Michal Lapinski Studio
AMERIKA
Collection
AMERIKA
CC0 by kalhh
C’mon my pretty little thing,
c’mon my sweetie
I will take you,
you bet I’ll do
just me and you
we’re going to
AMERIKA.
Amerika
is where the dreams are made
and sold
it’s where the slave works hard
at the coal face
in the big bank.
He cannot sleep
he doesn't cry
and at the end
gets RICH
He buys himself
a king size bed
the whole-night-through
the lot.
He buys himself
a silver gun
and at the dawn
he shots his son
who does not want his dream.
Goodnight my silly little one
goodbye my sorrow
see you tomorrow
in AMERIKA.
Almighty
He made the fish go rotten
and the wine turn to water
He made us eat the ashes
of the burnt corn
He taught us how to walk on water
and those who went ahead
drowned
He slept with his own daughter
and then sainthood he got her
after he’d let her freeze in the snow
He led lambs to the slaughter
and did not give any quarter
to those who disobeyed or moaned
He made us believe
in killing
and eating
and fornicating
and waiting
for the trumpet to blow
Then we'd go straight to heaven
to sit on his right for ever
between Papa Adolf
and dear Uncle Joe
He made us in the image
of dogs and pigs and skunks
now when you look in the mirror
you know
He gave us each a stick
so we’d fight over
the leftovers
that had gone off
They were from the feast of the gods
— they left the swill for us in a trough
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La chasse des papillons
The butterfly hunt
sounds so much better in French
makes you think
of a playful and gentle chase
The French consonants
roll melodically and softly,
a vowel-like wing flapping
lands you gently
on a flower in dew
There is no butter
hammered into shape and submission
no dirty fly
buzzing annoyingly
with the wings ripped off
The murder, the extinction
of the ornamental
creature of heavens
gassed into oblivion
and pinned down to
a mahogany board
can be forgotten
in the papillon flight of fancy
You are sedated
with the etherial vapour
into dissipated and painless
stillness
Unless you happen to recall
Steve McQueen —
The Papillon —
his life-long torments and tortures
in the smelly dungeons
and deadly swamps
of French Guyana
That’s the price
of remembering
and knowing too much
The images AI assisted
The coral
Have you seen the pictures of the Great Barrier Reef
on that special night in summer when the coral spawns?
If you have I am sure that you will never forget
that incredible display — the explosion of colour
the burst of abundant fertility right in the open
myriads and myriads of to-be lives suspended
in the uncertainty cloud. The sperm and egg fireworks
in slow motion of potentiality, carried by the warm currents.
Will they meet and retreat to a crevice or behind a soft sponge
where they can touch to become one, two, three, and one again?
It is big night for the fish, too. One that was born less than a year ago
has not seen anything like that in her life, wow!
Her parents had such a great night last year, a big feast,
a sumptuous meal rich on protein and excitement
a consummate consumption consummated on a big tide
and now it is going to happen again, and again, year after year
until the fish grows too many, to eat too many, to starve and die.
We humans are fortunate to be protected from the open vastness
and randomness of the tides and from predators,
well, it's not quite true. But at least we are not driven
mindlessly by the animal instincts that would force us to do
what we don't like. We are superior in having this unique capacity
to derive pleasure from anything — an incentive, a reward, a bonus —
to eat up to the point of bursting, to procreate with or without love
or care, to kill as much as we want, until there is nothing left
to eat, to love, to kill — no coral, no fish, no us ... Nirvana ...
Oedipus
I killed my father
When I was fifteen
My mum was a queen
I became a king
I have no regrets
And I feel no pain
Total satisfaction
Is my only aim
In my little kingdom
I do as I please
Without any worries
And free from disease
I gorge, munch and crunch
And I wet my bed
Nothing stays for long
In my empty head
And when I grow older
I'll become more vile
Oedipus Politicus
With a twisted smile
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