Filàk Dupèrre



It is a season in the subatlantic region
Where bleak embryos twitch in their cradles
And their mothers are left to perform their straddles
And where people’s eyes are covered with frost
And the count of lips burnt with cigarettes is lost

It is a season in the subatlantic region
Where streets are left in silence ‘till spring
And the names of my friends have lost their ring
And where I can spend eternities alone
And the end of this journey is already foreshown

It is a season in the subatlantic region
Where my brain is kept alive by insomnious reality
And it shows the banality of my morality in its own totality
And where streetlight echo their buzz
And the light they emit is covered with rust

It is a season in the subatlantic region
Where the rubble between cobblestones form a pattern
And this mosaic stretches beyond the region
And where desperate hordes roam streets at night
Only to find nothing

It is a season in the subatlantic region
Where rubberised leather jackets are in again
And the cultural cruelty is born again

It is a season in the subatlantic region
Where pseudo-transsexuals smoke cigarettes against a
red background
And plastic smiles don’t escape each other’s minds

Where kitsch renditions of classics of the past are repeated hereafter forever and ever again until the death-caused-by-nausea of the last paid of listening ears leaves the ground in fragile silence.

Streetlights are red lights
Red curtains are filters for red lights
They transform red light
But the filter of the cigarette has a red mark.
Cause and effect
Lips and butt … of the cigarette.
The only things without a slightest hue of red are the two perfectly-balanced black spots under my eyes.

My body corrodes against its will
At dawn there just decay alone…
No odes

The character dwells in poetic despair for the sake of compassion. A meticulous construction of mind, but still a human being from behind.

Compassionate sentiments are mere particles in air
And solitude in rejection has never felt so fair
But let us not dwell in anger, despair

As I was saying it’s the season
In the subatlantic region
And this season forbids its warmth to be felt
No rejoinders or plunders or ploys

I once told the Judge Penitent that having a binary gender is for pussies. He agreed.

Yes, yes, an individual face is a reflection of another face so all faces, by reflecting other faces reflect themselves as well. But my face comes with a twist.

My eyes illuminate the sky
They cast light on the passers-by
Who beat my chest, to force
The warmth of my breath in their face

The touch is sentimental. The touch transcends the verbal but echoes the intentions of the verbal. A blowjob is a literal transcendation of the words “I love you”. It is an oral production of the aural intention.

And so I advance into the avalanche
My footprints shape the snow
Bright white powder grows louder
To deliver a blow but this process is slow
Foreign particles have mesmerized the air
Nowhere to be lost and never found
An unseen ensemble performs their part
Linear progress of life is torn apart

I take sardonic pleasure in pretending to be entertained by orchestral music. An ensemble of dead brain cells is playing, crescendos no faster than an octave per minute. Violin strings are being scratched, as individual brain-fibers are filed narrower and more fragile. I can spend infinitudes in rejection, where compulsions are exercised into pre-ordained perfections

The conductor of tonight’s orchestra is a sardonic moron too
Forgiveness cut into apathy
Abort all sympathy
The status quo is ‘never happy’
Evacuation call sounds for all:
“Women and children first”

A distinct characteristic of night-time is that it is more of less the same across the time it spans. It is impossible to observe the movement of the sun and moonlight always illuminates only the most scandalous things, or, if you would like, statistical outliers if moral normativity is conspired on a graph.

If one doesn’t feel special then it’s safe to dwell in the night. The opposite, however, is not true.

This lot of people dance
The floor is in mellow orange hue
Illuminated by swinging cigarettes in hands
I took two, just to be safe
One in each hand, I twist
In carefully coordinated steps
Not to wake the neighbors up
Occasional bland taps in solitude
Products of synthetic glands culminate on the floor
Both cigarettes I seductively kiss in turn
For the sake of fidelity one has to go
And so I execute the longer one with a feeble twist
And with this smooth turn I face the wall
It’s time to go to bed
Two steps and I’m there

But in my dream, that is now,
I remember a girl from the dance

Her skin was the skin of white rose
Stained with a permanent stain of blood
A premature period in a premature world
For the first time in her life
It is this time of the month again

She dwells in a doubled finitude
Of bothersome shame
Encapsulated in some perverse pride
In an annihilating arousal she cries: “I’m free!”

A lifetime of degeneration ahead,
It demands her mother’s head


Aggressive shadows evaporate in light,
Every night.
Colours, a bubbly mixture of cerebral pain,
Leave a stain.
Liquids sweep between crevices on tongue,
Until the transformation of a sequence of the music
Heart pumps blood in motorik-beat,
It defeats body
Absent glances mingle under the ceiling.
This is our phenomenal reality.
Every feeling is counted,
Every move accounted.
All things considered,
Nothing forgiven,

No dreams – no sleep. There is only the wish to be part of something bigger, more concrete. An innate motivation to do a lot without any effort. My innermost inclinations are contradictions. Its time to get up.

Rain has washed away all snow
The winter has not begun yet
(The beginning of this winter dwells in doubt)
We’re lost
This subatlantic party never has a host
Walls echo with primordial screams
Antiquarians are not here yet
I’ve missed the dawn
And I was awake

Who dared to consult this virgin
who has not been fucked by life?
Who castrated their demons
With their bare hands?

Who has stopped the avalanche
From killing us?
Who has made our happiness

Who forbids us the fifth act?
Has someone lost their act?
Who refused to sing me lullabies?
And who refused to kiss me good night?

A steady reality never happens as an accident. Its always the aftermath of an achievement and it is consequently, only problematized retrospectively. The steadiness of a character only happens in contrast to an unsteady reality. Conversely, an unsteady character is unsteady only in contrast to the steadiness of the achievements of the others who form the reality. The measure of reality is subjectless. It forbids a subject. And the subject itself is not a measure of the of the reality, but it is the flipside of the coin, on the other side of which is the futile echo of subjectlessness.

The subatlantic season is an unsteady characterisation of an enduring reality, which is characteristically steady. It is the order of pain, hierarchy of despair, and the challenges it provides to the character have broken the façade of steadiness on both – the character and the reality. Subatlantic season is the reality unmasked.

But the character still wears a mask.

And this mask is both – the season and the face

Everybody in this room has seen the reader with red lipstick in autumn.

It is a premature period in a premature world.

Blood and time;
Time and blood


If I were to write myself a eulogy today…


One thought on “Subatlantic

  1. Ossídio Gaspar says:

    The publication of this poem represents a benchmark for the blog. I am proud to see it on here in its entirety and I am proud of the fact that I can call the author a very dear friend.
    This is a good moment. The EWC grows stronger.
    My enduring love,

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