Filàk Dupèrre


I love this time of the year

This time of the year wherever I am 

I love this time of the year

For now is this time of the year –

This time of the year


I love this time of the year 

This time of the year that is

Today yesterday and tomorrow

This time of the year that is now

This time of the year that is Sunday


I love this time that is texture –

In All;

I love this time of the year 

This an other time of the year that was there

And this an other time of the year that is to be


This time of the year that is absent in the middle

And this time of the year that never was

I love this time of the year

This time of the year

This time of the year


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…

Filàk Dupèrre

In Colour

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

Filàk Dupèrre

Tallinn 2015/1993; To George Marrow

January evening, all roads are blocked,*
And now the month of December is gone.
Light rain at night, I still wait for Christmas,
I know there’s no snow in Bordeaux.

Cold sheets, open window in snow for show.
Veins itch, there’s still warmth in the past.
Coffee steams, cigarette smoke in kitchen,
Cold wind from outside, nipples go hard.
(There is not enough skin on my chest)

Hotell Olümpia still rests in dark
And the boulevard down there is stuck.
(All roads are blocked)
For myself, being genuine is not ok
Tallinn, 1993.

*Juhan Viiding – Ma Olin Jüri Üdi (I was George Marrow), 1978.

Filàk Dupèrre


Thoughts drag in the pace of rain,
This strange melancholia is always pain.
Philosophy of wine from France is recalled.
Geographic displacement, it’s hard to remain sane.
Or even same.

Thoughts are paced by cigarette breaks,
Puddles of mud have turned into lakes.
Philosophy of coffee from No. 8 is recalled.
It’s hard to remain poetically incorrect.
Or even a suspect.

This lace I’m in is a beast.
We don’t “feast”, we eat.
We don’t “consume”, we drink.
Politeness is an unnecessary accessory.
As are umbrellas, apparently.

( I’m stuck in a cafe on a rainy day.)

Filàk Dupèrre

Home #2

Pints of beer were consumed on the promenade,
Opportunities for selfies arose. I took none.
Bold row of white benches by the sea,
And this everlasting life in the night that
Is just about to end.*

Forget, forgive, dismantle your mind,
Procure the external, all else unwind.
Rewind, rethink, calculate and miss,
The lights of a foreign metropolis thousand
Miles away right here in our midst.

Forgive and forget, I need to take a piss.


Filàk Dupèrre

To Jack

Jack London is here, prudent and rude.
Some uncouth smooth movement in the woods.
I’m on these streets as I always used to be,
But these line were never written for you.

And there is never nothing new,
These scars with magic thread were sewn.
So sometimes nothing shows
But another time I’m ostensively low.

Filàk Dupèrre

At Night

Take, light and forget a cigarette
In three seconds.
This foreign language has turned
Into a wallpaper,
A presumed judgment of some
Frictional sandpaper.

Take, drink and forget a glass of wine
In three seconds.
Apparently my shirt is considered “gay”
Defined by sways.
Mood-swings are toilet paper.
I’ll see this idea later.

Listen, respond and forget a conversation
In three seconds.
Sade, Shelly, and determinism in one go,
Good night, it’s time to go.

Filàk Dupèrre


And soon I will meet my friends
All means are ends
Don’t defend

It’s almost always a dead-end
We make no amends
We’re not sent
Or bent

Today goodbyes are forgot
And often laughed at.
We don’t remember departures.

Arrivals terminal is the best terminal

Filàk Dupèrre

Berlin #2

Tall walls and broken halls
Dark streets shine around us
Metro stations are final destinations
And expectations nothing at all

Two drunks walk around
Two-thirty Tuesday morning alone
Their expectations amount to nothing at all
Their shadows are left for forgetting alone

Home is soon and never soon enough
Cold air in their nose is soft
“Kommst du hier oft?”
“Nein, ich habe keine Kleingeld.”

Filàk Dupèrre

To William

There were those who walked in the dark
And those who did not understand at the time
There were those who leaped over the shadows past
And those who did not understand at the time

For some there miseries occur every morn
And some on the other side are born
I identify with the latter
Or with those who in-between are born.

Filàk Dupèrre


And light is shimmering so low, oh wow, I’m wide awake and attitude is eerie. It’s some weird desolation row into which I’m thrown. Tremors resonate to the bone. Let’s put forth a proposition: Cease to be or live in vain.

Some absurd opposition.


Thunder. Light outside is dimmed… it rains.
Curtains are shut.

My hands are shaking in pain.
Ripple, mental rabble.

All is lost or at least all that’s sane.