We love them
We mourn for them
Unlucky boys of Red
I wish I'd gone down
Gone down with them
To where Mother Nature makes their bed
We miss them
Every night we kiss them
Their faces fixed in our heads
I wish I'd gone down
Gone down with them
To where Mother Nature makes their bed
They can't hurt you
Their style will never desert you
Because they're all safely dead
I wish I'd gone down
Gone down with them
No, it's not a scene from Sokurov's re-boot of Rollerball, it was the fantastic, phantasmic, memorial to the "tragic" Lokomotiv Yaroslavl: The living players shooting on the empty goal, the dead transmuted into sandwich boards, or hygienic pyramids, the crowds looking on the ghosts with a wistful envy -- truly we live in a golden era of permanent funerary mobilisation! The civic religion is in great health. We are so frantic in our grief we can hardly recall what it was we lost. A minor point. What Warhol ought to have said was...
in the future everyone will be dead, and therefore, politically useful, for 15 minutes!
Time's up.
