Filàk Dupèrre

11.05

Mental malfunctions
Sometimes explicit and sometimes not
Blood trembles in veins
They cause some certain sanctions

Some of us are turned into practical jokes
Some of us are left to be provoked
Some are left to choke
And some broke

I am possessed by others
And by that I’m never bothered
Appropriate precautions
Adulterated emotions

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Filàk Dupèrre

Spring

This spring has brought so many things about.
For instance, callousness of my soul and
Some universal doubt.
Never before have I been such a lout.

If winter was here i’d be concealed:
Crisp cold to my thoughts would appeal.
Bystanders would not dare to stare.
Regardless, even now still no-one dares.

So I stand at ease and cherish this day,
Even though mentally penetrate it may.
Say, what if it would end today?
Pointless, and so in the sun we lay.

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Filàk Dupèrre

EWC/Stairs.

We’re aiming for action
Some reaction.
There’s not a single thread of doubt
And nothing at all about
Who’s considered in or out.

By the end of the season
We’re played out.
We’ll be out of sight
And physically light.
And yet, metaphysically bright,
Undoubtedly fundamentally right.

Rejuvenated again,
The end is near.
For some something new
For some just fear.
Of course, none of us is really
Sentimental here.
But in the very end we’re all
Guaranteed to shed a tear.

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Filàk Dupèrre

27th of April, 2015

Waves clash above my head,
Why here and not there instead?

It’s all dead.

For a long time my thoughts
Have been prepared.
And now they’re stored
Inside my head.

So suddenly my lungs grew
Tired of air.
Bare-chested figures just
Dance in graves.

It’s all so mentally stale.

These thought indeed have
Been thought before.
They create some brutal effect.
A weird defect.
Distractions, malfunctions,
Sculptural functions.

Predictions and imperfections
Of an erection.

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Filàk Dupèrre

At his place

Alive for the City,
Deaf to the world.
To be an artist is to be alive*
All artists exist for the City.

Three books of nothing
Discussed in drunken sobbing.
New Death and Putin
We don’t believe in Latin.

Sheets of satin
The Green Fairy is dead!
This room is full of ironic kitsch.
Paris is presumably dead.
…Clearly the influence of some
Foreigners presence.

For two nights in a row
I’ve been sleeping in this
Guy’s bed who only three
Days ago was a mere stranger.

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Filàk Dupèrre

Coffee

A blond girl in a
Cashmere coat.
His Grace would turn around
in his grave.
Conformist libertines.
It’s a gathering
Of trivial dandies.
Natural habitat – this urban pond.
It’s a never-ending song.
An encore.
And these people
Are never wrong.
Bystanders are hung.

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Filàk Dupèrre

Circle

Compound memories in mind
Reality itself unwinds

Sustain distain
Be sane

Rain

Partially blind
Brain cells have just resigned
Two pairs of eyes affined
Two linear lines non-aligned

Wrinkles are born old
On eyesight grows mould

Poison appeals
It euphoria deals
All sentiments seals
It’s real

Embed yourself into bed
Be wed,
And dead.

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