Aske A. Hvidtfeldt, 1985, educated from The Jutland Art Academy 2014.
The man from Misantropolis
I have seen Munch munching Bacon from the same deli Dali did time.
Willumsen running a kite in bad weather stumbling and falling into a black hole like an inverted sun, is hurled out into space where he now converses with the skeletons of bygone and long dead deities.
Mission statement: paint it black.
It’s alive, it’s dead, they all scream.
I only scream ice cream, but no one listens.
We could all do with some ice cream.
Nothing really dies, though all things must pass.
Prophets are misused and misconstrued.
The next one to come thru we’ll kill too.
Bosch, the boss, maestro in a three ring circus, where Kahlo shot out of a canon and broke her spine, can’t get through there’s no one on the line, blackout radio silence from above.
Mission statement: paint it with light. Neon bent on making a statement.
I have seen Mona Lisa and Shakespeare sitting in a tree singing songs of LGBT.
I’ve eaten falafel with Adolf Hitler and Marie Antoinette near the Tannhauser Gate. Watching c-beams glitter in the dark, talking about trauma while writing sonnets about freedom, love, equality and ice cream.
Mission statement: paint it white.
In back alleys bordering bars, bored beyond blue is a line for the spotlight – an endless cue, hopeful and eager tainted with a greyish hue.
Matter matters, what matters matters not, grey matter or a fiendish plot.
Kafka burned the bulk. He was tense they say. So just relax they say, take the chill pill and see how far the rabbit hole goes.
Mission statement: paint it grey.
I’ve seen trees of green, cogs and wheels of the machine.
There were men in cahoots with yellow bellies and black suits.
Pulling strings in a backwards order chanting: “fuck ‘em the law will sort ‘em”.
Needless to say, the needless needs less as the needy needs not need nor want.
But the bull is charging golden and terrible.
Morals flee like shadows in it’s shimmering glow.
Mission statement: paint it red I say, get that thing away!
Red roused bull charged, a bloody war, a heinous killing.
I build a pyramid to withstand time, hoping one day to see a new beginning.
But it doesn’t look like it will be any time soon… have some ice cream, go ahead lick the spoon. Is all hope lost? Is this it for us?
Just a moment …incoming message…
Adjusting mission parameters…blip blip bloop.
New mission statement: paint it black like gunpowder and set it of with a bang.
Start to point it inwards, no more harangue.
In this black silence something is stirring.
The echo of the bang is reverberating in ripples that disturbs the surface into giving up the light that’s hidden underneath.
A universe is born and I am its creator.
Here I am the word and the light. Here I am alone. Out here no one can touch me.
And as I close my eyes and open them on the other side I float out into in the vastness of my innerverse.
I breathe life into suns and spin them off anew, into the void, pivoted and poised askew.
I am the master of my creation and from an ever mutating pale horse I look down upon it great and terrible as I have become.
And I whisper Ice cream…