the home page of david prater

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 ...)

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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. Oblivion's handkerchief. Swimming in a river of bees. She's pouring down from the future. Pearls in her mouth and eggs in her ears. Chunks of honeycomb in her hair, radiating danger. Her laughter a saving breath that no one else knows they need. Green dots on radar screens. Favourable explosion weather. A vast cloud thrown over the continent like a magician's cape. The long exodus of refugee ants all that remains of the rain. Radio tuned to rhythms, or fantasy. Drowning in a river of future bees. Floating on futures and pouring rain. A puddle of water in each hand, a p

BULK ACE RETAIL Untold Gouda Guru Guus Kat Leukerd Zwerver Skates Montana Honing Kus Maan Fully Told Told Gucci Josh Harry Cat Sukkel Wuppie Blades Deadwood Bij Doei Mooi Bulk Ace Untold

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 express the effect that this song, this man, this ouvre have had on me over the past fifteen years. Suffice it to say, the guy is untold . Also untold and slightly bulk ace, the Singapore-based webzine Softblow features one new poem ("Back To the Tourist III") and two of my imaginary cities, namely "Coni" and "Cubi". Read them at Softblow today! But if there was an award for bulk ace, it'd surely have to go to outgoing GDS editor and owner of her own rollerskates, alicia sometimes . Last night, I believe, marked her sixteen thousandth p

The first recording by Davey Dreamnation since the second space shuttle exploded, "I Claim Responsibility" was originally aired as a spoken word piece on ABC Radio National in 2005 as part of the Deep End Poetry Slam. Never one to rest on his laurels, Davey completely re-recorded the track to cassette and then uploaded the song to his personal computing empire, losing most of the original's unique sounds and tuning in the process. Forever destined to undersell his own lyrical genius, Dreamnation manages once again on this track to confound, move and alienate an entire generation, and all in three minutes and forty eight seconds. Beat that!

A catalogue of tongues inside the Buddha's room, that place it seemed impossible to leave, a space created by two dim machines under the tongue of a slippery moon. The tongue of a moon that licks the shore, that space where two melodies meet and form a zero, a name for the unwritten body floating just like a canoe through hanging air. The slippery heel of a canoe pushed out through the scruffy surf, that zone where two desires meet and form an equal pair, a sudden dare injected with fire. The mosquito's pin-prick of a map, formal attacks instead of blood, the trust that lies inside a vein. Intricate as triage, bold as pain. A levitating loop ascends, hisses like the fleeting diagram. What sound the space elastic? Carrier of a broken dream. Clues like stars that disappear behind your head at dusk. The drunken bust. A plane on which it's possible to sleep, my head inside your heart. The subtle hopes of minor chords disrupted, wound around a lamp post called delay. Sleep and

91. To stare resolutely at one's shoes while playing the guitar. 92. Hair that's just long enough to tuck behind the ears. 93. A couple who share the same shoe and jean sizes. 94. An ex-smoker's ex. 95. The official name of the 23-hour-day movement. 96. Local council community consultation addict. 97. Ten years of conservative government (colloquial). 98. Idiosyncratic but persistent typographical error (e.g. "otehr", "tehre"). 99. To believe that the film Point Break was not actually shot on location in Torquay, Australia (and, by extension, to believe that Keanu Reeves is a great actor). 100. A definition of leukerd.

81. To search for words you don't understand in random dictionaries. 82. The pregnant pause when two people are thinking the same thing. 83. Chili-covered peanuts. 84. Overuse of emoticons in hand-written correspondence. 85. "Cheers". 86. A great year. 87. An imaginary fiend. 88. The name of Bruce Springsteen's guitar. 89. Bandage-wearing fetish. 90. A breathless explanation.

71. To die in an explosion. 72. Dryness of skin caused by spending too long inside a centrally-heated house. 73. The opposite of schadenfreude . 74. To think that you recognise someone, call out to them and then realise when they turn around that you have been mistaken. 75. To turn around upon hearing a name being called out, even when it is not your own name. 76. Steamed buns. 77. The place where words you do not understand go when they die. 78. Comic form based upon exploiting the humour inherent in conversations between studio anchorpersons and roving reporters in different time zones. 79. To assume that Leukerd is a male name. 80. A male name.

Check out this promotional clip (once called a "cart" in the community radio sector) for the launch of Going Down Swinging #23. Why should I care? Well, this is the first time I've ever been mentioned in a cart. I can now add this honour to my list of good things. Oh, and because the launch willl be happening this Sunday 25th June, 7pm - 10pm, featuring performances by sultry band The Renovators, David Prater, Silvia Dropulich, Jane Ormond and more. Launched By Barry Dickins. MC Michael Nolan. Where? Yelza, 245 Gertrude St Fitzroy. Tickets $12 with a book; $7 without. Tickets available only at the door. For more info visit the GDS site . I'm lucky enough to have a poem, entitled "Fifty", in the issue. In addition, you can now check out one of my audio poems in the GDS vaults. It's called "The Boys Who" (click on this link to download it in mp3 format) and it's featured on the CD accompanying the issue. What can I say? Two pieces in the b

Welcome. Love dumpling instructions. Filled with kind of oil that rips layer of skin off tongue. Loved by thousands, admired and emulated by millions more. Comes in set of fifteen, complete with complimentary broth and beans. May induce giggles in bystanders, celebrity chefs and fellow customers. Should be eaten with chopstick, small spoon and bravery. First, take love dumpling in mouth and gently break. Slowly (slowly!) drain out hot oil. Allow dumpling to cool. Add spice as desired. Attack dumpling. Do not allow dumpling to fall into broth. Dismember when necessary. Smother with chilli to discourage mischief. Chew dumpling as many times as possible before swallowing. Swallow. Proceed to next dumpling. Ignore crowd gathered by table. Ask for more dumplings. Signal with spoon towards bowl of broth. Laugh when necessary. Wipe dumpling oil and broth from face with napkin if required. Keep head down. Attack. Dumpling will offer some resistance. Use more chopsticks. Drown in hot oil. Remo

61. To come close to realising the definition of a word, without realising how close you actually are. 62. The smallest capital city in the world (Republic of Gouda, population: 2). 63. A hot flush caused by wearing too many layers of clothing in a library. 64. To dream about somebody while talking to them on the phone. 65. To dream via email. 66. Secret alliance of death-kiss experts. 67. Obscure poetic form based on currency conversion. 68. A dead sparrow that comes back to life. 69. To respond to the question "Why?" with the answer "Because". 70. I can't believe I've made it to seventy definitions of leukerd when all I ever wanted was one.

51. The fifty-first item in a list. 52. A notebook filled with definitions of leukerd. 53. To continue to repeat a joke even though it is no longer funny. 54. Small piece of green vegetable lodged between the teeth. 55. Traditional Korean game in which the object is to lose all one's marbles. 56. Bed hair. 57. Apologist for the nuclear power industry. 58. The feeling you get when you realise that everyone in the world thinks differently. 59. Someone who pretends not to be interested in football and then makes fun of you when your team loses. 60. Potato rocket launcher.

41. A popped pimple. 42. Little-known 1970s Swedish saxophone/melodion duo. 43. Chocolate fondue. 44. Hot rocks. 45. Goose chills. 46. When the weather at a particular time of the year is unusual. 47. To ask "why?". 48. Fake laughter. 49. To pretend to be in de-tox. 50. Herding sheep.

31. A never-ending tub of creamy custard yoghurt. 32. To congregate near a train station entrance waiting for 6pm to tick over, so as to take advantage of the fact that after 6pm a two hour ticket lasts until 2am the next day. 33. To pretend to be interested in football. 34. An adopted child. 35. The study of ferry timetables. 36. Stifled cries. 37. To throw out all of your underpants. 38. The mating sound made by black cats. 39. To want to die. 40. A misleading translation.

Lying on a plane like lizards gasping for air. These new territories toxic as liquid gold or phantasms with no name. Down by a dusted ferry terminal for yesterday's new deliveries. File these hopes under miscellaneous cargo � or send them to me, cash on delivery. Lovers mingle with the lonely in a crowd. Bastilles stormed or raided for supplies. Written on a body - all of our previous dalliances. Dances like layers of an onion or an old lemon skin. Years of washing fears away. Becoming one. Step away from breathing. Remember every Caress. Every needle of pain & redemption. A train arrives but it does not stop. Ignited.

I should have decided not to get up that morning. I should have stayed in bed, reading WWII-era comic books and drinking Chocolate Moove. But I didn't, and that's why I'm writing this story now. I should have known what was coming. I'd been hassled mercilessly since arriving at the public school in that small country town. Worse still, I was a Catholic. And to top it off, I was more interested in reading books than smoking ciggies or punching people in the head for a laugh. I should never have worn the red underpants. In fact, I should have gone to school that day wearing nothing at all underneath my (I now realise) quite loose sports shorts. I should have laughed even harder than the rest of the students when the shorts were ripped from their position and left to dangle around my ankles. I should have turned around to face my attacker and pissed all over him. I should have danced in front of the girls who were laughing. I should have decided never to speak again

21. Small-time comedian whose material is more suited to spoken word. 22. Time traveller. 23. To play phone-tag, eg: "Yeah, well I rang him and left a message and then he rang back and left a message and so I texted him and he texted me back and finally I tried calling his work number from a public phone and got through. Boy, am I sick of all this leukerding." 24. A gentle lover. 25. Missing guitar strings. 26. Form of 18th century parlour game in which the object is to catalogue the various ways in which you would like to die, should you be given a choice. 27. Clear alcoholic fluid made from spit. 28. To attempt to ride a bike on public transport. 29. The hour between midnight and 1am. 30. A massive explosion.

11. To believe that Gouda cheese is Australian. 12. Guus Hiddink. 13. A toothbrush. 14. Small blister caused by badly-fitting roller skates. 15. To skate around a roller rink while holding onto the guard rail. 16. Noise made by small cats after drinking too much milk. 17. Turkish delight. 18. Affectionate name for Buddha. 19. To live in a crowded house. 20. Special, or nice.

Then you came running like a season in reverse. Flowers in your mouth. Standing on a rock. Inside a waterfall. There was a script but we were method-acting. Like Pete Doherty and Carl Barat at their last gig. High on contradictions. Waiting for the bus to leave. Throwing mid-air punches. Stored in a freezer and then snapped in half. Wasting time writing poems when the seasons were draining out of our mouths. Your trembling lips. Your hair in the miraculous sunlight at Bulguksa. That day we thought had turned black. Walking along the huge levees, hoping for a sign. The dried river banks. The ice forming on our memories. Factory towns. Horizontal snow. Alone with your thoughts and your motion sickness. How I wanted to be right there. Days that didn't need speech. Nights that were held together by a single touch, a falling gesture. Fallen world, why do we remain here? Scintillation and lasers. This glacial fear of drowning in air. The sorrowful willows eradicated from the banks of th

It does not have the strength to hold me. Jogging on pavements in the winter dark. Learning how to fall into judo. I never did make it past white. It does not have the strength to hold me. The threat of black against my neck. Shoe polish. The slightly-quivering chair. Stillness and silver belts. The silver trunks of dead trees. They do not have the strength to hold me. On Horsell Common. A man with a bowler hat and a cigarette ponders my frozen corpse. His gaze does not have the strength to hold me. Broken cups in newspaper. Yesterday's miaows. Don't go. Hanging on the telephone, a voice from summer. Bricks piled up on cracked concrete. They do not have the strength to hold me down. I'll swing and fly in the breeze painted bright. With a smile on my dial. My limbs an arctic clock. My head a frieze, or frame. Pink frost. Tomorrow. It does not have the strength to hold me. Who knows where the wind really comes from. Tan belts, blue belts. The veins on my forearms like blue be

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By way of explanation, these shots were taken in Seoul last year. I was walking down the street with my friend Kevin, hungover and looking for hot chips, when we ran into two girls from Dresden, Anja and Enik�. They were lost, so we helped them find their way to some temple or other. Turned out they were only in Seoul for one night, so we arranged to meet up for dinner and drinks. They were pretty (funny) girls - and we had some hilarious moments in a Jongno bar called Blue Moon. At one stage Anja decided that I'd look good in her scarf and so we proceeded to assemble possibly the worst look I have ever sported, the faux-burka drunk. No offence intended to anyone, seriously. Let me stress, this was not my idea at all. Anyway, out of the blue, Anja recently sent me these pictures as evidence. Memories of the night flooded back, unfortunately. Now I'm inflicting them on you, too. Look and learn, fashionistas.

If you're already feeling like reading this is going to make you late for work, you'd better read it anyway. Or run for that train. The title might give you a hint of what it's about but they're usually deceptive. From inside this East Brunswick net-cafe, for example, the only skyline I can see is the thin strip of the newsagent's roof behind the swaying fronds of a bottlebrush tree. It's been foggy. It's the cold nights and the lack of clouds that does it - or maybe that's frost? Well, in any case, I'm colder now than I have been since flying out of Tokyo in January. Can't say I'm really looking forward to three months of cold weather again. Some people like it; seem, even, to get some kind of bizarre pleasure from the ghoulish ranks of deciduous European trees lining the streets. I like how when you're walking with a group of people at night, it looks like everyone's smoking. I don't smoke anymore. I'm also not as interested

1. Small wingless bird, usually found in desert areas. Eats only wasabi peas. 2. The feeling when one forget one's own PIN, and thus end up watching in horror as the machine swallows one's ATM card. "All of a sudden I felt leukerd, then just stupid." 3. To dance perpetually in a room containing one wooden chair. "Then he began to leukerd - wow." 4. Slang word for an older man. "Well, he's nice - but he is a bit leukerd, so ... hmm." 5. Crazy, in a good way. "She's so leukerd. I love it!" 6. Archaic door-locking system using bells and leukerds (see 1, above). 7. Obscure Australian cheese. 8. Medieval word for the moon, eg: "The man in the leukerd began to leukerd, but I felt a bit leukerd when the leukerd flew ..." 9. A puddle. 10. To spend all day waiting for the sun to appear from behind a cloud.

(1) high season before anyone gets there. clean airports. season for new roads and sidewalks. haircuts to die for. fancy dress outfitters. convenience stores. spare parts for rocket ships. strong coffee. (2) slack season of our eventual reunion. in a sunny room where it's always possible to forecast the weather. bicycle riding. small kittens and dictionaries. rocks thrown at windows. expensive bath mats. blindfolds. (3) wet season of immigration towers and state peace. aladdin released. addresses blocked. visas refused. unfinished books. boredom. looping playlists. correspondences. hot telephones. text. scarves. puddles. (4) slow season of skyline highs. arranging escapes. throwing out old clothes. empty flats. one bowl of milk per day. subtitles and dark sunglasses. blurry stars. postcards. batteries. champagne.

do monkeys eat bananas with their tails or is that just another urban myth? & if they had computer access don't you think they'd use that tail to move the mouse - or is that just another red bandanna gag? & if they could send us emails (what do you think they'd tell? writing from some rotemburo outside beppu (refreshed after a long day of tail-walking maybe robed & long-legged (capable of sailing boats as well or so we're told by some old woman selling bags of peanuts by an oily shore the seagulls have all stopped coming now & monkeys don't go swimming anymore

When the sound of the firecrackers morphed into the sound of explosives, I knew it was time. My uncle's shop, the opening of which the firecrackers was intended to bless, went up in a single sheet of white flame, the target of a shoulder-held missile. I quickly shaved my head, assembled my possessions (the book, the pencil, the headscarf) and tumbled down the stairs, to join the seething mass of panic in the streets. Just outside my apartment door, on the wall half-covered in yellow paint, half the colour of concrete, someone had scrawled a string of digits, possibly a telephone number. I mentally noted the first, third, fifth and seventh numbers, and discarded the rest. None of the city's telephones were working anyway - and it might have been a cipher, or a code. Perhaps Ali. On the street his face was impossible to recall, shrouded now in smoke from guns and falling people. Somehow you were standing where you said you would be, by the lamp-post in the centre of the roundabou

Gucci milk laced with honey, captured on DVD. The long, slow passion milk of deferral and delay. Cargoes sweating in holds. Sold at small card tables on the streets of Shanghai, alongside orange quick-call phones and bolts. Batteries and pin-head chips that store our deep-freeze desires, our ceiling fan dreams. Milk girl, tall lady. Hair just long enough to tuck behind your ears. The crescent moon, Ali's croissant. The wife who was glad when her husband broke the two-headed sculpture given to them as a gift. The shards of their co-joined bodies. Red paint chips the same colour as your nail polish. Scouring markets and grim streets for a replacement. A thousand and one miniature knights. I would have been happy to take the blame. Our female taxi driver, that Wuhan song stuck in my mind for days, then gone. The invisible sounds of banned trumpets. The sax solo, then the clearing of the throat. Harmony. Even the impatient horns become background noises or triggers for the blind at int

Wah! We were going fake-crazy in the hutongs - fake upside-down Nike logos, fake cigarettes, fake yawns, fake camo gear etc. We looked on incredulously as the steamed bun seller stared at the sky through a one Yuan note, making sure it was counterfeited. Even then, the buns were just a mass of fake air but who cared? Not me, I'd already made my approximation of a weather report. Sunshine? Yeah, sure, you replied, then went back to sleep. Snored. In a city where blue sky was an annual event we walked & walked all day, through a dubious metropolis, till our feet were a mess of fake blood & blisters. Yeah, it was all faked, down to the final Band-Aid. Wow, my tan felt fake & it was but who was I to know or truly care? For the fact of the fake matter is that I was born to be a fake, in my crazy Rolex way. My springs & coils went boing! as we expressed our way through the Carrefour aisles of Hello Fakitty. Someone slipped me a cold can of fake cherry beer, whose froth a