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, Meursault, Ossídio Gaspar, The Judge-Penitent

The Judge starts…

Couriers keep careful company with present spectres of the past,

Courteously guiding strange desires once thrown forward from fitful hearts,

Who in prayer and deep uncertainty have let sincerity divine an art,

That could deliver such a fragile promise, and reach its love at last.


The fitful heart and the question of ‘art’ – a precarious but hopeful longing for deliverance from eros. A lusting for unity where perhaps all that can be found is the disjoint of a fracture.


An intervention

The telos of eros is economically calculated fornication for the benefit of the state. To have too many pensioners is too expensive. Too expensive! “All coffins, half price, only today!” All people who don’t have kids shall be deported into fornication camps for re-education purposes. They shall be fed four pills of Viagra a day and forced to fuck from sunrise to sunset, until the last bulging dicks are covered with burning blisters and the total labour force of the country has risen 34%.


  1. of Labour and Social Welfare.


All policy is good policy to get rid of the political once and for all.

I am obsessed with the questions that have not yet been asked. The type of things for which a typecast set of principles automatically fail to appreciate only later when they too have failed in the experience of a post-failed recollection of things. This is a gap we can only fail to talk about.

I am also obsessed with time. It has already taught me that I cannot count. My account of things henceforth resembles the account reserved for the previously unexplained which have now failed in the sense that they could only mean the unexplainable unexplainably. Now we have explanation, I am therefore out of time.

My politics are anti-problematic in that I have no beginning to say anything that resembles a politically addressable context of my understanding of things.

All my work is that of love – well, it must be for them, who love to explain things, or who love the explainable things at least. Me, carrying on, looks like me being in love with them, who love certain things, me loving the uncertainty that sometimes looks like the time they will again succeed in after this brief explanation.

Filàk Dupèrre, Meursault, Ossídio Gaspar, The Judge-Penitent

Ossídio starts…

If every man of ideas is an idealist then the sum of every part is capable of situating a form to every thought that has no description apart from the emptiness it is said to be, as a thought. Undressed, addressed. A calculation may be a thought, an idea, an idealism, or a form. If a part then a part away from every part. Apart in the past. Like literalism or common sense qualifications of quality. Not in the past, but apart, there, in part. As a part of what it is, emptied to receive the historiography of its name. The demographics of name idealism. The man and the sense of his ideas, a form of writing about not-writing. To fit things in to the time it still takes.


Every man who is an idealist thinks that he is an idea.

Every idea that looked like a man was thought to be an idealist

Every idealist that thought he was nothing but an idea believed he was a word.

Every word that was ever spoken imprinted upon the man’s soul and looked back from the past.

Every image from the past is a nothing but from a something there.

Every man that confused himself with an idea that was a nothing but, was nevertheless an image of a something there.

Tom’s foibles are an image of something there.


The intersection of systems T & E an interesting proposition of which R feels at little liberty to comment upon. Although, beneath the semi-erectile haze the two systems do somewhat mingle. Despite the one sailing off from the other and the other sailing off from the one they still collide on the flip side sharing a brief reconciliatory gaze before setting off again on another monotonous tirade.


To have an ideal is to be an idea,

An undressed address, a continuation of success.

A manifestation of present shortcomings.

Yet, all these clarifications can only be assigned retrospectively

“What is an idea?”

-“Fuck off Socrates”

They just are and I don’t want to be


And so it went..., Filàk Dupèrre, Meursault, Ossídio Gaspar, The Judge-Penitent

Meursault starts…

Welcome to the world of screaming acrylic. Worship thy warning, love thy advertisement. Assimilate every empty referent. Herald the new gospel the Janus faced gods of late capitalism have come.


But don’t let this patriarchal multi-faced body ruin your day. This very day that you walk arm in arm with whilst saying ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ and can I have a pay-rise if that’s okay, ‘sir?’ No, step off of the platform in order to re-form. But into what? You can’t even speak unknowingly, let alone freely. I’m sorry – that’s another one for you. This is a terrible introduction however, you’ve been here for years – so what’s the fucking trouble?


“Ah yes, a troubling dread indeed,” contemplated the narrator and looked that the alarm clock. “7:55! Fuck.” Whilst looking at himself in the bathroom he exercised saying “thank you” and please” over and over again, until the last trace of this hasty dream was wiped off alongside with the horror on his face. He quickly put on his clothes and as he was taking the last glimpse of his sentimental interior, he passed through the door and evaporated into the outside world. Today was different.


The progress made significantly possible from the State of being to the state of being allowed beyond a Stated form of being – somewhere between being and not-being – exaggerates the context both ways and writes the story of the possible into what the possible really is. You begin with a line about something, and suddenly you have linearity already, too. You speak about a difference and this difference being somewhere not-Stated means surely a state that states itself beyond the State, as long as you draw the difference away from a Statement of all things into the Statement of All Things beyond the State into the State it really could not be after all. Your failure may already be its failure, but your success is certainly maintainable beyond the exigencies of describing its failing states, substituting mathematically a state for a capital letter, this looking like the beginning of you state-able work.


I had a dream in which a plastic hard hat screamed at me. It cried; “Beware the brightly coloured signification of late modern capitalism”, but before I could heed its cry I was awoken by the comforting safety of construction. A long visibility jacket came into being and told me not to let it ruin my day, but I could not comprehend it before it passed into non-being, because “Unauthorised entry into the site of Tom’s writing is forbidden!”


Filàk Dupèrre, Meursault, Ossídio Gaspar, The Judge-Penitent

Filàk starts…

Nonsense à [(p v ¬p0 v ¬(p v ¬p)]. We need to get everything right. The opposite is true as well: [¬(previous sentence) à ¬(first sentence)]. “To be is to do,” but it is not necessarily the case that to do is to be. Basic stuff – hope you’re still with me. Two nauseating charlatans discuss the difficulties of being bipedal. I really hope everything is alright

All right



To take it away to another story is to choose another story, one begun in the same as not-it, but somehow then and therefore possibly contained in some space that is measurably and immeasurably both, going around in a circle that could then be the understanding of either. Either P or not-P, saying this or that is saying already this and that somehow without this being able to state this or that. If the people involved in the history of this story are indeed all right, it may be because they walk around, taking it in turns to be either P or not-P, and always then either P or not-P, this Person or that Person, whether this is being P or not-P. The charlatan must be the one who speaks the longest, or the one who takes the longest to speak.


Men who lack a fondness for bi-pedalling bi-gendered torsos often end up fetishing nonsense. But your analysis is quite correct.

He is P.

She is ~P.

She is P.

He is ~P.

When together, for moments we are both pining to be each other’s P or even each other’s ~P.

What is certain is that we are only ever one for one another.

What is certain is that love talks in nonsense in order to be.

What is certain is that Freddie chose P as a homage to his Penis.


P nor Q nor negation or affirmation are of no real interest to me. The interplay of signs and symbols is out of my orbit. But perhaps it cannot come into orbit. Perhaps I am misunderstanding the interwoven fabric of the text. I fail to see the letter for the meaning, the sign for the signified, and struggle to rear my head above the weave, who am I? Another drowning interplay of absent and present in every text.

And so it went..., Filàk Dupèrre, Meursault, Ossídio Gaspar, The Judge-Penitent

And so it went starts…

Regarded she cares little for my life, it was interesting that she still felt it was okay to call me over while I was, firstly, stood with my friends; and secondly, while in an evidently heated discussion. For no quantity of money on this earth would I want to have walked over, but tonight wasn’t about want or desire, rather, it was about resolving conflicts. Her and I, unquestioningly, have had conflict in the past.

So, I exhaled, apologised to my friends – who, by the way, knew what was about to happen – and I walked over to her.


To have an intercourse is to have a diplomatic solution. The Treaty of Her Bed. All issues are aborted with contraception. Sex divides into three categories: Satisfying, unsatisfying, and sex for the purpose of never having to experience the former two ever again. The pretext is peace and all reasons have ceased. I can only walk over to her if I have some hope that I’ll never have to walk over to her ever again.


Who is the person we leave behind in order to speak to another? Probably someone we prefer not to be with, in the time being that would mean not speaking to her, but staying with us, as something of ourselves more desperate than chancing who we really could be instead. Why go in? Because it is already sex? Already some phantasy of accomplishment – pre-coitus being something more similar to the revival of the separation in post-coitus? But if we never go over to her, to them, to the stranger, or the strangeness of something still not that familiar, we would never know what it would be to leave ourselves behind. Perhaps then we are strangers to ourselves too, in between these feelings, and breathing would be the same as the struggle to breathe. In this case going over to her would mean to become the struggle of somehow already being. As strange as this might seem to be. Speaking to her would be familiarising oneself with the same strangeness of being who one is.


She called for me across conflicts and I came.

Sexual metaphors in politics keep me boundlessly entertained,

Entering my mind was someone else’s butt,

So my response to your crafts was smut,

And I think I just wrote a limerick to my shame.


A boundless map of possibility sadly all my mind can place is a mire of unrequited desire. A hopeless occasion for all, distinguished for you by a conversation which contained neither hello nor goodbye. What more could one expect than comments which highlight the increasing banality of sex.

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.