the home page of david prater

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...