My name's David Prentice, I've been interested in writing for as long as I can remember really, both as a means of self expression and an alternative to a real job/career. Been scribbling all sorts for a while and only recently started sharing them with people. Most of the poetry is all found poetry, I go around magpie-fashion stealing overheard conversation and scavenging images whenever they crop up. Haven't really found a style, I admire the beat poets, Bukowski and others. Enjoy sounds of language, stupid dirty juxtaposition that makes me laugh, recycled household items, occasional flashes of insight, shy exploration of self. if any of it has a purpose then I suppose it's to reveal as much as possible and welcome people to do the same. Want to write a novel but lack self-discipline. Someday hope to be able to articulate the disatisfaction I think we all feel in a way that's constructive and unafraid of the ugly. That's about it. Steal smoke from disappointed optimists, breathe out coloured gasses. reading this back it all sounds quite pretentious. Oh well.To read David's work click the titles below.
I'll seek my sermon in summer night
No church shall cause me doubt or fright,
And I’ll direct my prayer to evening air,
And see it shimmer, softly there
Be
You stun me
You stun all the hammers of the world
Still
I have walked the stone summer walls
Of a fortified town with Papa Vertigo,
Who couldn’t walk on glass
I have bought cicadas
Melting in the window
In the field,
The jet necks of horses
Sway and bend
Down to the grass.
I hear a storm outside,
And compare its might
To my own heart’s
Shallow thud;
Not enough to shake a window pane
Or raise a shape
In a cotton field
Or strike a bright bird from a tree,
Yet it’s a slow drum rolling through a dream
Machine gun rushing to be happy
Malady cat dominoes!
A curse on sense
I will fill your mouths with paper snakes
Serve ripe gorilla salad,
Antelope spam in china lanterns or hurricane of broken plates begging
With an empty terracotta fist,
A lost cat
Found laminated to a telephone pole
I’m losing interest in the credit crunch
The china plates are closed for lunch
I’ll break a tenner, just to hear him groan
Goodnight retail,
A bored god with a bone
Goodnight retail,
A void i can’t avoid
Buchannan Street on Christmas Eve
A crush of panic, drunks and thieves
All gagging for a bargain
And it’s love in a stampede on Oxford Street
That greets the gift and keeps the receipt
Spoke out on the shore
Arran a ferry away
There’s a thick stain
Along the sand
Like a coffee ring
Its coal i’m running through
On
Boxing day
White dress flapping
From the burst leg of a chair
I have seen photos
Of orphaned puppeteers
That hold their toes by shoestrings
Tied up in tears
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