the home page of david prater

Nobody knows. Nobody knows what it means. Jippie! We can speak freely here. Speak. I'll send you desires in the mail. We'll end up somewhere between the stars. It's making me crazy. It's beyond real. Smile. The world's a mirror. You look good in it. My dreams explode. No wonder. In the dark, no one can see us. Nobody can hear these voices. Purr. Whisper. Dial tone. Quiet. There's a spiral. There's the staircase. Running down snow-bound streets. Walking. Swimming. Listening to special playlists. Together, the same. Bam. I'm the bouncer outside the door. And you? You're my VIP.

Her toenail polish is chipped and I love it. She's doing that crazy dance and it's cool. I'm feeling dizzy, not sure if she's real. But she is and she's crazy and yes so am I. I mean, a little bit crazy. Not real crazy. Just a look in her eyes, wind in my throat. I didn't learn how to hang the tea towels. I'm happy for her to teach me these things. I'll teach her just how to be really crazy. We'll get crazy, even if it's just a little. She calls me monkey-tail and other things. These words will become my new dictionary. That's also a little bit crazy but so are we. I can't speak anymore, but I can still hum.

recognition of prior learning hindsight benefit who's got medicine? easy bodyguard take it to the yard dont you run away look who's turning grey I'm taking my own direction on starpower the intersection of what you believe and what i've got recognition of prior learning pass the physical just look busy or study harder still sacrifice your will cruise to second place the resources race I'm taking my own direction on starpower the intersection of what you believe and what i've got

I follow the story-lines of your hair in photographs. Tracing the sources of stream tendrils. Making my way back to the original kiss. Asking the universe to contract. Let's reserve a table in a future restaurant. An advertisement in a foreign place. Paperweight heart. Your lessons in film-making, driving. Navigation being the hardest part. We could animate our own dreams. Powers swirling in our star charts. I follow the newspapers each Friday afternoon. They lead me to a place where love is a large explosion. I'm feeling lucky.

Why? Because. That's it. No reason. Just because. Why? Because why. It's as simple as that. Because. Because why? Trust me, because. Why? Because that's the way it is. That's no because, no why either. I shrug. Because, that's why. The reasons are the answers. There's why and there's why not. I'll take because. Because why. That's why. Simplicity itself. Because we're all seeking simple answers. Why? How would I know? Just because I know why because is because, does that make me an expert? Why? Because. O sure, I heard you the first time. Because why.

In July last year I attended the World Haiku Association conference East Meets West in Sofia, Bulgaria. One of the organisers of the conference, Ginka Biliarska, who was kind enough to meet us at the airport and pay for our taxi into the city, had previously asked if I would like to do a little renga with her, and so we composed a few poems via email, entitled "A House On the Bank". Now, the poems have been published in Lynx: a journal for linking poets . Ginka has also written renga with other poets using the same title - you can read all of them at Lynx but for convenience I've also pasted our poem below: A HOUSE ON THE BANK Ginka Biliarska, Bulgaria David Prater, Australia house on the bank the river flows but time has stopped just like the white moon in the child�s dark room sun beam � the sleepy dog is driving it away from his nose dust from old cushions fills the summer day opal window glass flickering sunspots outside friendly fires � smoke that crosses...

I'm looking for a house to live in but I don't know if I can live with myself. It's tricky. Damn my moods, the forgetfulness. Hanging a sign outside my skull: for rent. Mexican dances for the dead. Forget them. Shelves lined with mix-tapes, coffee pot forever mouldy. If it's all the same, I'd rather squat on grass. Those shirts from the late 1980s we hoarded, that paisley. A cask from last week's costume parties. On a whim I visited my grandmother, then I applied for a flat I'd never seen and was successful. I'm moving in next week. Utilities connect themselves, off-peak.

Fields of megafauna, legends in our eyes. Beneath a confected dune, I spilled some water from a glass jar and watched as it disappeared into yesterday. We pitched a tent on the beach, listened to the dingo howls, and prayed for rescue. The locals don't seem to mind us being here, though we are invisible to them, of their past. The animals' eyes glow softly in amber, rare mosquitoes frozen in space. As time washes our shorelines away, we struggle with this eternal fear of obsolescence. We'll never know what it was like before we arrived; and they, after we have gone.

Two of the poems I wrote in Seoul, namely "Hoju Bihang-gi" and "imaginary cities: saga" have just been published in the second issue of Peril , the Asian-Australia literary magazine. It's a pretty nifty site, actually, and you can even rate the poems out of ten! Other writers featured in this issue include Michael Farrell, Christopher Kelen and Adam Aitken, plus a tribute to Lisa Bellear. It's also exciting for me that another imaginary city has found a home - this makes five so far this year!

Hi, it's me. Really, it was great to see you again. Our time together is always brief, I know, but at least this time I made time to sit back and think. Enjoy myself. Indulge in beers and long walks on the beach. I liked those moments we had alone together. Sunsets yes, legions now, catalogued by my no-longer functioning camera. Duty-free Jenever and no tears at Schipol, our final conversation one gigantic "O". The way histories can collide, intersecting with sunshine, cloud and brine. Vast as magnetic fields, thin turbine-blades. Thanks once again for everything you did that day. Let's catch up again soon. Doei doei!

Josi! You are luscious! I watch you every week on Chartbusting Eighties just because you are so luscious. You make me want to slur my words and say eighdies. I feel fat in my Tears For Fears outfits, especially this gigantic panda jumper but I don't care because I want to shout, pout and let other stuff out of my body at the same time. There is a beach I walk along each morning. In the top right hand corner of the inside of my mirrorshade Le Specs I've got a little pop-up window set to play continuous CB80s re-runs. I am too shy to participate in the CB80s audience. Did I mention the beach I walk along in my greatcoat and tight-fitting black boots. Josi, you are so rude to your audience members. That makes me excited. I refuse to communicate with you via email. The despicably ugly film clips from our deadbeat generation onyl serve to make you look attractive. Please tell the goons in the studio to desist with the smoke machine. It distracts my eye from its contemplation of you....

It's just the future. We can't hear it here. A midnight rain, detected by our moon-white arms. Slow dances around a secret pole, a dangerous dip in a sea. That's all it is. It's less than seven. My playlists, haunted by the aromas of Hoogvliet. Stars to guide the airplane. Gliding over the jet-black facilities, night's postcard curling at the edges. Soporific navigation charts, a radio's tuned to easy. Headphones stolen from another airline, useless here. Charity. It's just the future. Nothing happens now. Desire hasn't even been invented.

A soft freeway of bicycles propels me through the fog. Following strings of lozenge lights towards future's mills and runways, our departure's earliest signals barely warm. A fern's puzzled twist as the passageway elopes. Kudzu. Jungle hums, for the planet's relief. Teams of tomorrow under bramble guns, silk tissues and gauges. Blasted from the womb of love, sorry letters. Once upon the thyme they did roll together, battened tears and whispered comfort. The shape of secret pregnancies, leaf- like in their shallow introductions.

Days since I spoke, muted trees. Patches of light on my skin. The sun's echoes. I hide in parks, or kill time in shopping aisles. All the good people here. Moved along. Fixing at someone else's address. Wet hair at tram stops. An idea you had for harnessing the air. I forget how it was supposed to work. And your name? No use denying it. That was mine, once. We never did agree on the time or place for such serious discussions. Just wanted to be left alone. Well, here I am, happily. The tyre-treads of hope have left their marks on the road of my bitumen face.

The blisters on my feet have begun to weep. My soles, oh my soles, they're red and inflamed like my sunburnt knees. The zinc cream tastes like acid on my lips. I can't swallow, and my elbow's sick of tennis. History can be read in a forehand, a groundstroke. The only mystery is the spin on the ball. Little shards of green fibre explode from the racquet, whilst others remain caught there, in between the strings, like patterns for impossible socks. Mine have worn completely through, exposing my soles (oh my soles!) to the unsympathetic manipulations of my Volleys. From the serving line I can see a row of pink faces, turning left then right like so many clowns waiting to go down on a ping pong ball. Will your turn ever come? I clutch soft fluffy toys to my breast. The miniature koala's feet claw at my shirtsleeve like a pathetic comedian begging for one last gag. You don't make me laugh. You make me want to find a cure for idiots. My wristbands have begun to produce sw...

Useless, absolutely useless. I thought I could trust you. I thought we were on one wavelength. You said "Wear something glitzy, it's a Studio 64 party." Well, thanks. Thanks for pushing my excitement levels so high I had to inhale Ventolin. Thanks for prompting me to spend the next four hours in other peoples' wardrobes, dashing from look to look, outfit to drawing board, back and fifth. Thanks for inspiring me then to down a couple of vitamin pills with Red Bull, turning my complexion wan. Thanks for picking me up from Tribesco, so kind. It must have been fun to drive down the street shouting "Who wants a lift to Studio 64?" like we were in New York, and the whole city was our film set. You looked pretty fucking stupid yourself. It's not often you see Hall and Oates together in public, and yet that's exactly what we were - me, in my pink flamingo jumpsuit, all flanged sleeves and flaring pant-endings, obscurely antique gym shoes, obligatory jewelled...

Last Friday's Poetry Picture Show event in Sydney was a lot of fun. Ten poets reading out poems about the moving image, followed by short films based on the contents of those poems. Highlights for me were Kate Lilley's take on Mildred Pierce and John Tranter's Paris Blues but of course everyone was wonderful. The crowd was great too, packing out the old Darlington School hall, a building I'd never even been to, though it's in the grounds of Sydney University, where I scraped through an undergraduate degree. You can read my poem Karin Revisited online or listen to an audio version (mp3 format). You can also have a look at the short film Johanna and her team made in response to my poem (probably requires broadband). One thing I noticed about the text version of my poem, which is written in four line stanzas, is that I inadvertantly included a stanza with only three lines. Does anyone have any suggestions for the fourth line? Here is what it looks like right now, in...

Australia needs more hairdressers, builders, bus drivers, electricians and fangs. The Prime Minister proposes that all migrants to Australia be provided with a clean set of fangs. The Opposition Leader goes one step further by suggesting that all short-term visitors on tourist visas be given a pair of candy teeth instead. Opinion polls put the two at each others' throats. Fake blood is spilt. The press bays for more. Everyone loves a fight. Australia is growing more dependent on its fang exports. Of the world's ten most deadly fangs, Australia has all of them. Children do not learn enough about the history of fangs in this country. Some intellectuals would have us subscribe to a black fang view of history, when the correct approach (of course) is to instill a sense of pride in Ausralian values by promoting a white fang view. A white fang view that is covered in blood, of either black or red persuasion. There are no fangs in Australia. Captain Cook discovered the fang. The Bali ...

Lost in the city of poets, I tried running down random streets in the hope of finding you. That's the thing about dreams: just when you're trying to use your mobile to call someone, you find it's suddenly been equipped with internet access, and you've been registered for some lo-fi mobile phone film festival, and the films keep playing over and over again, and you can't exit the freaking browser, for hours on end. I ran past a building on which writing had been scrawled and I recognised your words but couldn't bear to look at them. I called out your name but that's the other thing about dream shouts: your voice gets lodged in your throat, no matter how emo your yell. So I kept on running, giving that dream treadmill a massive workout. Seems the mobile film festival was part of a larger series of events, culminating in tonight's street party, and I'm trying to get past all of these people on the streets but of course I can't, because that's th...

After years of inactivity, lame excuses, courtroom dramas and peanut allergies, Clint Bo Dean has finally got around to releasing the first tracks from his startlingly-weird debut album, currently entitled "Never Go Ashtray". Rumoured to be even more incendiary than Ash Wednesday, the album may well be released in time for Christmas, but that's anyone's biscuit. Two songs, both instrumentals, have been uploaded to Clint's new myspace page , and are known as "Snelheid Two" and "Klein Uurtje". Rumours that the entire album will be released in Dutch are "heel gek," according to the pixellated star.

FRIDAY 6TH OCTOBER THE POETRY PICTURE SHOW PRESENTED BY THE RED ROOM COMPANY WITH SUPPORT FROM WALES ARTS INTERNATIONAL AND THE AUSTRALIA COUNCIL FOR THE ARTS ten poems about film and moving images, performed live by the poets alongside the premiere of ten moving image adaptations of the poems. the online video and audio versions of the poems will be broadcast following the event and the national community radio broadcast of the poems (4/10) Starring: Ivy Alvarez, Emma Jones, John Tranter, JS Harry, David Prater, Sarah Holland Batt, Felicity Plunkett, Briohny Doyle, Kate Lilley and Nathan Shepherdson. DATE: FRIDAY 6TH OCTOBER TIME: 6pm WHERE: OLD DARLINGTON SCHOOL, REDFERN (behind Sydney University's Wentworth Building) view map COST: entry by donation FOR MORE DETAILS VISIT THE POETS' GUIDE TO FILM BLOG