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...