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onsdag den 2. september 2015

Per Vers: Verdens lykkeligste folk

Per Vers

verdens lykkeligste folk
verdens lykkeligste folk
verdens lykkeligste folk det er os
vi er verdens lykkeligste folk
hold nu med at være så voldsur
hold med det mol
bare syng en simpel sang i dur
fuck at folk de falder som fluer
fordi at andre folk de fucker op¨og overforbruger
det hele det er i store træk i orden
sluk for det bræk jeg kan ræk dig sporten
kanalen kan skrige krig og klima
men vi kan flip væk
og skyde skylden ud give slip og træk
vi er på det vinderhold
med poten på remoten i fuld kontrol
vores logik er de hårde drenges
følelser og facts
alt kan fortrænges ind i vores boble
glem the trouble
klask dit lår
klask din støvle
drop det bøvl
er der mere vrøvl
har vi altid mere porno til du savler ned af hagen
vi er guldfisk der svømmer i vores bowler hele dagen
verdens lykkeligste folk det er os
verdens lykkeligste folk hvem er vi
verdens lykkeligste folk det er os
vi er verdens lykkeligste folk
verdens lykkeligste folk det siger Oprah det er os
og med et smil der er købt på klods
synes vi Oprah er boss
hun er så rig hun er så rar så hun har ret
alle jer der ikke passer ind gør mig så træt
jeg holder med miss Winfrey
hendes sæbeopera gjorde mig varm indeni
mens jeg fortsætter som om intet var hændt
ved næsetippen at blive
så er min bedste chance
der er så meget der er bedst ikke at gå op i
don't worry be happy ligesom Bobby
vi skal vende det døve øre uden tøven
for man skal jo have sin skønhedssøvn
der er ikke det selvværd hun ikke kan fixe
efter Muhammed kick og cabin twentysix
verdens lykkeligste folk det er os
verdens lykkeligste folk hvem er vi
verdens lykkeligste folk det er os
vi er verdens lykkeligste folk
det er et yndigt land
vi er verdens lykkeligste folk
det er et yndigt land
når vi er verdens lykkeligste folk
vi er verdens lykkeligste folk
vi er verdens lykkeligste folk



torsdag den 27. august 2015

Den ukendte soldat

Ed and Nancy Kienholz; Soldier X  (1990)

"Their greatest anti-war piece, Soldier X, is art pared back to the uttermost. In fact, it is so simple that you wonder at this degree of seeming artlessness. And yet it could not be more searching. The wall-mounted piece consists of a battered soldier's helmet mounted on the end of an old, rusting, well-used spade. The empty helmet conceals – or perhaps it stands in for – the handle. At first you notice the rounded fullness of the emptiness of that helmet, mounted at the spade's far end. You take away the fleeting impression that this might be a sketchy, wholly featureless likeness – after all, it's nothing but a pole – of the thinnest of thin human bodies, one of those thin, hungry, care-worn bodies that might once have walked in step with one of Giacometti's walking men. The spade's end looks so far away. And yet the passage from one end of the spade to the other is as quick and painfully/painlessly easy as the passage from life to death.
And this is the meaning of the work – we register this quite quickly, and with some degree of shock. That long and slender wooden shaft is a straight, speeding route from life to death for the soldier. It is the simple contract that he has taken out. It is the inevitable meaning of his life as a soldier, to slip down that greasy pole, easy as winking. The piece is wall-mounted too, and this is important. If the foot of the spade were allowed to touch the floor, the piece would be robbed of some of its force as emblem. It would edge towards literal-mindedness.

You can also think of the sculpture as the simplest of simple genealogical trees – there has never been one quite so reduced in content as this one. It has just one line: there are no branchings off to ancestors, siblings or descendants. There is only this swift passage from war to death-in-war. And how poignant is the fact that the helmet is utterly empty, merely the shell of a battered old helmet, once owned by someone, and now co-opted into this sad work. You can imagine that the Kienholzes might once, at some stage in the making, have considered the possibility of filling this helmet with a head of sorts, made of plaster or some such material. How much better, and how much more effective, it is for being utterly empty of content, for being an empty shell of itself.

This emptiness also tells us several things, and these meanings come crowding in at us almost all at once as we look at it: it tells us that the this human machine who is part of the war machine is a cipher of sorts. His identity does not matter to those who have sent him on his mission. He is this remnant, an empty helmet. He is a body among all those thousands of anonymous others who were once out there on the battlefield – to do the filthy work assigned to him. And, yes, he is no longer there now, we know that, because this is evidently a memorial to a dead man. The fact that this is a memorial to an unknown solder, to a cipher called simply "X", is evident from the metal ring near the top of the shaft, marked with an x. The fact that he has been memorialised in this way both pleases and disgusts us simultaneously, pleased that his contribution should have been recognised in this way, and disgusted by the fact that he is a solder who has no name, that he may perhaps have been nothing other than parts of a person when he was found – or perhaps, more callously still, the x indicates that all who willingly play their part in the war machine are finally nothing, more or less, than that machine. Their identity is absorbed into a greater – or perhaps a lesser, depending upon your point of view – whole. The fact that this helmet is empty also makes us think about the fact that being seduced into going to war may have robbed soldier x of his powers of judgement, and even of his brains, that he may have been robbed of his skills as a decision maker by the slick posturings of the advertising man. Yes, he may have been seduced into believing that war is about manliness, the road to a new won prosperity, or that war is the proper forcing ground of pride. War makes a man of mere men. It also robs them of themselves by annihilating them at a stroke."



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