Till Lindemann
IN good night. Lyrics
One of Lindemann's early poems from 1972 is called "The Nutcracker". Till was 9 years old when he wrote:
HE CLICKS EVERY NUT
JUST VERY
HE SHOULD
EVEN IF HE DOESN'T WANT TO
Till's father, the late children's writer Werner Lindemann, included this poem by his young son in his autobiographical novel. Till Lindemann is all about this, as in childhood, in his lyrical principles: passion, mercilessness, tirelessness, fragmentation, fatalism.
A few years ago I asked Till if he still writes poetry, in addition to his lyrics for Rammstein? “The Nutcracker” by the nine-year-old poet, which made an indelible impression on me, reminded me of the lyric collection Messer (“Knife”) from 2005, in which I then found a genuine treasure: subtle connection, like an umbilical cord, between the external and internal being of the frontman and pyrotechnician adored by all fans. Actually, I never considered Rammstein only a rock band; for me, their songs are “works of art,” and Till’s poetic language is like a flamethrower, spitting out flames of joy, rage and music.
And the music itself is often accompanied by lyrical intertwined patterns. If you saw Rammstein perform in Paris or Houston, if you saw many thousands of people pointing at Till and roaring “Du hasst mich” in German, then the question of some special universal language arose before you. What other German wordsmith is capable of inventing lyrics in our time that people in Munich and Berlin understand as well as in Russia, Mexico, France or the USA?
Before we met in Berlin, a folder with Till's poems was lying on my hotel bed. He entrusted them to me to read. And I read. And I read. And I read. We did not say a word about these verses then. Till often turns to the theme of nature, in which he grew up and into whose peace he escapes. He finds there, in the silence of forests and lakes, a special language, the words of which he immediately wants to write down, the beauty of which he so wants to appropriate for himself...
That's how it started. Then more poems appeared. Like the tides. Ebbs and flows. Loud and quiet. Rough and tender.
The poems collected here ring like scratching on ice in cold night. That being said, there are real monsters, comical carnage, lots of bad stuff, a bit of carnage - and then more affectionate miniatures. Affectionate? Dare we use this word after “Zärtliche Cousinen, Teil III”? Till's poetry, however, manifests itself in both bright and quiet moments, violent, only seeming awkward, inflexible, after which suddenly even lines of lyrics flow, becoming clear, meticulously sharpened:
IN A SILENT NIGHT A MAN CRYS
BECAUSE HE HAS A MEMORY
One long evening I read these and other lines to the actor Matthias Brandt. The next day Matthias wrote to me email: “The most interesting thing about these poems is that hardly anyone would assume that they are by Till Lindemann. At the same time, there is so much silence and depth and comedy in this poetry, as in the texts of Rammstein. These verses are legendary. For an actor they are, so to speak, paradise. They sound like someone ripped off the lyrics to Rammstein songs and put them under a flower press. This is pure Lindemann – a herbarium!”
We see people in Till's poems naked, in thirst, alone, in mockery and hatred. Finally, reading and sorting over and over again, I thought that everything was there: incomparable, convincing wounds of self-affirmation. And so, behind this mantra of denial, “no,” if you take it all in together, there is a big, persistent “yes.”
We feel in Till's heroes the poets whose texts he grew up with at home: Bertolt Brecht, Conrad Ferdinand Meyer, prosector Gottfried Benn. And we feel in these stories (because sometimes epic stories are often in the smallest poems) the heroes of our time - the narrator of modern events of life's catastrophes, the Swiss journalist Erwin Koch, whose "Wahre Geschichten" (" True stories") entitled "Was das Leben mit der Liebe macht" ("What life does with love") belong to Till's favorite books.
We edited the texts collaboratively and at lightning speed, but in order for the reader to come to love them, they may now require post-facto proofreading (too late, too late) because at least some of the poems are a violation public order. Whoever wants to search will find here: broken rhyme schemes, broken rhythm, one or another seemingly involuntary rearrangement of sounds. But essentially: sexual exploitation, age discrimination, and, and, and... In general: whoever wants to read ethical poetry will bow his head in disappointment and cry quietly. Whoever, however, takes a good look instead will be richly rewarded. He states that the lyrical self in these often frantic texts, addressed both to the female readers and to the readers in each line, nevertheless, first of all, serves on a tray its own, tender heart.
Till Lindemann
On a quiet night. Lyrics
One of Lindemann's early poems from 1972 is called "The Nutcracker". Till was 9 years old when he wrote:
HE CLICKS EVERY NUT
JUST VERY
HE SHOULD
EVEN IF HE DOESN'T WANT TO
Till's father, the late children's writer Werner Lindemann, included this poem by his young son in his autobiographical novel. Till Lindemann is all about this, as in childhood, in his lyrical principles: passion, mercilessness, tirelessness, fragmentation, fatalism.
A few years ago I asked Till if he still writes poetry, in addition to his lyrics for Rammstein? “The Nutcracker” by the nine-year-old poet, which made an indelible impression on me, reminded me of the lyric collection Messer (“Knife”) of 2005, in which I then found a genuine treasure: a subtle connection, like an umbilical cord, between the external and internal being of the frontman adored by all fans and pyrotechnics. Actually, I never considered Rammstein only a rock band; for me, their songs are “works of art,” and Till’s poetic language is like a flamethrower, spitting out flames of joy, rage and music.
And the music itself is often accompanied by lyrical intertwined patterns. If you saw Rammstein perform in Paris or Houston, if you saw many thousands of people pointing at Till and roaring “Du hasst mich” in German, then the question of some special universal language arose before you. What other German wordsmith is capable of inventing lyrics in our time that people in Munich and Berlin understand as well as in Russia, Mexico, France or the USA?
Before we met in Berlin, a folder with Till's poems was lying on my hotel bed. He entrusted them to me to read. And I read. And I read. And I read. We did not say a word about these verses then. Till often turns to the theme of nature, in which he grew up and into whose peace he escapes. He finds there, in the silence of forests and lakes, a special language, the words of which he immediately wants to write down, the beauty of which he so wants to appropriate for himself...
That's how it started. Then more poems appeared. Like the tides. Ebbs and flows. Loud and quiet. Rough and tender.
The poems collected here ring like scratching on ice on a cold night. That being said, there are real monsters, comical carnage, lots of bad stuff, a bit of carnage - and then more affectionate miniatures. Affectionate? Dare we use this word after “Zärtliche Cousinen, Teil III”? Till's poetry, however, manifests itself in both bright and quiet moments, violent, only seeming awkward, inflexible, after which suddenly even lines of lyrics flow, becoming clear, meticulously sharpened:
IN A SILENT NIGHT A MAN CRYS
BECAUSE HE HAS A MEMORY
One long evening I read these and other lines to the actor Matthias Brandt. The next day, Matthias wrote to me by email: “The most interesting thing about these poems is that hardly anyone would assume that they are by Till Lindemann. At the same time, there is so much silence and depth and comedy in this poetry, as in the texts of Rammstein. These verses are legendary. For an actor they are, so to speak, paradise. They sound like someone ripped off the lyrics to Rammstein songs and put them under a flower press. This is pure Lindemann - a herbarium!”
We see people in Till's poems naked, in thirst, alone, in mockery and hatred. Finally, reading and sorting over and over again, I thought that everything was there: incomparable, convincing wounds of self-affirmation. And so, behind this mantra of denial, “no,” if you take it all in together, there is a big, persistent “yes.”
We feel in Till's heroes the poets whose texts he grew up with at home: Bertolt Brecht, Conrad Ferdinand Meyer, prosector Gottfried Benn. And we feel in these stories (because sometimes epic stories are often in the smallest poems) the heroes of our time - the narrator of modern events of life's catastrophes, the Swiss journalist Erwin Koch, whose "Wahre Geschichten" ("True Stories") entitled "Was das Leben mit der Liebe macht” (“What Life Does with Love”) are among Till’s favorite books.
We edited the texts collaboratively and with lightning speed, but in order for the reader to come to love them, they now, in retrospect, may now require proofreading (too late, too late) because at least some of the poems are a violation of the social order. Whoever wants to search will find here: broken rhyme schemes, broken rhythm, one or another seemingly involuntary rearrangement of sounds. But essentially: sexual exploitation, age discrimination, and, and, and... In general: whoever wants to read ethical poetry will bow his head in disappointment and cry quietly. Whoever, however, takes a good look instead will be richly rewarded. He states that the lyrical self in these often frantic texts, addressed both to the female readers and to the readers in each line, nevertheless, first of all, serves on a tray its own, tender heart.
I described Till as the King Kong of the Germans modern culture. Also in these poems, a vulnerable but very sensitive frantic berserker rages with his beloved blonde in his paws, rushing through cities or, perhaps, even like the last movie hero, a pirate, across all the waters of the world's oceans. Who would answer King Kong's cry for love with love? The beast must die. Till himself answers this beast, and in this his answer is in tune with the entire work of Rammstein: I am disappointed. For monsters of this type, which Till talks about in his book, there is one statement from the vociferous Georges Simeon. I put this expression in the collection of interviews because all these people with whom I met for conversation were united by a tragic, comic, but in reality always destructive battle against the misfortune of their existence: “Man is so ill-equipped for life that one could would make him a superman if he saw himself as the accused instead of the victim.”
No, there is nothing to change here. But, naturally, we worked on poems together, in each case it was just a little bit - omissions, new headings. I spent a few weeks with Rammstein in the summer of 2002 - they were on tour in the USA - and did a report for SZMagazins. I remembered, along with the sultry hot concerts, first of all: Till’s pathological timidity, when fans ran towards him at breakneck speed. And also his real panic when journalists ran after him... And I remember evenings with Till in hotel complexes on the coast Pacific Ocean, in Denver, Dallas, Phoenix and San Antonio. Quirky tiny slutty birds peered into our eyes from over the edge of the pool bar. There was also an ice-cold Budweiser that would fog up if you didn't drink it at all. Till quietly read a few lines, staring at his laptop, then tapped the keyboard, bared his teeth joyfully and read again, this time louder.
I said: “The second option is somehow better, short and clear. I wonder why?
Till replied: “Because now the rhyme is ruined here. The rhythm at the end of the poem broke. And that's wonderful."
The final stage of preparation for printing took place in the early summer of 2013 in a kitchen in Munich-Schwabing. Till, his long-term friend the artist Matthias Matthies and I were sitting there. Several liters of coffee were drunk, there were sheets of Till’s poems lying around, each with poems in a shorter, modified version. And there lay pitch-black drawings by Mattis. These drawings in no way comment on Till’s poems - they rather provide these poems with some kind of secret, outline a second melody.
I think of this finale in Munich as a reprise of our first evening in Berlin the year before. Modest carton with lyrics by Thiel, standing on my Berlin hotel bed, which the tide threw onto land: poetry of the great shipwreck of our days.
Alexander Gorkov Munich, summer 2013
SYMPHONY
Idolatry on hearing:
All your violins, your trumpets...
Leave me, I live high
and I deeply want
Here's a hole in my ass, look -
Come in
IHR LEUTE SEHT HER
MEIN LEBEN SCHEINT SCHWER
STEHLE UND LÜGE
VERRATE UND BETRÜGE
DOCH MORGEN WERD ICH FRÜH AUFSTEHEN
MIT SCHÄTZEN IN DEN SÜDEN ZIEHEN
Till Lindemann is a legend in the world of music and the author of the lyrics of the German band Rammstein.
His poems, illustrated by the talented artist Matthias Mathis, will guide us through a sensual world woven from sexuality, masochism, sadism, love addiction and reflection.
The heroes of these poems are slaves of eros and thanatos, the techtonic forces that have driven humanity since its inception. Lindemann's lyrics contain an amazing synergy of melancholy, emotional depth, animal instincts, self-flagellation and euphoria.
18+. Contains obscene language.
What this book is about Till Lindemann has long needed no introduction. Musician, lyricist and lead singer of the band Rammstein. The collection “In a Quiet Night” includes previously unpublished poems by Till Lindemann, presented here in German and Russian. His lyrics are provocative and only true connoisseurs will be able to appreciate and understand them. Combined with illustrations by Mathias Mathis, these poems will guide us through a sensual world woven with sexuality and self-reflection. The book contains obscene language. Age limit – 18+. Who is this book for For fans of Till Lindemann For lovers of unusual provocative poetry Features of the book Bilingual edition - poems in Russian and German Stylish black and white design Unique poetry that can only be found in this book The translation was highly appreciated by German specialists Reviews If you like Rammstein song lyrics, then undoubtedly this is your choice! Bullet Bob, amazon.com I'm a big fan of Till and the band. I read the entire book on the first day. Now I have it at work, and I re-read one poem every morning. I won't spoil it, just buy this book. And yet, there are stunning monochrome illustrations! Rmeaux, amazon.com A great book for poets and fans alike. It's great that it was translated. Curtis, amazon.com
Till Lindemann
On a quiet night. Lyrics
One of Lindemann's early poems from 1972 is called "The Nutcracker". Till was 9 years old when he wrote:
HE CLICKS EVERY NUT HE JUST REALLY MUST EVEN IF HE DOESN'T WANT TO
Till's father, the late children's writer Werner Lindemann, included this poem by his young son in his autobiographical novel. Till Lindemann is all about this, as in childhood, in his lyrical principles: passion, mercilessness, tirelessness, fragmentation, fatalism.
A few years ago I asked Till if he still writes poetry, in addition to his lyrics for Rammstein? “The Nutcracker” by the nine-year-old poet, which made an indelible impression on me, reminded me of the lyric collection Messer (“Knife”) of 2005, in which I then found a genuine treasure: a subtle connection, like an umbilical cord, between the external and internal being of the frontman adored by all fans and pyrotechnics. Actually, I never considered Rammstein only a rock band; for me, their songs are “works of art,” and Till’s poetic language is like a flamethrower, spitting out flames of joy, rage and music.
And the music itself is often accompanied by lyrical intertwined patterns. If you saw Rammstein perform in Paris or Houston, if you saw many thousands of people pointing at Till and roaring “Du hasst mich” in German, then the question of some special universal language arose before you. What other German wordsmith is capable of inventing lyrics in our time that people in Munich and Berlin understand as well as in Russia, Mexico, France or the USA?
Before we met in Berlin, a folder with Till's poems was lying on my hotel bed. He entrusted them to me to read. And I read. And I read. And I read. We did not say a word about these verses then. Till often turns to the theme of nature, in which he grew up and into whose peace he escapes. He finds there, in the silence of forests and lakes, a special language, the words of which he immediately wants to write down, the beauty of which he so wants to appropriate for himself...
That's how it started. Then more poems appeared. Like the tides. Ebbs and flows. Loud and quiet. Rough and tender.
The poems collected here ring like scratching on ice on a cold night. That being said, there are real monsters, comical carnage, lots of bad stuff, a bit of carnage - and then more affectionate miniatures. Affectionate? Dare we use this word after “Zärtliche Cousinen, Teil III”? Till's poetry, however, manifests itself in both bright and quiet moments, violent, only seeming awkward, inflexible, after which suddenly even lines of lyrics flow, becoming clear, meticulously sharpened:
IN A SILENT NIGHT A MAN CRYS BECAUSE HE HAS A MEMORY
One long evening I read these and other lines to the actor Matthias Brandt. The next day, Matthias wrote to me by email: “The most interesting thing about these poems is that hardly anyone would assume that they are by Till Lindemann. At the same time, there is so much silence and depth and comedy in this poetry, as in the texts of Rammstein. These verses are legendary. For an actor they are, so to speak, paradise. They sound like someone ripped off the lyrics to Rammstein songs and put them under a flower press. This is pure Lindemann - a herbarium!”
We see people in Till's poems naked, in thirst, alone, in mockery and hatred. Finally, reading and sorting over and over again, I thought that everything was there: incomparable, convincing wounds of self-affirmation. And so, behind this mantra of denial, “no,” if you take it all in together, there is a big, persistent “yes.”
We feel in Till's heroes the poets whose texts he grew up with at home: Bertolt Brecht, Conrad Ferdinand Meyer, prosector Gottfried Benn. And we feel in these stories (because sometimes epic stories are often in the smallest poems) the heroes of our time - the narrator of modern events of life's catastrophes, the Swiss journalist Erwin Koch, whose "Wahre Geschichten" ("True Stories") entitled "Was das Leben mit der Liebe macht” (“What Life Does with Love”) are among Till’s favorite books.
We edited the texts collaboratively and with lightning speed, but in order for the reader to come to love them, they now, in retrospect, may now require proofreading (too late, too late) because at least some of the poems are a violation of the social order. Whoever wants to search will find here: broken rhyme schemes, broken rhythm, one or another seemingly involuntary rearrangement of sounds. But essentially: sexual exploitation, age discrimination, and, and, and... In general: whoever wants to read ethical poetry will bow his head in disappointment and cry quietly. Whoever, however, takes a good look instead will be richly rewarded. He states that the lyrical self in these often frantic texts, addressed both to the female readers and to the readers in each line, nevertheless, first of all, serves on a tray its own, tender heart.
Current page: 1 (book has 4 pages in total) [available reading passage: 1 pages]
Till Lindemann
On a quiet night. Lyrics
One of Lindemann's early poems from 1972 is called "The Nutcracker". Till was 9 years old when he wrote:
HE CLICKS EVERY NUT
JUST VERY
HE SHOULD
EVEN IF HE DOESN'T WANT TO
Till's father, the late children's writer Werner Lindemann, included this poem by his young son in his autobiographical novel. Till Lindemann is all about this, as in childhood, in his lyrical principles: passion, mercilessness, tirelessness, fragmentation, fatalism.
A few years ago I asked Till if he still writes poetry, in addition to his lyrics for Rammstein? “The Nutcracker” by the nine-year-old poet, which made an indelible impression on me, reminded me of the lyric collection Messer (“Knife”) of 2005, in which I then found a genuine treasure: a subtle connection, like an umbilical cord, between the external and internal being of the frontman adored by all fans and pyrotechnics. Actually, I never considered Rammstein only a rock band; for me, their songs are “works of art,” and Till’s poetic language is like a flamethrower, spitting out flames of joy, rage and music.
And the music itself is often accompanied by lyrical intertwined patterns. If you saw Rammstein perform in Paris or Houston, if you saw many thousands of people pointing at Till and roaring “Du hasst mich” in German, then the question of some special universal language arose before you. What other German wordsmith is capable of inventing lyrics in our time that people in Munich and Berlin understand as well as in Russia, Mexico, France or the USA?
Before we met in Berlin, a folder with Till's poems was lying on my hotel bed. He entrusted them to me to read. And I read. And I read. And I read. We did not say a word about these verses then. Till often turns to the theme of nature, in which he grew up and into whose peace he escapes. He finds there, in the silence of forests and lakes, a special language, the words of which he immediately wants to write down, the beauty of which he so wants to appropriate for himself...
That's how it started. Then more poems appeared. Like the tides. Ebbs and flows. Loud and quiet. Rough and tender.
The poems collected here ring like scratching on ice on a cold night. That being said, there are real monsters, comical carnage, lots of bad stuff, a bit of carnage - and then more affectionate miniatures. Affectionate? Dare we use this word after “Zärtliche Cousinen, Teil III”? Till's poetry, however, manifests itself in both bright and quiet moments, violent, only seeming awkward, inflexible, after which suddenly even lines of lyrics flow, becoming clear, meticulously sharpened:
IN A SILENT NIGHT A MAN CRYS
BECAUSE HE HAS A MEMORY
One long evening I read these and other lines to the actor Matthias Brandt. The next day, Matthias wrote to me by email: “The most interesting thing about these poems is that hardly anyone would assume that they are by Till Lindemann. At the same time, there is so much silence and depth and comedy in this poetry, as in the texts of Rammstein. These verses are legendary. For an actor they are, so to speak, paradise. They sound like someone ripped off the lyrics to Rammstein songs and put them under a flower press. This is pure Lindemann - a herbarium!”
We see people in Till's poems naked, in thirst, alone, in mockery and hatred. Finally, reading and sorting over and over again, I thought that everything was there: incomparable, convincing wounds of self-affirmation. And so, behind this mantra of denial, “no,” if you take it all in together, there is a big, persistent “yes.”
We feel in Till's heroes the poets whose texts he grew up with at home: Bertolt Brecht, Conrad Ferdinand Meyer, prosector Gottfried Benn. And we feel in these stories (because sometimes epic stories are often in the smallest poems) the heroes of our time - the narrator of modern events of life's catastrophes, the Swiss journalist Erwin Koch, whose "Wahre Geschichten" ("True Stories") entitled "Was das Leben mit der Liebe macht” (“What Life Does with Love”) are among Till’s favorite books.
We edited the texts collaboratively and with lightning speed, but in order for the reader to come to love them, they now, in retrospect, may now require proofreading (too late, too late) because at least some of the poems are a violation of the social order. Whoever wants to search will find here: broken rhyme schemes, broken rhythm, one or another seemingly involuntary rearrangement of sounds. But essentially: sexual exploitation, age discrimination, and, and, and... In general: whoever wants to read ethical poetry will bow his head in disappointment and cry quietly. Whoever, however, takes a good look instead will be richly rewarded. He states that the lyrical self in these often frantic texts, addressed both to the female readers and to the readers in each line, nevertheless, first of all, serves on a tray its own, tender heart.
I have described Till as the King Kong of German modern culture. Also in these poems, a vulnerable but very sensitive frantic berserker rages with his beloved blonde in his paws, rushing through cities or, perhaps, even like the last movie hero, a pirate, across all the waters of the world's oceans. Who would answer King Kong's cry for love with love? The beast must die. Till himself answers this beast, and in this his answer is in tune with the entire work of Rammstein: I am disappointed. For monsters of this type, which Till talks about in his book, there is one statement from the vociferous Georges Simeon. I put this expression in the collection of interviews because all these people with whom I met for conversation were united by a tragic, comic, but in reality always destructive battle against the misfortune of their existence: “Man is so ill-equipped for life that one could would make him a superman if he saw himself as the accused instead of the victim.”
No, there is nothing to change here. But, naturally, we worked on poems together, in each case it was just a little bit - omissions, new headings. I spent a few weeks with Rammstein in the summer of 2002 - they were on tour in the USA - and did a report for SZMagazins. I remembered, along with the sultry hot concerts, first of all: Till’s pathological timidity, when fans ran towards him at breakneck speed. And also his real panic when journalists ran after him... And I remember evenings with Till in hotel complexes on the Pacific coast, in Denver, Dallas, Phoenix and San Antonio. Quirky tiny slutty birds peered into our eyes from over the edge of the pool bar. There was also an ice-cold Budweiser that would fog up if you didn't drink it at all. Till quietly read a few lines, staring at his laptop, then tapped the keyboard, bared his teeth joyfully and read again, this time louder.
I said: “The second option is somehow better, short and clear. I wonder why?
Till replied: “Because now the rhyme is ruined here. The rhythm at the end of the poem broke. And that's wonderful."
The final stage of preparation for printing took place in the early summer of 2013 in a kitchen in Munich-Schwabing. Till, his long-term friend the artist Matthias Matthies and I were sitting there. Several liters of coffee were drunk, there were sheets of Till’s poems lying around, each with poems in a shorter, modified version. And there lay pitch-black drawings by Mattis. These drawings in no way comment on Till’s poems - they rather provide these poems with some kind of secret, outline a second melody.
I think of this finale in Munich as a reprise of our first evening in Berlin the year before. A modest cardboard box with Thiel's texts, standing on my Berlin hotel bed, which the tide washed ashore: poetry of the great shipwreck of our days.
Alexander Gorkov
Munich, summer 2013
SINFONIE
SYMPHONY
Idolatry on hearing:
All your violins, your trumpets...
Leave me, I live high
and I deeply want
Here's a hole in my ass, look -
Come in
SINN
IHR LEUTE SEHT HER
MEIN LEBEN SCHEINT SCHWER
STEHLE UND LÜGE
VERRATE UND BETRÜGE
DOCH MORGEN WERD ICH FRÜH AUFSTEHEN
MIT SCHÄTZEN IN DEN SÜDEN ZIEHEN
MEANING
You people look here!
My life is hard:
I steal, I lie shamelessly,
I deceive, I betray,
But tomorrow I’ll start early
I'm heading south with the treasure!
DAS EXPERIMENT
ALLE BLEIBEN STEHEN
ALLE WOLLEN ES SEHEN
SEHT NUR SEHT
IN FLAMMEN STEHT
DIE UNIVERSITÄT
MISSLUNGEN
DAS EXPERIMENT
UND ES BRENNT
DER STUDENT BLEIBT STEHEN
AUS PROTEST
HÄLT SICH AM FEUER FEST
NUR ZEMENT BLEIBT
WENN DAS DACH ZUSAMMENFÄLLT
SIEHT MAN DAS STERNENZELT
DAS IST SCHÖNDU MUSST NICHT MIT DEM FEUER SPIELEN
WENN DU ETWAS WÄRME BRAUCHST
UND ES BRENNT
DER STUDENT
EXPERIMENT
Everyone remained standing
Everyone wants to see this
Look, just look!
engulfed in flames! Attention, viewer:
Unsuccessful
Experiment
Standing, burning
Student
Out of protest
Resolutely blazing in flames
And only cement remains at the bottom
And the visible tent of stars is clear
When the roof collapses
He's beautiful...Believe me, you shouldn't play with fire.
Only if you really need warmth
Out! It's burning
Student
ICH LIEBE DICH
WIE KOMMST DU NUR IM TRAUM DARAUF
DASS ICH DIR SAGE
WORAN ICH KAUM ZU DENKEN WAGE
I LOVE YOU
As soon as you come in a dream,
I'm telling you
About what I hardly dare to think about...
VATERTAG
TAG FÜR TAG UND STUND UM STUNDE
FLIESST DEIN BLUT DURCH MEINE VENEN
IN MINUTEN UND SEKUNDEN
VERDÜNNT MIT ANGST UND KALTEN TRÄNEN
ALLEIN AUF HOHER SEE
UND RUFST WORLD WORTH IN DEN WIND
DIE ICH NICHT VERSTEH
WO BIST DU
HAB DEINE AUGEN IM GESICHT
ICH KENNE DICH
KENN DICH NICHT
TRAG DEIN BLUT MIT WORLD UMHER
ICH KENNE DICH
KENN DICH NICHT MEHR
DU TREIBST IN DEINER EINSAMKEIT
ALLEIN AUF TIEFER SEE
NACHTS IM TRAUM STEHST DU VOR MIR
DU TUST WORLD NICHT MEHR WEH
WO BIST DU
FATHER'S DAY
Day after day and hour after hour
Your blood flows in my veins
In minutes, seconds of happiness
You dissolve the anxiety of the cold of tears
You go to the open sea alone
You shout words at me, you want to say something
But I can't hear them through the wind and rainWhere are you?..
Your eyes are mine, your face is mine
I know you
I don't know you
Your blood rushes through my ardent heart
I know you
I don't know you anymore
You drive away your loneliness with force
You go to the open sea alone
At night in my dreams you come to me again
You don't hurt like you hurt me
in the afternoon...Where are you?..
ELEGIE FÜR MARIE ANTOINETTE
MADAM
LÄSST SIE SICH INFORMIEREN
GAR SCHRECKLICHES WIRD IHR PASSIEREN
MAN MÖCHTE SIE VOR MENSCHENREIHEN
ALSBALD VON IHREM KOPF BEFREIEN
IST SO GESCHICHTE
WIRD PASSIEREN
DARF ICH HERNACH SIE PENETRIEREN
INS WORTLOCH ÜBER IHREM KINN
AUCH HALTE ICH SIE GUT IM SINN
ES FÄLLT DER STAHL UND OHNE SEGEN
ROLLT DER KOPF LIEGT AUF DEN WEGEN
OHNE LEIB UND OHNE HUT
IST NOCH WARM IST ER AUCH GUT
UND DER FLEISCHHALM STEHT RECHT GERADE
ACH ES WÄRE WIRKLICH SCHADE
ANSTAND SCHLÄGT DIE SITTE STICHT DOCH
BESSER LIEDERLICH
ALS WIEDER NICHT
ELEGY FOR MARIE ANTOINETTE
Madam,
Let me notify you,
A terrible thing awaits you...
Would you like to be in front of a crowd of people?
Lose your head?
History's turn is coming,
Everything will happen for you
Then I can fuck you
Into the verbal hole on the chin,
And I assure you and everyone of this,
Which is the best find in this senseSteel fell without blessing,
My head rolls along the sleepers like moments...
Without a body and without a hat - it’s all the same!
And it’s still warm, and I feel so good
And the penis stands quite straight...
Oh, what a shame, Mom!
Decency is forgotten, and custom is in the ass
Drunken debauchery reigns everywhereIt's better to be very depraved
Than dead, let’s say by the way...
WENN MUTTI SPÄT ZUR ARBEIT GEHT
DANN BLEIBE ICH ALLEIN
SIE WIRFT WORLD ZWIEBACK AUF DEN MUND
SCHLIESST MICH IM ZIMMER EINWENN MUTTI SPAT ZUR ARBEIT MUSS
FÄHRT NICHT MIT BUS NOCH BAHN
IHR ARBEITSPLATZ IST GAR NICHT WEIT
IST DAS ZIMMER NEBENANSIE KOMMEN UND SIE GEHEN
MANCHMAL AUCH ZU ZWEIT
DIE SPÄTEN VÖGEL SINGEN
UND WENN DIE MUTTI SCHREITWENN SIE MICH FRÜH ZU BETTE SCHICKT
SAGT ICH SOLL NICHT TRAURIG SEIN
WEINT WORLD EIN BISSCHEN INS GESICHT
SCHLIESST MICH IM ZIMMER EIN
SIE KOMMEN UND SIE GEHENDAS LICHT IM FENSTER ROT
ICH SEHE ZU DURCHS SCHLÜSSELLOCH
UND EINER SCHLUG SIE TOT
TRAURIG WAR ICH VORHER SCHON
DIE MUTTER FEHLT WORLD NICHT
ICH RIECH AN IHREN SCHLÜPFERN
UND MAL MIR DAS GESICHT
WHEN MOTHER GOES TO WORK LATE
When mom goes to work late
I'm left alone at home alone
Throws a sandwich cracker into my mouth
locks my little worldWhen mom has to work late
Trains and buses are already parked
And the work is not easy, it’s not far away at all -
My children's room is next to her
Sometimes there are even two at a time...
The birds lead out melodiously in passages
When mom screams late at nightWhen he sends me to bed early again
He says I shouldn't be sad
My tears are flowing, and again my mother
Locks me up
And they come and then they go
A red lantern lights up on the window...
Through keyhole I see how wet it is
One lord my dead motherYes, I remember how I was heartbroken
I miss my mother, I miss my love
I can still smell the panties lingering
At my boyish cheeks blushing
ZEITLOS
ICH BIN EIN TREFFLICH SCHUSTERJUNG
ICH KÖNNT DIE GANZE WELT BESOHLEN
DOCH LEIDER HAT DIE LEBENSLUST
MEINE GANZE ZEIT GESTOHLEN
TIMELESS
I'm an excellent young shoemaker
And I could hold a candle to the whole world,
But I want to live so greedily, with all my soul
And this thirst steals all my time
WICHTIG
DREIMAL TAGLICH SOLL MAN ESSEN
POST UND PINKELN NICHT VERGESSEN
WEIHNACHTEN ROCKET SCHICKEN
EINMAL IN DER WOCHE FICKEN
IMPORTANT
You should eat three times a day,
Pee, check email, sometimes, even if you’re too lazy,
Send gifts at Christmas
And fuck at least once a week
SCHWARZ
GEH ICH VOR DER NACHT ZUR RUH
DECK ICH MICH MIT SCHWERMUT ZU
DIE HELLE WELT WILL WORLD NICHT GLÜCKEN
MUSS MICH MIT FINSTERNIS VERZÜCKEN
ES IST DIE TOTENSCHWANGERE NACHT
DIE UNS VERZÜCKT ZU SUNDERN MACHT
GEBOTE DIE WIR ÜBERGEHEN
KANN IM DUNKEL NIEMAND SEHEN
WENN ES DUNKEL WIRD
DER SONNENTOD IST WORLD VERGNÜGEN
TRINK DAS SCHWARZ IN TIEFEN ZÜGEN
DAS TAGESLICHT IST KEIN VERLUST
DIE NACHT HÄLT VIELEN IHRE BRUST
TRINKER, HUREN UND VERSCHWÖRER
SIND DEN SCHATTEN ZUGEHÖRIG
HAT SICH DER TAG IM MOND VERKROCHEN
STEIGT UNS FIEBER IN DIE KNOCHEN
KEIN GEBET UND KEINE KERZEN
HEUCHELN LICHT IN UNSERE HERZEN
WENN ES DUNKEL WIRD
DIE SEELE SICH IN LUST VERIRRT
DER SONNE TOD IST WORLD VERGNÜGEN
SCHLUCK DAS SCHWARZ IN TIEFEN ZÜGEN
BLACK
Before the night in silence
Hiding in darkness, I go
I'm not lucky enough to have white light
Admiration is given to me only in darknessThis stillborn night
Furiously creates us sinners
We are breaking sacred commandments
We don't see a soul in the twilight after midnight
The soul is madly lost in desires
Sunset for me is a delight of pleasure
A bright day is not a loss to me, a damage
Night, stop the groaning of people from their breasts
Drunkards, whores, conspirators, thieves...
Their patrimony is the night, a barrier from reproachesThe day lurks on the sick Moon
And there are no candles, no prayers
The fever is growing in our bones
Hypocrisy is the light in our hearts!When darkness falls like a veil
The soul is madly lost in lust
The death of the sun is a pleasure for me
I drink in one gulp the black passions of the moment
LIEBESLIED
DEINE AUGEN
ICH WÜRDE SIE GERNE IN DEN MUND NEHMEN
STANDIG LUTSCHEN DARAN LECKEN
SIE UNBEDINGT AN MEINE EIER HÄNGEN
UNTER MEINE VORHAUT STECKEN
NASS MIR AUF DIE BRÜSTE LEGEN
LIEBESLIEDER FÜR SIE SINGEN
IM ANUS BEIDE WÄR EIN SEGEN
IN DIE ACHSELHÖHLEN ZWINGEN
AUF MEINE MÜDEN AUGEN NÄHEN
BIS DAS LEBEN MICH VERLÄSST
DEN AUGEN IN DIE AUGEN SEHEN
HALT SIE MIT DEN LIPPEN FEST
LOVE SONG
Your eyes...
I would like you to take it in your mouth
Sucked, licked, would have been gentle
With your cute face in my hair
I would have buried myself in foreskin, fidget
And I put my wet dick on my chest
And I sing a love song for her
And there was a blessing in the anus for both
And even in my armpits with force...
Semi-closed tired eyes my
I'm throwing away life with all my might
Look eye to eye
Stop her with your lips tightly!
FLEISCH
ICH FAND FLEISCH IM GARTEN
WAR DOCH NUR EIN STEIN
KONNTE MAN NICHT ESSEN
WARF SCHEIBE DAMIT EIN
ICH FAND FLEISCH IM HOF
DAS WÄLZTE SICH IM DRECK
WOLLTE DARAUF SCHLAGEN
LIEF SCHNELL WEG
ICH FAND FLEISCH AM BETT
DAS HATTE EIN GESICHT
ICH DACHT ES WÄRE LIEBE
WAR ES ABER NICHT
FLESH
I found a body in the garden
There's only one piece left
I want to eat, but I can’t chew
So threw a slice on the waySuddenly I found a body in bed
And it had a face
And I thought, I found love
But there was nothing again
TRAUM
ICH EIN KNABE SIE SCHON ALT
DOCH IHRE HÄUTE WEICH
IN IHREM SCHATTEN WAR ES WARM
KROCH AUF IHR MÜRBES FLEISCHICH EIN KNABE SIE WAR ALT
DOCH LIEBESDURFT AN BEIDEN
VON JUGEND KRANK HAB SIE GEFRAGT
LIESS MICH NICHT LANGE LEIDENSIE HIELT MICH MIT DEN ZÄHNEN
DIE ZUNGE HOCH GEHISST
IHR MUND GING AUF UND NIEDER
UND HAT MICH NICHT GEKÜSSTUND EIN REGEN LEGTE
SICH FEIN AUF MEINE HAUT
DA IST IN TIEFEM SCHAUDER
MEIN JUNGES HERZ ERGRAUTUND EIN REGEN LEGTE SICH
WARM AUF MEINEN TRAUM
GEWECKT VON FEINEM SCHAUER
BEFLECKT MIT BUBENSCHAUM
DREAM
I'm a boy and she's old
However, her skin is soft
Her shadow is full of warmth
I crawl over her flabby meatI'm a boy and she's old
However, the right to be loved is mutual
When she was sick, she asked her youth:
Don’t make me, gloomy, suffer...She held me between her teeth
And raised her hot tongue high
Her slobbering mouth went up and down
The only one who didn’t kiss me was a boy...Suddenly a rule was established between us:
On my skin to caress, bask
In a deep shudder - a vicious circle -
And my young heart turns gray like a blizzard...And the rain stopped its rush over the roof
Warmth in my secluded dream
Your boy lies in exquisite bliss
Stained with boyish foam
NICHT LEBEN WIE EIN HUND
IRGENDWER HAT DEM HUND DIE BEINE ABGERISSEN
WEIL DER AUFS KLAVIER GEPISST
IN SEINER NOT VERSCHENKT DER KÖTER SEINE KETTE
SCHENKT SIE GOTT
DIESER BELOHNT SO VIEL GROSSZÜGIGKEIT
LÄSST DIE HUNDEBEINE WIEDER NACHWACHSEN
DA SPRINGT DAS VIEH AUFS PIANO UND KACKT
AUF DIE TASTEN
DER HERRGOTT IS ENTTÄUSCHT
KANN DOCH NICHT STRAFEN
DIE KETTE HÄLT IHN IM GUTEN
DON'T LIVE LIKE A DOG
Someone broke the dog's legs
Because she peed on the piano
In his misfortune the mongrel gave away the chain
God got the poor man's gift
Our good God rewarded:
Allowed the little legs to grow back together...
This beast immediately jumped
And she shit on the piano...
Our bright God was disappointed,
But I couldn’t punish the mongrel -
The chain did not let Him out of the booth...
ANGST
DIE SONNENBLUME IST VERDURSTET
AM FENSTER STIRBT SIE DA IM STEHEN
SIE WEINT IHR LETZTES GELB INS ZIMMER
ES IST GAR TRAURIG ANZUSEHEN
ANGSTVOLL WENDE ICH MICH AB
ALT VERTROCKNET UND VERGESSEN
WIRD MIR DAS GLEICHE LEID GESCHEN
SO SCHNELL VORBEI DIE GANZE PRACHT
WAR GESTERN NOCH SO WUNDERSCHÖN
FEAR
Sunflower fades sadly
And cries over his last yellowness
He dies on the window in a stubborn stance
And I look at it with black melancholyI turn away with fear...
Everything old is forgotten and dries up
Similar suffering will happen to me
All the splendor slips away so quickly
That just yesterday there was living beauty
SO SCHÖN
LEG DEIN GESICHT
AUF EIN BLATT PAPIER
IST SCHON EIN GEDICHT
UND WIRD LEBEN
SO GORGEOUS
Put your face
on a sheet of paper
there is already one poem
will it live
FERIEN
trÄnen sieht man nicht im wasser
SCHMECKT MAN NICHT WENN MAN ERTRINKT
MISCHEN SICH MIT ANDEREN TRÄNEN
WENN MAN ZUM GRUND DES MEERES SINKT
HOLIDAYS
Tears are not visible in the water
Taste does not recognize them on the shore
Don't mix them with other people's tears
If you don't drown in the sea
NEIN
MEIN BRAVES HERZ
ES SINGT NICHT MEHR
IST NUR VON SCHARFER SILB GESTOCHEN
IM BUSEN SCHEINT ES STILL UND LEER
IST LIEBESKRANK UND ANGEBROCHEN
UND WILL MIR NICHT MEHR ARTIG KLOPFEN
ES IST NICHT DASS ICH TRAURIG WÄR
NUR AM HERZEN IST MIR SCHWER
IST NICHT DASS ICH KUMMER HÄTTE
DIE trÄnen DIE VOM AUGECK TROPFEN
RUFT NUR DER RAUCH
GIB WORLD NOCH EINE ZIGARETTE
NO
My honest heart
Doesn't sing anymore
It's not that I'm sad
only the evil syllable bit
In repentance it seems calm, even empty
broken and love-sick
Doesn't want to fight obediently anymore
It's not that I'm sad
only the heart groans strained
It's not that I was upset
But the tears flow endlessly
Only smoke causes this tragedy......give me another cigarette
SILVESTER
MANCHMAL KOMMT WORLD IN DEN SINN
WEIL ICH DOCH SO VIEL JUNGER BIN
GIESSE ICH DAMIT SIE HALTEN
ETWAS BLEI IN DEINE FALTEN
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