go;
Love, deep awareness; suchness and so.


the poet (again)

I’m playing my song to the long stems

that dance at my window; the flowers that bend

like light on the depths of my loneliness.


I have lain on the cool stone of midnight

and risen to greet the light of morning.

I have slumpt by the window to long again

for the evening, a cool hand upon my skin.


I am still ill from interminable

midnights til dawn with nothing to fill

the hole when the pills have turned sour.

I harbor the bitterness still.


My audience is the silent witness;

the multiple faces, hushed in the violet greys

of an auditorium. They watch closely

as I mime my antics; verbalise

my grief, my gestures, my lunacies.

To the Spring I have hummed all Winter

an overture to my happy disposition.



I experience everything again; feel it

again, but better. The kiss in the first

flush of evening by the pool in Summer;

the acoustics of the corridor; madness in the cell.

I have waited at the bus station and I was blind

to a thousand faces that were not you.


I have lived for you, the walks in the Ligurian

gardens, the cool evenings, the gay laughter

between the high walls of houses. After supper

you can hear the ice clink against the glasses.


In the morning I sat outside the bar

in the Piazza smoking after coffee

in the sunshine, reading the sport in the paper.

At night again I walk the narrow lanes

between the crooked houses and dig the echo

of my heels, and the near-distant laughter.


My solitude is like a jewel.



Even on the grassy bank of the railway lines

shivering in my clothes under the wintry stars

of the desolate Parisian outskirt, I had a home

to go to. And in the gloom of the morning

I stood on the side of the road to catch the dying embers

of streetlights and headlights, and hitched a ride South.


I feel now for the adolescent kneeling in his room

looking out the window, or arms outstretched

across his bed, cut-up like a rag; and the old man

hurting with his secret love.


I love these long melancholy Summer evenings

on my knees smoking out the window

toward the tombstones, a white generic mass

at this distance. I know close-up the individual

corpses under stone, each with a name, two dates

and a tribute:


I was once like you.


I have walked there at night, paused and

heard nothing. I thought of the dreamless

heads, and the stillness in the air was so dense

and I felt alone.




I leant out to see the pale

city constellations. I thought of the Grecian

brothers that had named them; the Semite

Wanderers also traced those lines; and I thought

of the gods that banished them, as tribute

or punishment – for hubris, love of Man.


5-6 October 2015




There is a pandering,
a love to lose yourself;
a meandering in wistfulness and dream;
a waiting, a weight, like thinking
of the moon, in its perfect place.

La Luna scale gradient
exactly sized to fit between the sun.
There are connections to be made,
and things too small to know,
and beings that are too big to be seen.

There is this guy, from your position
in the local galaxy, there’s division
in the prophets, over mind as generated
by a brutal field Electric, binary
replicated in the way Compewta saves.

Or it’s something far more modern
then the modem to its slave
the shadow on the cotton
is the Sun’s work: yes or no?



Knowing when you’re thinking
is different from a thought:
the stillness is vibration:
the Off in part is On.

Tubes of heated sand,
polished two-way lenses,
a showing eyes planets
in the systems—

the Earth is as a grain of rice
beside a tennis ball
around the size of sunfish
compared to submarines

We are knowers, who do nothing,
have shrunken to the pin point
viewing water floating man
-kind a mammoth mannequin.

Saluting, like a clansman,
two fingers aristocracy,
like believers of the book
who utilise Scripture

to prove their picture
is correctness as it forms
never really noticing
in the feeling in the room

of a harmonised group
they’re in a closed loop
of self validation

& we’re seen to fumble on
like a disjointed dream.



Sheer perfect of the heart,
mad variety of spider,
doesn’t prove yr god
yet no blind disorder.

What is breathing water,
bodies reading sound,
the sightless and the Braille,
the deaf and their hands.

The Earth is as an island
as Fiji is to Earth.
The Ocean as to Fencing
as scrambled oxygen.

The atmosphere above us
isolated are
like a vivid Mirage
on the floating polyscopes

shaved glass polished, and a listening
gaze at other visage
we commit to never reaching.





dedicato a Marco, poeta e traddutore

there was nothing
else than the walk from
the shore to the house
all as it had been
for all time past
yet voices shouting*
bold with the
drink from your
own cellar
and you sank
the arrow
into their
fat revelry
even before
you had kicked
the stout door
in with calves
of iron

i see
you with a suit
the grey of an
otago sky
the excellent
shades fining
your gold rimmed
glasses held
lens of hard
cold tears you
looked at
us through and
love ever turned
cold in that look
however dear
it was.

i might have
wanted more
got just what this
shore had always
held for me the
soft first step of journey
or returning
the smell
of dry seaweed

january 2012

*reference to Odysseus’s return and his slaying of his wife’s suitors, who had drunk and feasted in his palace.

** reference to the Alexandrian Greek poet, Konstantinos (Constantine) Kavafy. Kavafy’s poem ‘Ithaca’ (Ithaki) which describes the significance of Odysseus’s home in the making of his legendary journey is one of the iconic works of 20th century Greek literature.

South Rain

Gentle is the day’s rain

Sliding in from the south

It is a mist, a cold lace curtain

And it clings to face

And emotion

It makes you look

Deeper, to wonder

If this might be

The season’s forecast






Time, the absence of time and other abstractions


She heard the lock

turn, footsteps

in the hall; a pause,

on the floorboard

outside her door.


6 o’clock.



The clock stopped and

who knows what time it was?


He heard the intermittent twitter

in the trees, the rush of wheels

on the cool tarmac; eyes fixed

on the one spot upon

the brick wall. I thought of,



Nothing, half-images that flit

like night wings thru air

too quick, and darkness.



And the sun rose

and rubbed her windows;

the sky, sprung-clean.

Even the flies, she feels,

bless the air. There,


I’m 16 again

cruising the centuries

in spring, the cemetery

path. I strode miles

over the stone and

bone, an eye on death,

but blithe, blowing my

long smoke to the sky

high, thinking, what?

Right now…right now…


[I wanted to seize time,

my happiness]




I’m happy now to glide

beneath the pale blue eyes

of evening; her skies


of mottled whites and lights.

I walk from the light.

What joy?


To find you here.


24-25 September 2015

Reflections while sitting on the Train

Pathways 003


Something unravels and disperses
as we,
each step taken,
walk out the accumulation of
lifetimes….our pasts
pounded into asphalt
poured onto paper
and canvas
gone with the rolling over
of relentlessly passing seasons

Steps which take us
to where we have not been before
where no ancestor has been…

Maori say
that we look towards our ancestors…
true – for the ancestors face us
and we look back at them
as we confront our pasts
which are in front of us….still
until we can dispense
with the attachment to these pasts
the shame
the glories
the losses
we remain bound.

Our pasts are written on our faces
as with
the man I see seated opposite…
full moko, wearing his art
and ancestry upon his face.
For each of us, we wear a
map – a slice of
on a globe, within a Universe of Being
each cell upon our faces
carries every memory
back to a creative thought
in the mind of the Creator
who dreamed Universes….
made Matter
and this we are remembering and
releasing from bondage
in our images and words.


Copyright 2009



Tick Tock

10.35 pm

Tick tock

Xmas is coming

What a crock!

Love and peace

is surpassed

by expectations

by presents

large bows

large packages

presented with

large promises

huge expectations

Tick tock

ready to rock

and roll

for Xmas

Hell yeah

Will smile

put on my

elf suit

Hopefully score


Xmas is coming


Am prepared

have reindeer

ready to go

my wings coincide

with theirs

Just need Rudolph

to charge his nose

for the next adventure

Tick tock

says Alice