tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32224682011-07-29T10:19:20.924+10:00David Prater is an Australasian poet who lives in the third person. He edits Cordite Poetry Review, an online poetry and poetics journal. He is enrolled as a PhD student within the Institute for Social Research at Swinburne University of Technology, Melbourne. No sea monkeys, turtle doves, silkworms, three toed sloths, llama wranglers, celebrity chefs, German language instructors, Sting impersonators or wet nurses were harmed, consulted or vilified during the construction of this website.David Praterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07350389597303897854noreply@blogger.comBlogger4351100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3222468.post-1168819381981405162007-01-15T11:01:00.000+11:002007-01-15T11:30:27.693+11:00

Yes, it's true: Davey Dreamnation is officially back on the block. This is the last post I will be publishing here, although I'll still maintain the site for sentimental reasons. To get on board, check out what's new and get over to [d/dn v.10] by clicking on the link above or below - and update your bookmarks accordingly! So long and thanks for all the raisins.

David Praterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07350389597303897854noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3222468.post-1168472059567925872007-01-11T10:30:00.000+11:002007-01-11T14:19:08.876+11:00

My chapbook Abendland (pictured left, details) has been reviewed by Philly poet Adam Fieled on his excellent blog. Check out the review here. As far as I can tell, this is the first time my work has ever been reviewed, anywhere. I only have a couple of copies of the book left, but I hope to make an announcement soon as to a possible re-release, along the lines of Pavement's Slanted and Enchanted.

David Praterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07350389597303897854noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3222468.post-1168320161002608952007-01-09T16:13:00.000+11:002007-01-09T16:33:49.430+11:00

comments require verification so pass me bandanna and cry a flower into it's a war parents knew was coming & ever since then thoughts have been in turmoil as soon as argument was refuted he switched sides so hypocricy went unnoticed please go & fuck your self-righteous self sideways & stick business somewhere else maybe start where neo-con pals left off after all it wasn't fault but was it

David Praterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07350389597303897854noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3222468.post-1167698015644203782007-01-02T11:23:00.000+11:002007-01-02T11:38:43.246+11:00

Never let it be said that Davey Dreamnation, that strange pixellated figment of the collective insomnia cookie, is one to rest on his laurels. In fact, 2007 is only days old and already he has released four new titles in the DNRC catalogue, all of them dated prospectively, that is, in the future. Fans of Lost In Translation will be seething at the thought of having to wait three years to listen

David Praterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07350389597303897854noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3222468.post-1167558086698160182006-12-31T19:56:00.000+11:002006-12-31T20:41:26.720+11:00

David Praterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07350389597303897854noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3222468.post-1166582947874595742006-12-20T13:41:00.000+11:002007-01-04T12:33:11.993+11:00

Last Thursday night I MCed at the launch of issue #24 of Going Down Swinging, Australia's coolest literary anthology. This issue has been the first I have been involved in editorially; I've pasted my editorial for the issue below. To order copies or to find out more about submitting to GDS, visit the website. EDITORIAL This is my first issue as co-editor of Going Down Swinging. It's been a

David Praterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07350389597303897854noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3222468.post-1166413484668193272006-12-19T14:44:00.000+11:002006-12-19T15:55:11.096+11:00

"Every time a rabbit comes out of its burrow, it is facing Vietnam the whole of its life ..." Allen Carr (R.I.P.) they call me pirate dave just to piss me off i am the vietnam rabbit coming out of a hole out of a burrow blown to bits i am a rabbit coming out of my hole every day for the rest of my life it's vietnam i'm on pirate radio for twenty one days bury me face down so you can all

David Praterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07350389597303897854noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3222468.post-1166487395165544412006-12-19T11:14:00.000+11:002007-01-04T12:33:42.253+11:00

Cordite 25 - Generation of Zeroes is now online, featuring new works by a whole bunch of digitally cool poets including Carol Jenkins, Derek Motion, Elena Knox, Jill Jones, Joel Deane, Klare Lanson and more! Our special guest poetry editor and chanteuse extraordinaire alicia sometimes has done a terrific job balancing the ones and the zeroes, with the result that what you get for your eyeballs is

David Praterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07350389597303897854noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3222468.post-1166061974141745132006-12-14T12:47:00.000+11:002006-12-14T13:06:14.233+11:00

hotter than that princes highway hotter than the towering inferno hotter than hell on christmas day hotter than every cricketer's mo heel heet! by crikey, that's hot heel hete! ouch! don't touch it! heel hete! (i'm talking very hot heel hete! ... ehm ... oh, shit. hotter than any council barbecue hotter than ham & cheese on toast hotter than a festival portaloo hotter than your mum's hot

David Praterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07350389597303897854noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3222468.post-1166058930421961152006-12-14T12:15:00.000+11:002006-12-14T12:34:54.410+11:00

David Praterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07350389597303897854noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3222468.post-1166056321146900092006-12-14T10:59:00.000+11:002006-12-14T11:32:01.340+11:00

the dreamy scent of sleep escapes from a glass jar full of rollmops slipping here between day & night the stars fall like drops of (dew eclipses bait the atmosphere with hints of anarchy & FSU (bleachers groan beneath our stellar weights subway snarls make the beast with two attacks tip a jar upside down watch (a sleepy tear dripping out soft cuddly animals in a tableaux meant for myer window

David Praterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07350389597303897854noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3222468.post-1165535232007903102006-12-08T10:46:00.000+11:002006-12-08T10:47:12.556+11:00

David Praterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07350389597303897854noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3222468.post-1165189794428528422006-12-04T10:40:00.000+11:002006-12-04T10:49:54.696+11:00

I was almost a bee by the time I was born under propylene beams I was two days old by the bee by the bay I was under moon wood that was why I would lie in the grasses at sunset was new & cicadas were still under nights by the light it was listening mountains yodelled their blades sharp as I was travelling backwards was time a part of a star's dim arrival it was there in the way you were walking

David Praterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07350389597303897854noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3222468.post-1164252834780662092006-11-23T14:32:00.000+11:002006-11-23T16:12:23.996+11:00

David Praterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07350389597303897854noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3222468.post-1164239150269097372006-11-23T09:41:00.000+11:002006-11-23T16:31:04.046+11:00

silhouettes of moons rising boxcars are stencils the shape of projections made by performance poets who've never fallen in love wincing through their routines screaming call a doctor (a doctor's haunted holiday home the leafless trees the free shots administered at dawn the freezing branches stacked with animals cries like a gurgling brook an owl falls from a telegraph pole it disappears

David Praterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07350389597303897854noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3222468.post-1164176000035181832006-11-22T17:11:00.000+11:002006-11-22T17:13:20.213+11:00

David Praterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07350389597303897854noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3222468.post-1164167804747550932006-11-22T14:56:00.000+11:002006-11-22T16:52:03.176+11:00

Little grains of crazy sand fall in slow motion through the world's gigantic hour glass, making snows seem electric & water all-powerful. Your silver wingtips slice the future skies & make my atmosphere go crazy, each little moment, each tiny hit. Last night I awoke to the sound of crazy winds strafing my lonely house, circles under my eyes, bad dreams knocking. Come soon, gekkie! Time winds

David Praterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07350389597303897854noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3222468.post-1163720118485190962006-11-17T10:21:00.000+11:002006-11-17T12:56:58.326+11:00

One cloudy day last August, at the Rock En Seine music festival in Paris, me and Kat were lucky enough to see one of my favourite bands, Broken Social Scene, perform to a rapturous crowd in the rain (see the pics here). While we missed the band's opening numbers, a surge of excitement pulsed through my body when the opening bass lines of "Stars & Sons" crackled over the loudspeakers. It's my

David Praterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07350389597303897854noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3222468.post-1163655611497813012006-11-16T16:34:00.000+11:002006-11-16T16:40:11.673+11:00

David Praterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07350389597303897854noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3222468.post-1163482884317705662006-11-14T16:40:00.000+11:002006-11-14T16:53:54.723+11:00

rivers roads borders & towns overturn regimes impose your own! take me before you take him (say light up that disease & crush those feeble ants! he's crazy they whispered true to the end he keeps on smiling & i just want to eat! myself or throw them off the scent that might do it! fool black birds swooping down to check my pulse! wise white birds (chase these daylights home! across

David Praterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07350389597303897854noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3222468.post-1163477018567106882006-11-14T15:01:00.000+11:002006-11-14T16:37:13.226+11:00

he was the star that floated in water, lacking space (& she was an astronomer in hawaii, or in lower case (she's the satellite's document of a dreamy eclipse (he's like a word once lost, now formed by her lips (when she says goodbye & oh! that word all the stars go out (& it gets dark: he drives through the night with just a radio & his doubt (the elegant simplicity of life & her, of their

David Praterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07350389597303897854noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3222468.post-1163463344766442782006-11-14T11:15:00.000+11:002006-11-14T16:59:29.360+11:00

He was a jealous husband without a wife. I needed security and he gave me bullets to rain down upon those discreet affairs (which came, and passed. We settled in to our familiar routine: me with my cat and he out stalking prey. At night he'd return with greenbacks in his ochre eye, demanding fidelity, abstract truth and an Amerikan way of life. I don't understand how it came to this. I trusted

David Praterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07350389597303897854noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3222468.post-1163386729785790852006-11-13T13:35:00.000+11:002006-11-14T16:55:36.400+11:00

                       

David Praterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07350389597303897854noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3222468.post-1163385221161728232006-11-13T13:31:00.000+11:002006-11-13T13:33:41.250+11:00

David Praterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07350389597303897854noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3222468.post-1163382763842455762006-11-13T12:46:00.000+11:002006-11-13T13:04:50.900+11:00

I've gone through most of my life thinking my name is fairly weird - not my first name, my surname, der - and that the chances of anyone else having it are slim. That was until I found out that Dave from legendary soul duo Sam and Dave was also a Prater (he died in 1998) and that there's another one, a guitarist and producer with the band (Dream Theater). Now we can add a couple more to the

David Praterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07350389597303897854noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3222468.post-1163134604194965142006-11-10T15:31:00.000+11:002006-11-13T14:00:54.190+11:00

Nul kussen. What a nightmare, and what a way to wake up. The anti-kussen machines bleat like soft alarms, tiringly monotonous, just sitting there, doing nothing. In denial, or simply incapable of action. What use does the world have for such machines? I'd rather run a marathon. And so I kissed you secretly, on your shoulder, while the lasers and cheap dry ice provided cover. So subtle and

David Praterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07350389597303897854noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3222468.post-1162959264184890362006-11-08T15:13:00.000+11:002006-11-08T15:16:17.340+11:00

David Praterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07350389597303897854noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3222468.post-1162946877452169122006-11-08T11:14:00.000+11:002006-11-08T11:47:57.780+11:00

One day I'll delete all of my passwords, all those hard to remember combinations of numbers and letters, and replace them with various names I've made up for you. That way, I'll never forget my passwords again, and every time I type one of them in I'll think of you, or at least one of those names for you I already mentioned. I've got all the security I'll ever need right here in this series

David Praterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07350389597303897854noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3222468.post-1162782736989994662006-11-06T14:12:00.000+11:002006-11-06T19:29:05.103+11:00

I am the crow! Sitting on the horse's head! Listen to me, bloated fields! Hark, ye old windmills and lanes! I'm a children's story book! Hé, black wings! Scary rainbow oils! I am the snow! Waiting for the sun to die! Stomping through their lonely hoofprints! Running off like steam at the mouth! Let's eradicate gold and plagiarise the sunset! I am the know! Together with the horse and crow I

David Praterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07350389597303897854noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3222468.post-1162769870547000912006-11-06T10:36:00.000+11:002006-11-06T10:37:51.546+11:00

David Praterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07350389597303897854noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3222468.post-1162361543485633002006-11-01T16:58:00.000+11:002006-11-02T12:00:30.250+11:00

I'm scared. Is that right? Even if it's not, I am. I'm scared the world will soon be underwater, along with us. Not that I would mind being underwater with you, as our scuba tanks nudge lazily and our hope bubbles fly upwards towards the surface but I'm scared of that. What will be left? What's floating up there, in the new space climate, that we've made? Not us, you and me, but in a way yes,

David Praterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07350389597303897854noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3222468.post-1162355237827444642006-11-01T15:14:00.000+11:002006-11-01T15:27:18.896+11:00

I'm eating your voice like it's sugar and it is: raw brown sugar on a spoon. The phone is a spoon. Your voice is inside the phone. I'm inside your rainbows, ice. I hear beeps (the time runs out and we're disconnecting again. Outside the weather reporter runs around on cloud nine because here's another sunny day! I told you so. Translation engine, re-kindle these lonely spoons! I'm a hurried

David Praterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07350389597303897854noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3222468.post-1162254225614565302006-10-31T10:29:00.000+11:002006-10-31T13:23:30.833+11:00

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.

David Praterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07350389597303897854noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3222468.post-1162168554975641452006-10-30T11:35:00.000+11:002006-10-30T13:10:34.103+11:00

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.

David Praterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07350389597303897854noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3222468.post-1162168622103643182006-10-29T11:36:00.000+11:002006-10-30T11:37:02.866+11:00

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

David Praterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07350389597303897854noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3222468.post-1161930725271639132006-10-27T16:07:00.000+10:002006-10-27T16:32:05.470+10:00

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

David Praterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07350389597303897854noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3222468.post-1161839321248231362006-10-26T14:38:00.000+10:002006-10-26T15:08:42.013+10:00

David Praterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07350389597303897854noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3222468.post-1161837316260226902006-10-26T14:30:00.000+10:002006-10-26T14:35:20.433+10:00

David Praterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07350389597303897854noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3222468.post-1161753718798123122006-10-25T15:01:00.000+10:002006-10-25T15:21:59.140+10:00

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

David Praterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07350389597303897854noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3222468.post-1161752419045591422006-10-25T14:58:00.000+10:002006-10-25T15:00:19.703+10:00

David Praterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07350389597303897854noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3222468.post-1161749887388561342006-10-25T14:12:00.000+10:002006-10-25T14:28:46.653+10:00

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

David Praterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07350389597303897854noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3222468.post-1161671903642544812006-10-24T16:29:00.000+10:002006-10-24T16:40:28.726+10:00

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

David Praterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07350389597303897854noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3222468.post-1161657813895502022006-10-24T12:38:00.000+10:002006-10-24T12:44:28.320+10:00

David Praterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07350389597303897854noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3222468.post-1161572735867974072006-10-23T12:56:00.000+10:002006-10-23T13:05:35.966+10:00

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

David Praterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07350389597303897854noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3222468.post-1161565201698631742006-10-23T10:49:00.000+10:002006-10-23T16:23:30.720+10:00

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

David Praterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07350389597303897854noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3222468.post-1161579129313163032006-10-22T14:47:00.000+10:002006-10-24T12:38:32.186+10:00

David Praterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07350389597303897854noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3222468.post-1161242929089069742006-10-21T04:33:00.000+10:002006-10-21T14:19:58.600+10:00

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

David Praterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07350389597303897854noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3222468.post-1161322739045401372006-10-20T15:36:00.000+10:002006-10-21T12:11:12.940+10:00

David Praterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07350389597303897854noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3222468.post-1161309719259741072006-10-20T12:01:00.000+10:002006-10-20T12:17:03.376+10:00

David Praterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07350389597303897854noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3222468.post-1161318255638628042006-10-19T14:23:00.000+10:002006-10-20T14:25:41.990+10:00

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

David Praterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07350389597303897854noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3222468.post-1161141808335670012006-10-18T13:14:00.000+10:002006-10-18T13:23:29.093+10:00

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

David Praterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07350389597303897854noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3222468.post-1161051101490835612006-10-17T11:53:00.000+10:002006-10-17T16:13:11.503+10:00

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

David Praterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07350389597303897854noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3222468.post-1160973033809299312006-10-16T13:06:00.000+10:002006-10-16T17:28:56.406+10:00

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

David Praterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07350389597303897854noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3222468.post-1161320267949656672006-10-15T14:57:00.000+10:002006-10-20T14:58:10.006+10:00

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

David Praterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07350389597303897854noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3222468.post-1160799603249233212006-10-14T14:19:00.000+10:002006-10-21T12:29:26.336+10:00

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

David Praterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07350389597303897854noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3222468.post-1160535417930314802006-10-11T12:48:00.000+10:002006-10-11T12:56:58.793+10:00

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

David Praterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07350389597303897854noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3222468.post-1159918916076678762006-10-04T09:29:00.000+10:002006-10-04T10:25:25.893+10:00

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

David Praterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07350389597303897854noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3222468.post-1159854100463439692006-10-03T14:52:00.000+10:002006-10-03T15:42:44.516+10:00

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,

David Praterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07350389597303897854noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3222468.post-1159764123491419542006-10-02T14:41:00.000+10:002006-10-20T12:49:57.110+10:00

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,

David Praterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07350389597303897854noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3222468.post-1159763317862679972006-10-02T14:25:00.000+10:002006-10-02T14:30:52.516+10:00

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

David Praterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07350389597303897854noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3222468.post-1159763582118656092006-10-01T14:31:00.000+10:002006-10-02T14:33:02.196+10:00

David Praterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07350389597303897854noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3222468.post-1159753261764608042006-09-29T11:38:00.000+10:002006-10-02T14:43:07.523+10:00

David Praterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07350389597303897854noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3222468.post-1163657554532239042006-09-22T17:11:00.000+10:002006-11-16T17:14:37.953+11:00

David Praterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07350389597303897854noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3222468.post-1158664469832503612006-09-19T21:10:00.000+10:002006-10-02T14:35:06.486+10:00

Yaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaar! Sorry.

David Praterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07350389597303897854noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3222468.post-1158139775725887022006-09-13T19:29:00.000+10:002006-09-13T19:29:56.923+10:00

David Praterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07350389597303897854noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3222468.post-1157635122474451482006-09-08T23:18:00.000+10:002006-10-02T14:13:32.166+10:00

Here's another Babble poem, complete with introduction by Sean M. Whelan and barely audible crowd-heckling from Eddie the Bush Poet, who you might be able to hear claiming that this could be the last poem I ever perform live. Still waiting for that one to eventuate. The poem itself is taken from my Imaginary Cities project, written while I was in Seoul last year. You can view all of the cities

David Praterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07350389597303897854noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3222468.post-1157635044312232672006-09-07T23:14:00.000+10:002006-09-07T23:17:24.340+10:00

Nearly 90 poets from around the world have contributed to Babylon Burning: 9/11 five years on, an anthology of poems on the Twin Towers atrocity and its consequences. But they aim for more than pious hand-wringing: the anthology is free, but the editors request that readers donate to the Red Cross. nthposition, the site behind the anthology, wants to maximise the money raised by listing it on

David Praterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07350389597303897854noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3222468.post-1156294778506148022006-08-23T10:54:00.000+10:002006-08-23T10:59:38.506+10:00

David Praterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07350389597303897854noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3222468.post-1156294481912422432006-08-23T10:50:00.000+10:002006-08-23T10:54:42.000+10:00

David Praterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07350389597303897854noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3222468.post-1155908775206766862006-08-18T23:45:00.000+10:002006-08-18T23:47:22.420+10:00

They're back. Meet Grisby, Tilda and Joey. Hoi!

David Praterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07350389597303897854noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3222468.post-1155871155435861732006-08-18T13:04:00.000+10:002006-08-18T13:19:17.943+10:00

Past Buddha in a green waterfall making music from the falling drops. Spinning on a small rock, talking to a turtle. Red doves pecking at grains of sand on the little beach. That effortless river flowing backwards through stillness and fire. Gauze of the waterfall's spray in the surrounding air, a song whose chorus fades out just before completion, the refreshing loop and gurgle of memories

David Praterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07350389597303897854noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3222468.post-1155620774931910042006-08-15T15:33:00.000+10:002006-08-15T15:53:10.223+10:00

I'm not usually one to go for publicity, prferring instead to slave anonymously over my poetry, honing my arcane craft in the desloate silence of my eyrie, but when I got a call from uber-poet and drop-dead spunk alicia sometimes asking if I'd like to come and talk to her writing students at Chisholm TAFE today, I spied a self-promotional opportunity. All of yesterday was spent formatting

David Praterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07350389597303897854noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3222468.post-1155189783138007542006-08-10T16:02:00.000+10:002006-08-10T16:07:02.756+10:00

David Praterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07350389597303897854noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3222468.post-1155106468735308922006-08-09T16:41:00.000+10:002006-08-09T16:54:28.806+10:00

And I saw a field of Buddhas and there you were, running fast up a hill, laughing. And I saw you laughing and my heart burst, like a small block of granite beneath a sculptor's chisel, a million shards of myself flying through the air. And my heart burst and I saw us running down a hill, towards another field, into the exploding afternoon. And I saw us running and I saw that we were laughing,

David Praterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07350389597303897854noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3222468.post-1154243310305930342006-08-01T16:47:00.000+10:002006-08-02T18:27:22.526+10:00

Hello, possum. I'm trying to write a story that'll take you a day to read, or just less than four weeks. The kind of story that's full of description, dialogue, character development and unexpected polka dots. Benny grabbed the knife. I'm trying to write an untold story. Sounds hard, doesn't it? The kind of story I used to go to bookshops to find, until they made me want to start smoking crack.

David Praterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07350389597303897854noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3222468.post-1153712671001925352006-07-24T13:38:00.000+10:002006-07-24T13:45:18.806+10:00

David Praterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07350389597303897854noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3222468.post-1153203520044570022006-07-18T15:58:00.000+10:002006-07-18T16:32:35.776+10:00

This one's a secret, between us three. You, me and Buddha - our secret machine. A dim machine with four long limbs, two hearts and one desire. Explodes upon impact with water or fire. A new machine in time, its discernable hum. The clock that will not lock, an horizon's tilt. A pink smoke machine, a bubble-gum vending Buddha. Lights go out around the world. Someone asks a question but it's only "

David Praterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07350389597303897854noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3222468.post-1153193328040842732006-07-16T13:22:00.000+10:002006-07-18T13:28:48.106+10:00

For the first time ever, I've been asked to be a judge for a short story competition. The competition, organised by the City of Boroondara, features three categories: Open Short Story (judge Paddy O'Reilly), Young Writers Poetry (judge Bulk Ace) and Young Writers Prose (judge, yours truly). You can read the press release here. Jippie. Here's hoping we get lots of good entries, and a minimum of

David Praterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07350389597303897854noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3222468.post-1152848864684470912006-07-14T13:45:00.000+10:002006-07-14T13:47:44.686+10:00

David Praterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07350389597303897854noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3222468.post-1152671914824844602006-07-12T12:21:00.000+10:002006-07-12T12:38:34.900+10:00

Please call a doctor. I'm losing blood. There isn't much time. I'm at home. Please call a doctor right away. I mean it. Hang up the phone, then dial the number. It's on the fridge. Above that one. Right. You've got it? Good. Now, do it. I'm at work. Please call home, as there seems to be some kind of emergency there. I can't, just at this moment, as I'm about to go into a meeting. I'm

David Praterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07350389597303897854noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3222468.post-1152585758417089952006-07-11T12:41:00.000+10:002006-07-11T12:42:38.416+10:00

David Praterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07350389597303897854noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3222468.post-1152494863777268902006-07-10T11:10:00.000+10:002006-07-10T14:11:35.800+10:00

Send me your sunshine. Only you can make this buddha machine run. When there's just one the drone creeps and the loops begin to skip. Buddha needs two machines to set up his feedback mantra, his fearful explosions. Buddha's playing your melody. Buddha's sweating underneath those robes. Your sunshine is Buddha and the sound of the northern sea drowns out my southern gales, my hail and cloud. I'll

David Praterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07350389597303897854noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3222468.post-1152495233025423222006-07-07T11:27:00.000+10:002006-07-10T11:34:39.653+10:00

In breaking news I've been chosen as one of ten poets to participate in a project organised by Johanna Featherstone's The Red Room, a Sydney-based arts company specialising in poetry projects for screen, radio, print and real space. Entitled Poetry Picture Show, the project asks each of us to write an original poem inspired by the theme of the �picture show�, and poetry�s relationship to moving

David Praterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07350389597303897854noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3222468.post-1152065351147905892006-07-05T11:53:00.000+10:002006-07-06T13:54:36.016+10:00

No one would have believed in the middle of an already bleak Antipodean winter that cylinders of heat would one day be passed out to individuals as a last refuge against atomic chill. Silver cannisters cold to the touch but containing propellants and gases that, upon contact with the eerie airs, would spontaneously ignite, providing up to six hours of warmth, and light for twice as long. The

David Praterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07350389597303897854noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3222468.post-1151979866002568362006-07-04T11:57:00.000+10:002006-07-10T14:18:20.780+10:00

My co-pilot loves polka dots. I love their simple English. Dots that could connect me to the whole world if I wanted, and I do. Polka dot scarves for summer picnics and walks through symmetrical green gardens. Polka dot shirts for shimmering nightclubs and photo opportunities. Polka dot skirts for Sundays and intercontinental flights. I can imagine polka dots tattooed all over her body but maybe

David Praterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07350389597303897854noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3222468.post-1151888353272089992006-07-03T10:58:00.000+10:002006-07-03T18:13:13.450+10:00

I can feel the nettle, stuck in my leg, this remnant of Nebo�s glory, shoved deep inside my thigh, and poisoned too. I can just imagine the swelling there, and the pain. Totally worth it. An opportunity I�d never had before In the field. The perfect ambush. No Sound save for the odd raindrop. Op. The only one I missed. We drank Victory sips from our canteens. Mine Was nearly empty but I

David Praterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07350389597303897854noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3222468.post-1151888290107903662006-07-03T10:56:00.000+10:002006-07-03T11:49:49.006+10:00

The school yard�s dense with bodies BUT I CAN'T HEAR A THING. No need to shout, a corona's hanging around her head. The silence of summer. Here we go, across the iron bridge and onto the sports oval. Grass whistle. I'm still asleep. Memory tastes of Vita Brits. Something snaps in my ear as the fog on Mt Nebo clears. Pressure. Younger morning. Raindrop fans on a jacaranda. Oil rainbows on the

David Praterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07350389597303897854noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3222468.post-1151887300245340192006-07-03T10:30:00.000+10:002006-07-03T10:41:40.320+10:00

Issue 22 of Stylus Poetry Journal is out now, featuring some kewl haiku plus poetry by Frances Raven, Justin Lowe, Barbara Archer, Julie Beveridge, Caroline Gilbo, Leanne Hills, Graham Nunn, Ynes Sanza, Jena Woodhouse, Caleb Puckett, Mandy Beaumont, Alison Eastley and me! Read imaiginary cities: heli today! This is the fifth city to have found a home in an online journal this year, following

David Praterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07350389597303897854noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3222468.post-1151885955280594372006-07-03T10:15:00.000+10:002006-07-03T11:05:05.316+10:00

You know it�s just that every day this wave of International Roast it just hits me, in the common room, and I want to run. I see a pile of papers that may never get marked, handwritten notes, attendance rolls, and I just want to bolt. I navigate classrooms, listen to the bells but it�s as if I�m a starter�s gun. Take your marks, get set, then go. Mrs Malvern! shouts the small crowd,

David Praterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07350389597303897854noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3222468.post-1151885710204197062006-07-03T10:10:00.001+10:002006-07-03T11:04:24.156+10:00

By American Creek there�s a fig tree with someone�s name written on its trunk. I hesitate to say mine. Okay, yes. In some fit of adolescent vanity I carved the initials RM there one day, after school. Never have gone back to look at it. What would be the point? Just a memory now, like the fig tree that�s been chopped off at the waist. I suppose it was infected with some Kind of

David Praterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07350389597303897854noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3222468.post-1151805837988573182006-07-02T11:56:00.000+10:002006-07-03T10:27:19.090+10:00

David Praterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07350389597303897854noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3222468.post-1151717707746548532006-07-01T11:33:00.000+10:002006-07-01T11:35:07.756+10:00

i. By American Creek there�s a fig tree that�s been chopped off at the waist. Nothing but a brown stump remains. it�s the reason for my suburb�s name. & as for mine, you ask? Ralph will do. Mr Malvern to their friends at school. I watch them walk down O�Brien�s Rd. Reflected in the Fairlane�s rear-view. ii. Hit by a wave of International Roast I navigate classrooms, bells. Verna. Mrs Malvern

David Praterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07350389597303897854noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3222468.post-1151713963545336412006-07-01T10:30:00.000+10:002006-07-01T10:32:43.570+10:00

William Gibson, Pattern Recognition Mark Davis, Gangland Dorothy Porter, What A Piece Of Work Anna Funder, Stasiland Mary Ellen Jordan, Balanda: My Year In Arnhem Land Peter Carey, Wrong About Japan Brett Dionysius, Universal Andalusia Luke Beesley, Lemon Shark Flannery O'Connor, Wise Blood Nicholson Baker, Checkpoint Mark Haddon, The Curious Incident of the Dog In the Night Time Ban'ya

David Praterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07350389597303897854noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3222468.post-1151668269753381902006-06-30T21:36:00.000+10:002006-06-30T21:51:11.700+10:00

David Praterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07350389597303897854noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3222468.post-1151581926346479952006-06-29T21:44:00.000+10:002006-06-30T11:32:41.673+10:00

Daedae Davey Davey (Crockett) Old (Spice) Boofhead White (Lantern) Snowy Santa (Claus) Later (Prater) Pravid (Dater) Prates Aled (Jones) Tim (Brooke Taylor) Rex (ona) Pretz (el) Pretz (elle) Pumpkin Davros Deprave Pants Farang Brian Toots (ie) Clint Admiral Stripey Professor (Davey) Remediation (Man) Plater Leukerd (plus many more too lurid to print here ...)

David Praterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07350389597303897854noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3222468.post-1151562260643950092006-06-29T16:21:00.000+10:002006-06-29T16:31:14.393+10:00

Pow! Pow! Pow! Pow! Pow! Pow! Pow! Pow! Pow! Pow! Pow! Pow! Pow! Pow! Pow! Pow! Pow! Pow! Pow! Pow! Pow! Pow! Pow! Pow! Pow! Pow! Pow! Pow! Pow! Pow! Pow! Pow! Pow! Pow! Pow! Pow! Pow! Pow! Pow! Pow! Pow! Pow! Pow! Pow! Pow! Pow! Pow! Pow! Pow! Pow! Pow! Pow! Pow! Pow! Pow! Pow! Pow! Pow! Pow! Pow! Pow! Pow! Pow! Untold!

David Praterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07350389597303897854noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3222468.post-1151471031321358462006-06-28T15:02:00.000+10:002006-06-28T15:15:22.460+10:00

David Praterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07350389597303897854noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3222468.post-1151027944134910572006-06-27T21:36:00.000+10:002006-06-28T13:10:18.726+10:00

She's pouring in from the future. Floating on a river of bees. An egg in each hand and pearls in her teeth. Eyes of honey, radiating the hive. Her happiness a stripe that no one else can see. Polka dots of secret laughter. Favourable explosion weather. That's all there is too it. Their fallout projections remain a fantasy. A radio on a card table all that remains of the so-called observation tent

David Praterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07350389597303897854noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3222468.post-1151382215984286372006-06-27T14:19:00.000+10:002006-06-27T14:50:23.546+10:00

BULK ACERETAILUntoldGoudaGuruGuusKatLeukerdZwerverSkatesMontanaHoningKusMaanFullyToldToldGucciJoshHarryCatSukkelWuppieBladesDeadwoodBijDoeiMooiBulk AceUntold

David Praterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07350389597303897854noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3222468.post-1151289344122962042006-06-26T12:22:00.000+10:002006-06-26T12:35:44.133+10:00

Last night's Going Down Swinging launch, held at Yelza in Fitzroy, was great fun. So much fun in fact that I'm only now on the verge of consciousness, my detox plans having been shredded, thrown out and then reassembled by the mysterious power of Guru Josh, whose track "Infinity" (pictured, left) is only slightly overshadowed by its b-side, the "Spacey Saxophone Mix". Words cannot begin to

David Praterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07350389597303897854noreply@blogger.com1