the home page of david prater

Q, you built a city inside my heart And now I�m trying to make it back. Do you remember what it looks like? What we did there? Where is it now? In this city there�s a lake that�s filled With fish & fountains powered by Your laughing soul - we�re creating Plans, our soundtrack experiments; Organized sports cannot be found in This brand new city, its living memory (I�m putting off returning to the plans, Although it�s getting crowded here). It�s easier to draw a lake, a fish or House, the view of a mountain hut; A native flower�s sleepy bloom or Night inside some inner city bar � Though words are never pictures They can contain this feeling�s arc. Something in them returns to you & makes me listen to your voice. I catch the subways every day & See in signs your famous designs: The freeways look like fret boards On that old guitar we used to play. In every city, every day, you walk & talk about the people living out Recycled dreams & even there we Hop...

there's a boy leaving home on the train - i can see him see his mother on the platform trying not to cry - the boy knows no restraint too young to hold it in he's bawling - for a moment he is me & i can feel that sad old fear of separation grown into stoicism followed by pure obliviousness - you grow up not to cry you leave so as not to give up who you are - your stories jokes hobbies - but it's a lie a cruel hoax - because one day it won't be you who's leaving - no it will be your own mother getting onto that train to leave forever to pull away in that black carriage the pane of glass making final chats impossible & tears? well they're for boys or for grown women & yet there they are - on your own face small & soft but still there for all of your bravado - it is a form of sickness after all whose remedy is the act - & later after several stops you look over at the boy who's now wearing headphones & he's not crying anymo...

all the concessions have finally closed the luggage tags likewise now unravel - i've spent the night in an airport alone even the cleaners have all gone home ... out on the tarmacs the rain is a canvas the planes are invisible up in the sky at every counter the shutters have risen only perfumes of the flight crews linger the terminal's redevelopment is complete now there's nothing left here to expand & duty-free shops disappeared long ago inside the food court a fake fern sleeps departure boards flicker like r.e.m. dreams but the gangways are empty of tired feet the veins of the airport throb in safety nevertheless i will practice my tai-chi i use smashed windows to create my murals ticket stubs provide my small fire with fuel i walk naked through the abandoned latrines in arrivals halls i will begin planting trees

i thought i smelt bad on the outside! now with this insufferable goon solo hacking my insides away only to reveal this succubus (this blonde boy tintin i will revise the absolute truth of that observation - phew! not a good start i'll say - & how he'll go on to blow up the death star (well that's anybody's guess ... whistle, snow-soaked winds! hoth will turn my jellied intestines to marble or glacial glass ... within its arctic embrace this taun-taun lies in stasis waiting for jabba's blowtorch to thaw my ice-ripened scheme (yes his daring shall be the subject of works by post-soviet sculptors in a primeval soup version of the earth (should its release date ever come to the attention of the censors ... they're everywhere here you know even these snowy wastes i call home (i'm sorry did i mention milou? inside my cave grave i am a sole tear whose trajectory is the radiance of my native field (but he will melt into being inside their mini-planets...

two intersecting lines radiate strings of heart beats in four times double the directions secreting small agents into the surrounding streets & lanes transfers of desire stilt-legged voyages hour-burst rambles freshly-bottled smell of the underground random splices of muzac shred the dark corners of an interruption clock's soundless alarm men follow women towards escalators triggered by their muffled boots the station entrance collapsing out into the waffle prints of passing tramline desires meanwhile you're down there stroking tokens that get stuck in the machine above our heads amongst the stars giant pulsing nuggets of steel erupt in longing while the red lights blink delaying our union by variants of minute-long bursts of motion this is the station called silence at which i long to get off with you so as to emerge into some blinding shower of certain life-affirming illuminations as blades of wet rubber hack away at the heads of screen actors we shoot our own minimalist ...

look up to the sky and phone me ... don't leave home without photographing it ... never wake up when the stars are text messaging ... just hang up when the delay starts messing with your head ... all your italian credit is dead ... gone to the great numeral zero in the magnetic strip sky ... trying to reach that number only lovers call ... jamming the sunet's network ... some giant oak split in a diagram ... radiating waves of coverage & false debris ... stay connected for me ... don't cry out unless the chorus calls for your participation ... my straight-edged blossom arrow of hopes that tingle ... showering the room with keystrokes from a slowly-revolving death star sculpture ... or bogus html ... dead links to a long-extinguished star ... no hope now for the wholly-darkened skies ... a band of eight string numerals teleports dawn ... the sleeping airliner tracking russian airspace ... a dragonfly on a rollercoaster ... picture this when the batteries are dead ... all...

in abendland our eyes only reflect the windows of real estate agencies couples roam there; small dogs shit wherever they like; everyone has a slightly bulging belly in abendland & guitar music is de rigeur ; words like de rigeur are never used; rivers flow & wood are pictures hung up in galleries frequented on sundays & feastdays only; post offices never close; old audio cassettes remain relatively unavailable sought after only by newcomers; phone calls are monitored & can only be made from inside hastily-assembled booths; & there are no television channels - only movies with in-built & hard to avoid advertisements; girls wear stripes & old boots that make their ankles look skinny; boys maintain a gruff persona only enhanced by their permanent thirty six hour growths; love is an absence, or closing time; garbage piles up but nobody seems concerned in abendland; beer comes in bottles that the homeless can collect & then exchange for pennies or one m...

i hear lady vader's footsteps clang on the stainless steel gangway; i look busy attending to my knobs & flashing buttons but the dark side is so strong in this one that i am forced to switch on an emergency power generator - red lights bleed across my console & i swivel in my chrome-plated bauhaus / ikea captain's chair to face her wrath should it ever come there is another death star i explain it contains no flaws unlike its predecessors into whose plans lord vader for some reason saw fit to introduce design elements that would make a first year engineer blanch; perhaps he knew even then something of his fate - or else at central casting he overheard a script development meeting ... were those two hideously greige orbs a kind of metaphor for his own body's penetration fantasy a slight shudder as the x-wing entered the duct? how else to explain the ridiculous ease with which those rebels identified our killing machines' weakness - other than by referrin...

took a photograph of sunday night then blew it all onto a wall in paint something stirs in the brittle light - almost like your first vacation's abrupt denoument; studio sounds erupt into white (the power's down) this wasn't scripted neither were your forearms' shudders - closing in on abstract stalks that make a silhouette in green a single figure walks on your microscopic moon but he's a fake the painting's done in someone else's living room now on corsica perhaps in a sun room or brightening the concrete day ... alone at last in a private church where guardrails keep the volk at bay or catalogue this desperate silence that makes photorealistic snow swept the candles gutted or a chair pushed back like a lock of black & white hair; poised for an ironic pose jackie onassis is becoming bored reading newsprint on the freshly-plastered walls ... inside an album sleevenotes keep their peace; & revolutions occur on a momentary basis swinging on...

Sleeping through the pouring rain Filling up the lakes and rivers she Came to my dark dream bed & Read me stories from a strange Book (turned the pages like a Grave & held me close under the Nightlights smoking marijuana in My mind � trucks speed onto Autobahns while phone booths Hold the sodden homeless pity Breathes all through the fog but Sometimes life just doesn�t hear It (got a message from a stranger Held the phone until she hangs Up smoking marijuana in my mind � Radios are all tuned to static in the european union traffic cops hold glowing beacons if the time was ever slowing (did I hear a baby crying dogs on leashes are street- sweepers / trams are cancelled parties starting in the pawn shops money changes hands - & in the market stands but I�m smoking marijuana in my mind � emails from the great spam merchants in the sky the old clouds flutter past then dump their share of rain yesterday�s was just as drenching (cities in the sleeper�s eye windows sl...

a silent cartoon wanders the non-descript chaussee over bridges it casts its chisel comic-book shadows illuminated by a passing policeman's truncheon light as air; that withered stare turns flowerboxes to stones or the dogs to barking fruit stalls there in the internet cafe glare baudelaire calls burundi for twelve cents - resenting the booth's semi- privacy (one hand in pocket jiggling ... hear the retort of verlaine's little gun as though he's not there & the women are all black now in this frame; thought bubbles crammed with grammatical marks suggesting curses in parlour rooms filled with that unbearable sound of harpsichords playing french tunes ... & he sees in this zone between falling empires the rest of his days spread out like a cloak on a corpse then he sets to work on his autopsy classifies quickly my various welts & cuts - dissecting this version of humanity that we thought he left behind in his native hollowed city of whoredom; (it bec...

harrison ford had it made in indiana jones part three fucking that austrian woman in venice - ah venice - as they slipped under that radar beneath all the clanging sunday bells of canareggio ... meanwhile sean connery (presumably touched himself or his manufactured wig knowing that once they reached the castle of the gestapo he would enjoy the last laugh or something. how do you say good- bye in austria as opposed to the reich? my german teacher was from vienna - i had a mild vanilla crush on her (dreamt of discipline all verbal natürlich ... the classroom put-downs then our more private humiliations ... just one punch would have been enough to force my quiet retreat to beat off in a lavatory (a goethe institut in a nameless & folorn balkan capital ... oh for an umbrella to scare the seagulls into a luftwaffe propellor or two - ah venice! stop me before the credits roll i'm fit to burst here with my leather- bound journal (i confused the berlin & münich olympic stad...

What�s the story, Ludwig? Have you found a perfect View? What did you have For supper last night? & did The swans tow your body to Sleep? What did you find in The gothic skylines above Your wooden wagerian bed? Could you go once fantasy Faded? Did you hear music In the reconstructions of Tristan & isolde on the walls? Upon which bridge did your Sad life end & was that man Present there to take your Picture? Did the railings fail? Could you see that waterfall Between the planks, behind Your footsteps? Did you land Safely in the spruce? & do the Pines support your weight? & Do the swans know your name? & what will become of those shining door handles, forever cocked like loaded pistols? What is the time there & what are you wearing? Are the palace corridors cold? When will it be finished, your collosal tribute? Will they allow you to grow old?

round & round the imbiss i go scurrying hither or screaming thither wound on sugars & holiday gases with my turtle backpack & my plucky green hat they cannot catch me! cannot know my moves the yodels that maintain me i delight in my terror & underneath this shirt flabby muscles quiver (my brain goes tick- tock all through the high german summer! some speak of the sewers wherein i was once abandoned only to be found - i myself prefer to blast that memory into one big pile of rubble! or else a turtle dance w/ wiggles! my shell morphs into scales at the slightest threat - my arms & legs become fists & boots to break the glass! (small wonder i am kept on a kiddy leash - but their time will come when i have grown & so-called parents will feel all my fury as i toddle off (back to the sea

you can see my moving parts by lifting aside this curtain here where flesh is fused with my mechanical arts & all is encased in polished enjambe- ment ... tiny wheels enforce this rhythm trigger reaction maintain flow - while clock- works monitor internal pressure & signal the hours like early birds - i sing with steam this pulse enervates a quiet meaning (my labyrinthine hulk) & days disappear under time's resisting ladder scheme the wailing echo silver screws are my grammar & whistles my code - an abstract mechanic oils my pistons & my cogs until at last perpetual i shudder on my electric rails the countryside forms lakes of blue-green blurs while passing poems cause a bang & under us the track is glistening sweat creates a traceable trail (an endless journey to pass a line over a bleak white space where meaning terminates in cuckoo recitals worthy of the brochure or else rhymes from a motor age

there was no need to be told of the jewish custom whereby rocks are placed near graves instead of flowers (eg lilies in the place of the barracks we found an ocean of stones - larger than a fist smaller than a child's head just big enough to force one to walk more slowly than normal & to think with each step about a person who has passed on nothing is expected of us except understanding (& an opening towards knowledge - like the burgers of dachau whom american troops forced to march through these gas chambers saying look! look this happened in your town rocks grow in every country this world is filled with graves - one day they will return us to the rivers & smooth our sharp edges over centuries of soothing (easy for me to say on windy days i think of anton music who drew pictures of his living hell in charcoal & who is known today as the "dachau artist" born in slovenia & a student of fine arts in venice arrested & sent here onl...

Do not throw anything yet, Albrecht; It is dangerous as well to lean out! Customs examination of luggage: Important notice. In winter, steam Macht (Thomas Mann) mobil. Also ... Kinder unter 15 fahren gratis. You Have no claims on the blue-green River waters flowing backwards to Trento. This is our Tiepolo. See Gerhard Richter (19-3 to13-12-2005) Run. Informazioni per il Viaggio: "The most brilliant SF mind on any Planet". (Rolling Stone). Read more Penguins online. With an introduction By Venezia, S. Lucia. Penalties for Improper use. Plus Blake Morris on The lost art of editing. One Saturday Poem by David ... "the art of hint". (5)

come one come all! to work in our factories! for in all of craptastica™ we do have millions! funnels & chimneys! plasticine assemblies! shift work! free health care! & twice yearly holidays! (see brochure!) we specialise in wares bound for two dollar shops or anywhere the crazy bargain prevails & you are an important cog in this wheel of fortunate gadgets & gizmos! artificial scents & tea- towels! - industrial strength citizens! will consume all you produce! & you in turn will also consume other crap! such as small plastic objects also wrapped in plastic! fine layers of craptstica™ will one day be discovered in bedrock! landfill perfumes! watches designed never to work! as selling agents you will be sent on junkets to your homelands! we will provide all the blank cheques you need! no dull stares now! impermeable surfaces! on impeccable whiteboards plan massive advertising campaigns! one day! you will emigrate here! & all of this will! be! yours!

we pigeons never need to travel after all we've got it made - an infinite pile of food to eat & tourists galore to feed it to us do not feed the tourists for our appetites depend on theirs - & once the feeding stops we know that that way leads to oblivion ... or worse to fights amongst ourselves & that predictable (horrible) cannibalism waiters waitresses chefs & cooks discourage your diners from eating here - for once they spend their money there is little left to buy us seed - we flood piazzas like the bubonic plague & fill the air like swarms of bees - we'd crack our brethrens' eggs if that was all that we had left to eat - we'd rip the feathers from each other eat our own shit our brains & our lungs - & then gorge ourselves on our own diseases until every street had been eaten clean - so do not feed the tourists for we like our humans fresh (not to mention lean

so this devil masks the smell of his portuguese hash with the mull of a gauloises cigarette while he walks along talking of cona (the slovenian word for zone which in his native tongue means cunt if you pronounce it right (& that i observe must be why they say it differently here at which he just chuckles as he knows he must � having already said the word pussy in english & having thus exposed himself to me in some way I can�t really comprehend. What follows is a frightening conversation r.e. the sexual & racial preferences of eastern european women (to which even a bloke from cornwall contributes admitting that these slovenian women do me right over & then the aussie girl chimes in about how (well -) everyone from denmark is just beautiful (before the woman from the hostel tells us all to shut the fuck up go back inside & retire to our separate beds

1. the boy reading on the road at the railway station & the boy sneering at him, having hidden his copy of the same book in his travelling bag (both of them heading home). 2. they have just met, this couple with their hands all over each other - they mistake freedom for the right to paw & moon in public, here by the fountain, where everyone else pretends not to look (disapproving). 3. nuclear families in ideal mode, the boy's face lighting up when he discovers he may order fanta at the cafe; while the little girl takes her cue from her mother who, like father, looks at her watch (then the map). 4. these two highly experienced backpackers only dream of having seen it all, of never having to find the train station ever again but they know the world is still a big place and bow to the task (together). 5. the girls pretend to be lesbians in order to avoid unwanted attentions, then split up so as to double their chances later on; who can blame them? after all, it's su...

kids wear raincoats & play in fountains in the ljubljana rain lovers don emergency ponchos in the ljubljana rain streets are slippery & cobblestones weary in the ljubljana rain maps turn soggy & poets wander in the ljubljana rain when the rain tumbles down in july ... lake bled fills with stones & sparrows' heads look stylish in the ljubljana rain mist makes a milkshake of the sky & words fall like acid in the ljubljana rain like a train in vain ... listen to the backpackers snoring in the ljubljana rain send it all home on a postcard in the ljubljana rain well i'm sleeping in a hotel doorway ... (i'll blame it on a certain fame) in the ljubljana rain in the ljubljana rain yeah these lonesome petalled shambolic mystifying sweet deep breaths of ljubljana rain

dad gives me the signal & so i walk slowly towards the table at the outdoor bar - my mum's already there so we sit down & order drinks ... it's all normal but i don't look coz dad said just act natural ... out of the corner of my eye i can see him focussing the handycam on our table (a perfect family scene) & then comes a long slow pan across the other tables the street the city - finally it's over & he comes to sit with us obviously 'a wrap' ... he smokes cigarettes settles the bill & then it's time to move on - he goes first leaving an unextinguished butt in the ashtray - i stare at it until mum leads me away ... little to i care but as we walk back to our pansion i'm imagining the smoke rising from the table the ring of empty drink bottles then finally the waiter coming to clear it all away leaving not a trace of our transaction & no proof that we were really here

polish paper-cut art doesn't move only intersects with light or beige backgrounds - in fact depends on them as accents require the noise of pub chatter ... meaning only comes through reinterpretation invention or else all life is a museum a display ... leather-bound irish boats on the other hand possess an abstract magic when transported elsewhere & today st. brendan lives on through someone's crazy re-enactment of his impossible arctic journey - kind of like the north's answer to kontiki or la balsa ... taking photographs of headless models sporting the latest slovenian fashions seemed a good idea at the time but now it feels vaguely pornographic - listening to croatian tambouris likewise reduces folk music to an HMV listening stand (still there's the nativity scenes to go and find or re-appropriate somehow in muenchen if that is your desire ... but reindeers dis- sected in the snow or black & white images of the finnish hunt - that's something else co...