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.

Filàk Dupèrre


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

Filàk Dupèrre


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.

Filàk Dupèrre


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.

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.

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.

Filàk Dupèrre


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.