Rain is few and far between.
But the thunder rolls in with the smell of burned spinifex and pindan,
eroded shadows.
Longer edges,
hazy horizon
blurred memories.

Recollections of a summer storm
belting out sounds that made me want to clamber back into the diggings.
Where carbide grit and acetylene fumes illuminated the dingy hole
that i called my office.

Digging holes in remote landscapes,
echoes of crow craws
long silences of mind-numbing solitude.

The kiss of my shovel against her roughs,
the gravelly sound as the dirt hits the kibble.
Grit filled nails, dirty oafish fingers,
fumbling strength.
Muted light and dancing shadows,
tantalising recollections of illicit touch,
her musty womanly scent,
her love,
her pleasure.

I began to dream of that one true love.
a deep desire,
to be within her earthy confines …

I called it love,

she called it service.


Lake Darlot - At age 17 I first prospected The British King Gold Mine with my dad.

The North Eastern Goldfields, Leonora, mulga, desert country of Western Australia,
youthful dreams of gold, and love.

The true language of prospecting is warm and colourful,
the reality is harsh and unforgiving.
To chase gold out there in the desert, you did'nt have to be mad,
...but it helped!




At the end stepping into a red latex robe
through sophisticated veils
the soft et-lumiere skin feels,
warm aesthetic responses
The ever brooding, shadow 
reveals in cloaks cut from sumptuous cloth,
vague memories dancing with sticky brown toes
rich liminous hues of chocolate
The ironic examination of introspective soliloquies
pudgy fingers fumble clumsily with the apparatus restraining
fleshy breasts, clumsily fat cheeks to feast,
through darkened, atmosphere  

laughter exchanges a variety of identities
happy melanges of dance and song
suculent mango flesh and
rich maroon crinolines




Solid indifference:
solo flight
tough acceptance.
.. here I am.

I have lost my alto wings
from where I could see.
never were there roses on Valentine’s Day.
And your words,
your elusive words
poetry no longer formed.

Now, free from the chattels of
illness and feign
your troubled offspring,
indulgent folly,

I return to turgid dreams
where tattered mothballs
over my darkened heart
have lost their pungency
so it can beat, and skip

All is well in my home town
for love and trust,
trust and lust,
the finer things
and finery,
from far above and far distant
has broken apart.

My spirit will find the wind
and with a wings lift,
and sweet salivary bind
it is easier now not to recall
when our tired love and sad mouth’s
no longer harked the tune
but had breath of fallen angels,
shadowed glory
and darkened welts

The floating fall of
an autumn leaf,
the rich red colour
of tapestry weft
sad lost smiles
and dried cold tears.
The wonderment of wonder
the caress of a rose’s cheek.

I will overcome the
lips of tightness
and the same of hearts
beyond empathy, where sadness' seeds
of incest and lust and flesh’s needs
decadent and disgusting memories.

oh Valentine,
sadness no longer dwells in my heart
like a foreign instrument.
No longer a
dark and tainted intrusion
into my soft flesh
and desire to bleed.

2004 - 10

This poem evolved over several years of disappointing Valentines Day's.










paul trinidad







I cant remember my shadow's cast 
I dug the earth in memories lost

my heart beat like footsteps may
as I walked away from her desire

With my pick and my shovel I scratched and I died
the gold I dug, I gave to her
and SHE enjoyed its feel 

my heart perished as never I knew

she never got the song
but she def-nately got
the quintessential bush boy






I can see that dark dog barking at the new moon
I believe Cairo - or was it Kalgoorlie, or Kanalpi?

would you take it personal
If I said moon shine while
staring at glowing assertive female sexuality?

If I equated fascination with the moon
with my own latent female tendancies
(for lack of a better phrase).

Ariel Levvi actually said Tabagha di Chirbagh
knew no norms about female sexuality
and femininity,
especially in respect to procreation.

This is not however, what I am doing.
I find it interesting how on the one hand
the moon goddess is feminine
but we all know about the man on the moon.

looking at and deconstructing it,
so to say.
Sexism, racism, heteronormativity, Nevis, Tenochtitlan, Uluru
and Karma-Sutru
who I know is a white, urban, slim chick
Gay too I think.

Sorry, I reveal now so much
a About the stereotype.
When really it is my goal to analyse
the discourse of the
sexually liberated woman
and other
questions posed in my new paper.

I wrote it in Istanbul where the
sofltlight makes the prostitutes faces
seem ever virginal.
where I moved from ther one-dimensional
penis - vagina narrative into
a more active subject-state

As she smiled to me
my focus on her passive object-status
became reductively less exponent.

I knew it is my aim to uncover what kinds of assumptions
and structures of inequality
I could pick at.

Cultural representations
of Madonna and Child 
is quite a valid approach,
and quite normative to exclude
older stereotypes (the virgin)

and other
representations of women
who exist in paradigm fragment.





Dare I move a little closer,
as you sit unassailed.

Your back is tight
as leather fetters bound.

And in this pasty silence,
quiet curiosity, arises.

Your mind without thorns,
emerge to impend on confused thoughts.

Of those before who silently confessed,
and paid their ebbing debt.

What fragments yet undistilled,
sensations, of wonder, sorrow, laughter and loss.

As here my closet bares its skeletons for you,
my friend - my enemy.

I am not inclined to look upward,
but outward for forgiveness of my lost song.

for, ..a life taken there is no innocence,
or plea ...'the verdict called is wrong'.

..and I put my head upon your chest
as you ask the last answers.


This is really about last rites.

In the Cerebral Sanctum series, I continue working on ideas based on the murders of detectives Pitman and Walsh in Kalgoorlie 1926, and the subsequent execution of the Pebblers and murderers, Treffene and Coulter. They were tried and found guilty as a result of their mate Teddy Clarke claiming Kings Evidence, to pardon himself but to  'dob them in'.

The digital works are a result of lengthy interludes with Michael Kane Taylor in which we discussed art, life and other problems of the world.  I was working in response to Michael Hunnewell (USA) and the AH3 Tour Project.



An angel slipped in

Her gaze penetrates my dark and foggy mind
delicate wrists and nimble words
wavy dark hair floats
upon mysterious waters
and my heavy heart relents
to a languorous tune
for never a moment of respite
my conscience takes
from the brooding heart
I know so well.



I can’t find my shadows, 
as I dig in the past for lost memories.
As I scrape and I scour, I feel my heartbeat,
like footsteps echoing away from unwanted desires.

I rasp with my pen and my ink 
for those elusive marks
which are dancing in those recesses.

I scratch and I die.

I pause.

And in the pasty silence,
my mind fills with thorns and
impended confused imaginings
of those before who have been judged,
and paid their ebbing debt.
Undistilled fragments
sensations, of anger, wonder, sorrow, loss.

And  as you ask for the last answers
my wet cheeks cannot rest upon your chest.

Paul Trinidad 2015









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