the home page of david prater

Jet Moon doesn't have a ticket but she'll ride on to the next station. She'll get off, ride the escalator upwards and emerge onto the street. It's raining in Tokyo tonight. She'll pass by a comic book stand, plastic meals in a window. Rain sluices down the window. There is a bar on the street. Jet Moon doesn't have any money but she goes into the bar. Jet Moon supersonically eyes off the window. She'll be watching the rain sluicing down the window. She'll be seeing exactly what she saw a moment ago outside, only in reverse. A woman entering a bar. Neon-coated raindrop on her brolley, thick clasp in her hair. A small mist of water released from there, when she turns. The bar slowly filling up with women. Women who sit themselves at the bar, stare out the window and watch as the next one comes through the door. From the door to the bar, then the window. Necks creak. Jet Moon won't notice it at first. She'll be watching the window. She'll

Once upon a time in Japan, there was a boy named Karappo. He was empty. One day, Karappo met a girl named Okesutura. She was an orchestra. Okesutura filled Karappo's emptiness with music. She engulfed him with sound. Karappo fell madly in love with Okesutura. He asked her to stay with him forever. He wanted to hear her perfect sound forever. But Okesutura feared Karappo's emptiness might prove too big to fill. You are so empty Karappo, she said. Okesutura, I know, answered Karappo. But you sound so beautiful inside me. Yes, agreed Okesutura, there is no sound in a vacuum. Your sound is safe within my emptiness, he said. Your emptiness will decrease, she said. Then I can make sound too, said Karappo. Then we can both make sound forever, said Okesutura. So Karappo and Okesutura came together. Then they had a baby. And they called her Karaoke.

While [d/dn] looks on in grief as his popularity slips on the mp3.com.au artist charts, the exact opposite is true for the track "Foggy Dew Edit" from his barnstorming Recognition of Prior Learning LP. This kick-arse piece of noodling sits at present at #5 on the lo-fi charts, despite not possessing any lyrics or song structure. Sounds familiar, doesn't it? For the record the song is described on the site as follows: "Believe it or not, this is the end bit from Davey's recording of a traditional Irish song called "The Foggy Dew" which deals with the British occupation of Northern Ireland and other examples of historical stupidity the Easter Uprising of 1916. Check out the false ending half way through. Pogue mahone!" Help [d/dn] make his political statement by downloading the track as many times as you can over the next week. That way, it'll get to number 1. Alles klaar?

Thanks to KL and STW for this link to some astonishingly bad 80s Haiku .

I seem to be having problems with comments. Could people please try and post a comment so that we can see if it works now? Thanks.

Last night I was walking along Queens Parade when along came an old green tram. I think it was of the kind that they refer to nowadays as "W-Class": like the City Circle trams, only green. The tram was going very slowly, heading along Queens Parade towards Westgarth. I began to worry for the tram, due to the huge hill just the other side of the Westgarth shops. I could just picture the tram chugging all the way to the top, only to slide back down again. Then I saw a truck coming along behind the tram. Unlike the tram, the truck was all white. On its side was painted in black letters: "TRAM RECOVERY VEHICLE". My first instinct was to ask why the truck was behind the tram instead of in front, pulling it up the hill. Then I saw the huge bulldozer style front bullbar on the truck and understood: the TRV's job was to push , as well as (presumably) "catch" the tram should it lose its brakes. Kind of like a parent pushing a child on a swing. Well, not rea

meddling kids with their internet pop-ups planting jitches in those unexpected drum /fill up my crevice moments inevitably doomed to fall between their terminals of thunder & the beginnings of the jaundice / plague its down on hands & hips & back to feeling aghast my baby lives on a pop-up page we shudder tho my slax stained with mustard tell me sadder tales - its possible avoid computers made entirely of mould dont mention mousetraps in this house a typewriters warm key tapped a la morse plastique i dont know french but i louvre what youre doing with that jim & please consider joining me for a snack yes or a mid-morning TV advertisement you know at least they dont pop up like some brat on amyl well i could go on but i dont want to mention the names now that my password has been hijacked by a kid with two brains

panic on the streets of south yarra geez they shut us down when im peaking its a ripoff shits been cut with something maybe brain juices? not mine got the tipoff said get rid of em ages ago i loved to dance though dont seem to have the energy anymore im still here propping up a legendary club foot & nose patches stop the bleeding bring on peace man & another buggered recovery whatever that means i forgot my own name monday what a bore youse young freaks just dont understand we all need a little helping hand to the hot water dispensers if only theyd mix it with cordial ah those good old halcyon nites hiya girls! ok sure hop in its back to mine just let me say you are you are a wonderful repeat wonderful person yeah

Well, he did it with the Mike Oldfield Five and now it's time for Davey aka Clint the 1980s Budgie Smuggler to strut his stuff once again. This pic was taken by STW (who else?) on the weekend during a video shoot for "Strike A Prose", a show being held as part of this year's Fringe Festival. Click here for more details. Oh, and by the way, I am dressed as I would have appeared in "Cats". Sniff.

Okay so this post is just to let youse know (ie you, David Lynch, Julian Lennon, Chris de Burgh, Russell Crowe et al) that due to the changeover from YACCS (which I love but sorry guys, it doesn't cut the mustard no more) we have lost all of your riveting comments. The plus side of this is that the 50+ posts in this incarnation of [d/dn] are now free and available for comment roaming - check out the "Recent Posts" links on the right hand side to access the ten posts up to and including this one (the way this works is that for each individual entry, when you access that page, the "Recent Posts" links will refer to the ten posts *before that one*). To go further back in time, click on the links listed below "Archives". Fresh fields of comments ... I feel a little dizzy with the potential of it all.

Well, it's been said that Davey's gone through more reincarnations than a Buddhist ant and that may well be true. The time has come to revamp [d/dn] once more. For the eighth time, in fact. Regular (!) readers of this site will know in advance that the weather here is quite changeable. [d/dn] v8 is actually just a re-vamp of v7 ("hey davey!") but I'm not going to let that get in the way of a good news story. I'm also considering starting a separate poetry blog so that I can rant here and bard off there. Does that sound like a good idea? Come on, am I talking to myself here?

F*** I hate Farnsie. How that man has leeched the culture out of this country. It wasn't always this way. I mean, "You're the Voice" was a wake-up call for Australia. It featured bagpipes - a la "It's a long way ..." and "Under the Milky Way .." - and I have to admit the handclaps still give me goosebumps. But Whispering Jack aside, the man has given birth to some real donkeys over the years. The worst of these was the so-called LAST TIME tour, sponsored by Tesltra I think, which occurredlast year. Anyone with two eyes has now seen the posters of Farnsie and a goatie-wearing Tom Jones (don't get me started), and it seems as if the tour has tweaked a few noses. So much so that one of the Voice's "fans" took him to the ACCC - and they found that advertising a tour as your final tour and then doing another one anyway is not misleading . And I quote: "'Dame Nellie Melba ... went on doing farewells for years,' [an ACCC

he will tear it down himself the robots! the robots! the mud-made robots! each one he sends off into the jungle with a fig-leaf for a heart and another for modesty "ah, yes, fair senorita," he says, "i built these walls myself but now i must go to market" these words seem strange, even as he whispers them softly on the way to market "to build - the walls - i tear - my hair - fair senor... i shall build whatsoever i choose whereosever i choose and i shall build the walls myself - on the way to market..." and so he did, after a fashion - not the fashion of the aztec "senor! i show you their ancient temples!" THE ROBOTS! "ah, at last i see!" he exclaims "to build to build to market i go! a mud-brick cage, a wooden temple!" an indian temple delays and pirate ships the rivers flow with gold he will write to his brother "i shall cross the chasm myself if you find