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Magical Universe

Cast: Al Carbee, Jeremy Workman, Astrid von Ussar

trailer for Magical Universe, directed by Jeremy Workman, screenplay by Jeremy Workman (2013)
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Ein Baum Erzählt von Orpheus

Weißer Tagesanbruch. Stille. Als das Kräuseln begann,
hielt ich es für Seewind, in unser Tal kommend mit Raunen
von Salz, von baumlosen Horizonten. Aber der weiße Nebel
bewegte sich nicht; das Laub meiner Brüder blieb ausgebreitet,
regungslos.
Doch das Kräuseln kam näher – und dann
begannen meine eigenen äußersten Zweige zu prickeln, fast als wäre
ein Feuer unter ihnen entfacht, zu nah, und ihre Spitzen
trockneten und rollten sich ein.
Doch ich fürchtete mich nicht, nur
wachsam war ich.
Ich sah ihn als erster, denn ich wuchs
draußen am Weidehang, jenseits des Waldes.
Er war ein Mann, so schien es: die zwei
beweglichen Stengel, der kurze Stamm, die zwei
Arm-Äste, biegsam, jeder mit fünf laublosen
Zweigen an ihrem Ende,
und der Kopf gekrönt mit braunem oder goldenem Gras,
ein Gesicht tragend, nicht wie das geschnäbelte Gesicht eines Vogels,
eher wie das einer Blume.
Er trug eine Bürde,
einen abgeschnittenen Ast, gebogen, als er noch grün war,
Strähnen einer Rebe quer darüber gespannt. Von dieser,
sobald er sie berührte, und von seiner Stimme,
die, unähnlich der Stimme des Windes, unser Laub und unsere
Äste nicht brauchte, um ihren Klang zu vollenden,
kam das Kräuseln.
Es war aber jetzt kein Kräuseln mehr (er war nahe herangekommen und
stand in meinem ersten Schatten), es war eine Welle, die mich umspülte,
als stiege Regen
empor von unten um mich herum,
anstatt zu fallen.
Und was ich spürte, war nicht mehr ein trockenes Prickeln:
Ich schien zu singen, während er sang, ich schien zu wissen,
was die Lerche weiß; mein ganzer Saft
stieg hinauf der Sonne entgegen, die nun
aufgegangen war, der Nebel hob sich, das Gras
wurde trocken, doch meine Wurzeln spürten, wie Musik sie tränkte
tief in der Erde.

Er kam noch näher, lehnte sich an meinen Stamm:
Die Rinde erschauerte wie ein noch gefaltetes Blatt.
Musik! Kein Zweig von mir, der nicht
erbebte vor Freude und Furcht.

Dann, als er sang,
waren es nicht mehr nur Klänge, aus denen die Musik entstand:
Er sprach, und wie kein Baum zuhört, hörte ich zu, und Sprache
kam in meine Wurzeln
aus der Erde,

[...] Read more

poem by Denise Levertov
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Great Conductors

Hans Richter Parsifal did not conduct,
and to the National Gallery he never paid
a visit, but he showed Franz Strauss who never sucked
just how the horn in Meistersinger should be played.

Franz Strauss refused to play a second time
for Hans von Bülow Meistersinger’s second act;
Hans begged his pardon when Franz told him: “I’m
retiring, since you for the hornist show no tact.”

There is an incident reported about the premiere of Die Meistersinger von Nuremberg. The first version: during a rehearsal Strauss complained about the terrible demanding horn part, but Hans Richter, Wagner's secretary & former first horn at the Viennese Kaerntnerthor Theatre (Beethoven's Sonata op.17 had been premiered there; forerunner theatre of the Imperial Opera House) , was present & asked Strauss to lend him his horn & played the passage from the endings of the second act flawless, but giving the horn back with the comment With your B-flat-horn you will have difficulties always; the F-horn sounds much better.
I do not believe this anecdote to be true. Even an already warmed up horn player of excellent qualities might have difficulties with the Pruegelszene How can a conducter to be (Richter became the first world famous conductor; he led the first Ring in Bayreuth 1876) , who had not played his horn for a while, play this passage flawless without any warm-up. A myth only! Richter used this complain about B-flat horn also, when he conducted in Bayreuth. He recommended the use of the single F horn always. No wonder. He came from Vienna.
The second incident happened after the end of the dress rehearsal of Mastersingers. Hans von Bülow wanted to repeat the ending of the 2nd Act again, but Strauss refused to do so, telling von Bülow that he could not do it again, as being exhausted already. If you cant do it again, so you must better ask for retirement! , replied von Buelow to Strauss. But Strauss left the pit and asked the opera's administration for immediate retirement. So Hans von Bülow had to come to Strauss house at the Pschorr Estate, ask for pardon, which was granted, - so the premiere of Mastersingers was saved.
There is an incident reported about the premiere of Die Meistersinger von Nuremberg. The first version: during a rehearsal Strauss complained about the terrible demanding horn part, but Hans Richter, Wagner's secretary & former first horn at the Viennese Kaerntnerthor Theatre (Beethoven's Sonata op.17 had been premiered there; forerunner theatre of the Imperial Opera House) , was present & asked Strauss to lend him his horn & played the passage from the endings of the second act flawless, but giving the horn back with the comment With your B-flat-horn you will have difficulties always; the F-horn sounds much better.
I do not believe this anecdote to be true. Even an already warmed up horn player of excellent qualities might have difficulties with the Pruegelszene. How can a conductor to be (Richter became the first world famous conductor; he led the first Ring in Bayreuth 1876) , who had not played his horn for a while, play this passage flawless without any warm-up. A myth only! Richter used this complain about B-flat horn also, when he conducted in Bayreuth. He recommended the use of the single F horn always. No wonder. He came from Vienna.
The second incident happened after the end of the dress rehearsal of Mastersinger. Hans von Bülow wanted to repeat the ending of the 2nd Act again, but Strauss refused to do so, telling von Bülow that he could not do it again, as being exhausted already. If you can’t do it again you had better ask for retiremen! replied von Bülow to Strauss. But Strauss left the pit and asked the opera's administration for immediate retirement. So Hans von Bülow had to come to Strauss house at the Pschorr Estate, ask for pardon, which was granted, - so the premiere of Mastersingers was saved.

8/25/08

poem by Gershon Hepner
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Corporal Schnapps

Mine heart ish proken into little pits,
I tells you, friend, what for;
Mine schweetheart, von coot patriotic kirl,
She trives me off mit der war.
I fights for her der pattles of te flag --
I schtrikes so prave as I can;
Put now long time she nix remempers me,
And coes mit another man.

Ah! mine fraulein! You ish so ferry unkind!
You coes mit Hans to Zhermany to live,
And leaves poor Schnapps pehind,
Leaves poor Schnapps pehind.

I march all tay, no matter if der schtorm
Pe worse ash Moses' flood;
I lays all night, mine head upon a schtump,
And "sinks to sleep" in der mud.
Der nightmare comes -- I catch him ferry pad --
I treams I schleeps mit der Ghost;
I wakes next morning frusen in der cround,
So schtiff as von schtone post.

They kives me hart-pread, tougher as a rock --
It almost preaks mine shaw;
I schplite him sometimes mit an iron wedge,
And cuts him up mit a saw.
They kives me peef, as ferry, ferry salt,
Like Sodom's wife, you know;
I surely dinks they put him in der prine
Von hundred years aco.

Py'n py we take von city in der South --
We schtays there von whole year;
I kite me sourcrout much as I can eat,
And plenty loqcar pier.
I meets von lady repel in der street,
So handsome offer I see;
I makes to her von ferry callant pow --
Put ah! she schpits on me.

"Hard times!" you say, "what for you volunteer!"
I todt you friend, what for;
Mine schweetheart, von coot patriotic kirl,
She trove me off mit der war.
Alas! alas! mine pretty little von
Will schmile no more on me;
Put schtill I fights der pattle of te flag
To set mine countries free.

poem by Henry Clay Work
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Das Schlauraffen Landt.

Ain gegent haist Schlauraffen land,
Den faulen leuten wol bekant,
Das ligt drey meyl hinder Weyhnachten.
Vnd welcher darein wölle trachten,
5
Der muß sich grosser ding vermessn
Vnd durch ein Berg mit Hirßbrey essn,
Der ist wol dreyer Meylen dick.
Als dann ist er im augenblick
Inn den selbing Schlauraffen Landt,
10
Da aller Reychthumb ist bekant.
Da sind die Heuser deckt mit Fladn,
Leckuchen die Haußthür vnd ladn,
Von Speckuchen Dielen vnd wend,
Die Tröm von Schweynen braten send.
15
Vmb yedes Hauß so ist ein Zaun,
Geflochten von Bratwürsten braun.
Von Maluasier so sindt die Brunnen,
Kommen eim selbs ins maul gerunnen.
Auff den Tannen wachssen Krapffen,
20
Wie hie zu Land die Tannzapffen.
Auff Fichten wachssen bachen schnittn.
Ayrpletz thut man von Pircken schüttn.
Wie Pfifferling wachssen die Fleckn,
Die Weyntrauben inn Dorenheckn.
25
Auff Weyden koppen Semel stehn,
Darunter Pech mit Milich gehn;
Die fallen dann inn Pach herab,
Das yederman zu essen hab.
Auch gehen die Visch inn den Lachn
30
Gsotten, Braten, Gsulzt vnd pachn
Vnd gehn bey dem gestat gar nahen,
Lassen sich mit den henden fahen.
Auch fliegen vmb (müget jr glaubn)
Gebraten Hüner, Genß vnd Taubn.
35
Wer sie nicht facht vnd ist so faul,
Dem fliegen sie.selbs in das maul.
Die Sew all Jar gar wol geratn,
Lauffen im Land vmb, sind gebratn.
Yede eyn Messer hat im rück
40
Darmit eyn yeder schneydt eyn stück
Und steckt das Messer wider dreyn.
Die Creutzkeß wachssen wie die steyn.

[...] Read more

poem by Hans Sachs
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Allegany Camp

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poem by Rwetewrt Erwtwer
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A Lay of St. Gengulphus

'Non multo post, Gengulphus, in domo sua dormiens, occisus est a quodam clerico qui cum uxore sua adulterare solebat. Cujus corpus dum in fereto in sepulturam portaretur, multi infirmi de tactu sanati sunt.'

'Cum hoc illius uxori referretur ab ancilla sua, scilicet dominum suum quam martyrem sanctum miracula facere, irridens illa, et subsurrans, ait, 'Ita Gengulphus miracula facitat ut pulvinarium meum cantat,' &c. &c.-- Wolfii Memorab.

Gengulphus comes from the Holy Land,
With his scrip, and his bottle, and sandal shoon;
Full many a day has he been away,
Yet his Lady deems him return'd full soon.

Full many a day has he been away,
Yet scarce had he crossed ayont the sea,
Ere a spruce young spark of a Learned Clerk
Had called on his Lady and stopp'd to tea.

This spruce young guest, so trimly drest,
Stay'd with that Lady, her revels to crown;
They laugh'd; and they ate, and they drank of the best,
And they turn'd the old Castle quite upside down.

They would walk in the park, that spruce young Clerk,
With that frolicsome Lady so frank and free,
Trying balls and plays, and all manner of ways,
To get rid of what French people call Ennui.

Now the festive board, with viands is stored,
Savoury dishes be there, I ween,
Rich puddings and big, and a barbecued pig,
And oxtail soup in a China tureen.

There's a flagon of ale as large as a pail --
When, cockle on hat, and staff in hand,
While on nought they are thinking save eating and drinking,
Gengulphus walks in from the Holy Land!

'You must be pretty deep to catch weazels asleep,'
Says the proverb: that is, 'take the Fair unawares;'
A maid, o'er the banisters chancing to peep,
Whispers, 'Ma'am, here's Gengulphus a-coming upstairs.'

Pig, pudding, and soup, the electrified group,
With the flagon, pop under the sofa in haste,
And contrive to deposit the Clerk in the closet,
As the dish least of all to Gengulphus's taste.

Then oh! what rapture, what joy was exprest,
When 'poor dear Gengulphus' at last appear'd!
She kiss'd, and she press'd 'the dear man' to her breast,
In spite of his great, long, frizzly beard.

[...] Read more

poem by Richard Harris Barham
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Five Get Over Excited

Fun, fun, fun (jeremy)
Me, me, me (fifi)
Take, take, take (jeremy)
Fun, fun, fun
James dean posters on their wall
{five killed in a car-crash}
What a sad little end to it all
{five killed in a car-crash}
Last seen having lots of fun
{five dumped in a river}
Barefoot and on the run
{five dumped in a river}
I am mad from scandinavia
I want a guy in the london area
He must be crazy and sagitarius
cause Im leo and Im hilarious
Fun, fun, fun (jeremy)
Me, me, me (fifi)
Take, take, take (jeremy)
Fun, fun, fun
Last seen drinking daddys own beer
{five poisoned over dinner}
Singing abbas mamma mia
{five poisened over dinner}
Drop dead watching thunderbirds fly
{five get over excited}
Poster on their wall says why?
{five get over excited}
I am guy from camden town
My hair is curly but I gel it down
My clothes are black buyt my bread is brown
Im really into early motown
Fun, fun, fun (jeremy)
Me, me, me (fifi)
Take, take, take (jeremy)
Fun, fun, fun
Feigning concern, a conservative pastime
Makes you feel doubtful right from the start
The expression she pulls is exactlly like last time
Youve got to conclude she just hasnt a heart

song performed by Housemartins
Added by Lucian Velea
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The words of a child

When we were small
my younger brother and I
had to stay with the Von Hörsten’s
during the day,
when my mother went to work

and we had to play outside
and was threatened
that we would get dresses
when we wanted
to come into the house,

but this staying
ended dramatically
in my sixth year.

One night my mother wanted to know
how it is going
with out daily visitation,
whereupon I told her
that every thing was well
and my brother said
that I eat my food very slowly.

I told her
that I do not like cabbage
and that we have to eat everything
or get a hiding
if something is left
on our plates.

My mother said that vegetables
are good and necessary to eat
and I accepted it like that,
but it wasn’t the end
of the story.

As a innocent child
my brother told this incident
to one of the Von Hörsten boys
who told it to his dad.

I played in the hillock above their house
when all of the Von Hörsten boys suddenly
came running out of the farmhouse
and went in all directions
calling for me,
but I could immediately see
that there was big trouble
from the way

[...] Read more

poem by Gert Strydom
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I'd like people to remember me for a diligent expert workman. I think a poet is a workman. I think Shakespeare was a workman. And God's a workman. I don't think there's anything better than a workman.

classic quote by Laurence Olivier
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Tales Of A Wayside Inn : Part 1. The Musician's Tale; The Saga of King Olaf II. -- The King's Return

And King Olaf heard the cry,
Saw the red light in the sky,
Laid his hand upon his sword,
As he leaned upon the railing,
And his ships went sailing, sailing
Northward into Drontheim fiord.

There he stood as one who dreamed;
And the red light glanced and gleamed
On the armor that he wore;
And he shouted, as the rifted
Streamers o'er him shook and shifted,
'I accept thy challenge, Thor!'

To avenge his father slain,
And reconquer realm and reign,
Came the youthful Olaf home,
Through the midnight sailing, sailing,
Listening to the wild wind's wailing,
And the dashing of the foam.

To his thoughts the sacred name
Of his mother Astrid came,
And the tale she oft had told
Of her flight by secret passes
Through the mountains and morasses,
To the home of Hakon old.

Then strange memories crowded back
Of Queen Gunhild's wrath and wrack,
And a hurried flight by sea;
Of grim Vikings, and the rapture
Of the sea-fight, and the capture,
And the life of slavery.

How a stranger watched his face
In the Esthonian market-place,
Scanned his features one by one,
Saying, 'We should know each other;
I am Sigurd, Astrid's brother,
Thou art Olaf, Astrid's son!'

Then as Queen Allogia's page,
Old in honors, young in age,
Chief of all her men-at-arms;
Till vague whispers, and mysterious,
Reached King Valdemar, the imperious,
Filling him with strange alarms.

Then his cruisings o'er the seas,

[...] Read more

poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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University Of Central Florida Volleyball

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poem by Caasder Fronds
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A Ballad for Elderly Kids

Now this is the ballad of Jeremy Jones,
And likewise of Bobadil Brown,
Of the Snooks and the Snaggers and Macs and Malones,
And Diggle and Daggle and Down.
In fact, 'tis a song of a fatuous throng.
Which embraces 'the man in the street,'
And the bloke on the 'bus, and a crowd more of us.
And a lot of the people we meet.

Yes, this is the story of Jack and of Jill,
Whose surnames are Snawley or Smith,
And of Public Opinion and National Will,
And samples of Popular Myth.
For Jeremy Jones, as a very small boy,
Was encouraged to struggle for pelf,
And to strive very hard in his own little yard,
But never to think for himself.

Then, Hi-diddle-diddle, the cat and the fiddle,
Come, sing us a nursery rhyme.
For, in spite of our whiskers, we elderly friskers
Are kiddes the most of our time.
So this is the song of the juvenile throng,
And its aunts and its big brother Bill,
Its uncles and cousins, and sisters in dozens,
Louisa and 'Liza and Lill.

Now, Jeremy Jones was exceedingly 'loyal,'
And when any procession went by,
He'd cheer very loud with the rest of the crowd,
Though he honestly couldn't tell why.
He was taught that his 'rulers' toiled hard for his sake,
And promoted the 'general good';
That to meddle with 'customs' was quite a mistake.
And Jones didn't see why he should.

To gird at the 'Order of Things as they Are,'
He was told, was the act of a fool.
He was taught, in effect, to regard with respect
Ev'ry' 'Precedent,' 'Practice' and 'Rule.'
And if we deserted the 'Usual Plan'
He believed that the nation would fall.
So Jones became known as a 'right-thinking man,'
Which meant that he didn't at all.

Oh, Little Miss Muffett, she sat on a tuffet,
But fled from a spider in fright;
For no one haa told her that if she was bolder,
She might have asserted her right.
Ho, rub-a-dub-dub, three men in a tub,

[...] Read more

poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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The Fall of the Deserted

The Fall of the Deserted

The dark fall swells with fruit and abundance,
the yellowed glare of garish summer days.
A pure blueness steps from the ruined husk.
Shadows flap from the ancient myth.
The wine is pressed, benign silence
fraught with the whispered reply to murkier questions.

And here and there a cross on a barren hill.
In the red woods a flock loses itself.
The cloud wanders into the pond’s mirror.
A peasant’s stormless gesture is put to rest.
Below one’s breath the evening wings of grief stir
the dry reeds of our rooftop, the black earth.

Before long the stars will nestle in his weary brow.
In the chilled room a mute humility turns back
and angels tread softly from the blue
eyes of lovers, that more gentle ache.
Reeds hiss. A bone-ridden horror dawns.
Black dew drips from the shaven fields.

Translated by Eric Plattner
……………………………………………………………………

Der Herbst des Einsamen

Der dunkle Herbst kehrt ein voll Frucht und Fülle,
Vergilbter Glanz von schönen Sommertagen.
Ein reines Blau tritt aus verfallener Hülle;
Der Flug der Vögel tönt von alten Sagen.
Gekeltert ist der Wein, die milde Stille
Erfüllt von leiser Antwort dunkler Fragen.

Und hier und dort ein Kreuz auf ödem Hügel;
Im roten Wald verliert sich eine Herde.
Die Wolke wandert übern Weiherspiegel;
Es ruht des Landmanns ruhige Geberde.
Sehr leise rührt des Abends blauer Flügel
Ein Dach von dürrem Stroh, die schwarze Erde.

Bald nisten Sterne in des Müden Brauen;
In kühle Stuben kehrt ein still Bescheiden
Und Engel treten leise aus den blauen
Augen der Liebenden, die sanfter leiden.
Es rauscht das Rohr; anfällt ein knöchern Grauen,
Wenn schwarz der Tau tropft von den kahlen Weiden.

poem by Georg Trakl
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Jeremy

Jeremy sits in the sun and he stares at the stripes
On the floor from the bars on the door,
Thinking of rabbits he kept as a child
In a chicken wire cage; he remembers the rage
Of his father the night he made his one call;
The relative stranger who left him to fall
To the mercy of judges with no shield at all.
Now he sits and he stares at the punishing wall.
Jeremy picks up the crayon he saved and he
Writes in the dark and he thinks of the park
And the flowers he gave to the girl with the bells.
He remembers he smile; it was gone at the trial.
Hear the footsteps of night guards patrolling the halls.
There are coughers and talkers who dont sleep at all.
midst the cursewords and worse words
That someone had scrawled
He writes her a poem on the punishing wall.
Mary, sweet mary, its dark and its cold;
Its all of the stories youve ever been told.
Keep the jar on the window, keep the lock on the door.
Keep your mind on the man; keep away from the store.
Oh, jeremy gentle, oh, jeremy kind
As you walk with the thieves and the killers believe
That our numbers are growin; the change has to come.
Put resentment aside; dont turn bitter and die

song performed by Joni Mitchell
Added by Lucian Velea
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Jeremy Engle

Jeremy Engle
Lives in a tangled
Rent controlled apartment
With his communist family
There are books all around them
The dining room table is lacquered
With news clippings
Yellowing badly
They argue at dinner
His brother's friends drop by
To throw a line in or two
About Tolstoy
They all play guitar
And they're all very far away
In their own minds
From the upper west side
Of manhattan
I never got past his
Googly eyes
That looked at me sadly
In mocking surprise
The way a lord looks at his placemat
Or a stain on his tie
It never happened for me
And Jeremy Engle though
Wanted to step through that portal
And try on that other dimension
Of high high browism
Jeremy's hair and brow
Grow very high
And no not I
I'm more of a napkin
Not blessed with the vision
Beyond how I'm matching
The china and wine
Now there are the Engles
Skewering men
And chewing through
Six pounds of venison
I bet they they shot up
In upstate New York
At their uncle's
Jeremy needs me
To wipe off his eye
Some gelatinous thingy
That his brother's rebuttaling
Mouthful let fly
Sometimes all you need is a napkin
Sometimes all you need is a napkin

song performed by Liz Phair
Added by Lucian Velea
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Wie alt sind Sie?

Wie alt sind Sie?
Zwischen uns;
Wenn du mich nicht nimmst,
Wird es jemand anders tun.
Die Frauen!
Von Alter her zwischen 20 und 40;
Aber, Therapie von Rüchenschmerzen ist Bewegung!
Der gesunde Weg,
Die Männer!
Von Alter her zwischen 40 und 60;
Aber, Therapie von Rüchenschmerzen ist Bewegung!
Du bist 14 Jahre älter als ich,
Vormarsch!
Verheißung,
Eindeutig,
Ein gesetzt;
Aber, der Vater meine Kinder sollte mein Ehemann sein.

poem by Edward Kofi Louis
Added by Poetry Lover
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Mine Vamily

Dimbled scheeks, mit eyes off plue, Mout' like id vas moisd mit dew, Und leedle teeth shust peekin' droo- Dot's der baby.

Curly head, und full off glee, Browsers all oudt at der knee— He vas peen blaying horse, you see— Dot's leedle Yawcob.

Von hundord-seexty in der shade, Der oder day vhen she vas veighed- She beats me soon, I vas avraid— Dot's mine Katrina.

Barefooted head, und pooty stoudt, Mit grooked legs dot vill bend oudt, Fond off his bier und sauer-kraut— Dot's me himself.

Von schmall young baby, full off fun, Von leedle prite-eyed, roguish son, Von frau to greet vhen vork vas done— Dot's mine vamily.

poem by Charles Follen Adams from Yawcob Strauss and Other Poems
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Blauer Engel

Song written in muenster 1983
According to a note on the very first script the text origins from 1978, berlin. must have been a quite interesting time. unfortunately I just cant remember it.
Marian gold, 1998
Frhmorgens halbgetrumte nacht fliegt wie ein echo durch den kopf
Du schaust den spiegel unverwandt an, der mit fingern dich befhlt
Dein photo aneinanderreiht
Millionenfach zu andrer zeit
Millonennfach, zu andrer zeit
Das bin dann ich, nicht etwa du
Du schaust mir nur von weitem zu
Du schreist, ich sehs an deinem blick
Ich aber lache nur zurck
Dagegen kalt auf bahnsteig sechs, berlin von hamm ber hannover
Kommandos gellen an den zgen, die wagen rucken in die nacht
Passiert die endlos lange front von fenstern dj? vu die augen
Und bild um bild verschmelzen sie zum allerletzten passagier
Das bin dann ich, nicht etwa du
Du schaust mir nur von weitem zu
Du schreist, ich sehs an deinem blick
Ich aber lache nur zurck
Zuletzt woanders, 12. stockwerk, appartement 100, appartement 100
Und jemand schleicht sich durch den raum ...
Drei schnelle schritte zum balkon, die tr knallt hinter dir ins schloss
Und krachen dreissig tren und hallen wider wie wilde tiere
Das sind dann wir, nur ich und du, wir schauen uns Im fallen zu
Der schrei bist du, ich dein gesicht
Du nur ein schatten, ich das licht ...
Music by alphaville
Lyrics by gold
Early morning half dreamed night
Flying like an echo through the head
You are looking in the mirror, who touches
You with fingers
Your pictures put together
A million times to different times
This is me, and not you
You are looking at a distance
You are screaming I can see
But I only laugh back at you.
Its cold on the railroad platform 6 berlin to hamm over hannover
Orders are screaming on the train, the cars going through the night
Causing the endless front of windows to be a deja vu from the eyes
Picture after picture melding to the very last passenger.
This is me......
Now to the 12th floor. apartment 100, apartment 100
Somebody is going through the room....
3 fast steps to the balcony, the door closes
And now I hear 3 door slamming and it sounds
Like 30 wild animals racing through the halls
Now we are there you and i

[...] Read more

song performed by Alphaville
Added by Lucian Velea
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Das Fischernetz

Umzingelt von spiegeln
Von traeumen befleckt
Der saum schnuert ein
Was Im koerper steckt
Sanft der bauch, gespannter muskel
Weiche tuecher auf der tigerhaut
Feucht wie gras
Reif und schwer wie bluetenpollen
Der schwamm ist voll
Keiner hat es sehen wollen
Auf alles legt sich kon-ver-sa-tion
Glasur auf warmem, frischem kuchen
Licht draengt durch ihre geheimen tunnel
Ein sog, der nach draussen geht
Bricht sich bahn als greller blitz
Der feinste fratzen erbleichen laesst
Spuer verlangen in leisem fluestern
Spannung Im gesicht
Koerper pressen gegen gitter
Spielt die musik, spielt gericht
Fuer sie
Opfergaben - gekoepfte huehner
Tanzen walzer - sagen - komm!
Mann und weib - nackt vor allen!
Gekreuzte staemme in hitze besetzt
Auch wenn die zarte haut schon zittert
Fuehlen sie noch mit der mutter
Die einsam geniesst, was der tag ihr bringt
Doch auch an andere stunden denkt
Der vater traurig, letzte liebe
Fegt asche mit dem besen
Leises kichern, schmierige witze
Spritzen ueber tisch und tuch
Und worte, worte, worte
Weisst du noch? - der boden ist da...
Liebes, liebster, du... von frost bedeckt
Weisst du noch? - der boden ist da...
Liebes, liebster, du... von frost bedeckt
Ploetzlich stille, fallbeil saust, alle tueren zu
Haende greifen fest ans messer
Schneid den kuche nur Im dunklen an!
Jeder kriegt ein stueck - ein kleines stueck
Den koerper - und das fleisch
Die familie - und das fischernetz
Ein neuer - in den maschen
Der koerper und das fleisch
Der koerper und das fleisch
Und das fleisch

song performed by Peter Gabriel
Added by Lucian Velea
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Wut Will Nicht Sterben (Puhdys Till Lindemann, Wilder Frieden)

Sag mir, wie weit willst Du geh'n
willst Du ihn am Boden seh'n - Ja
willst Du, da er vor Dir kniet
willst Du, da er um Gnade fleht
Rachegedanken von Demut gepeitscht
Du siehst und hrst nichts mehr
Deine kranken Gefhle
geben ihm keine Chance
Deine Wut will nicht sterben
nur dafr lebst Du noch
Du kannst, Du willst und wirst nie vergeben
und Du verteufelst sein ganzes Leben
treibst in den Wahnsinn von
malosem Zorn, Vernichtung und Rache,
Du bist zum Hassen gebor'n
Meine Wut will nicht sterben
Meine Wut will nicht sterben
Meine Wut stirbt nie
Deinen Hass rammst Du wie einen Stein
in ihn hinein Rammstein -
hast ihn verfolgt, gejagt und verflucht
und er hat kriechend das Weite gesucht
Du kannst, Du willst und wirst nie vergeben
und Du verteufelst sein ganzes Leben
treibst in den Wahnsinn von
malosem Zorn, Vernichtung und Rache,
Du bist zum Hassen gebor'n
Meine Wut will nicht sterben
Meine Wut will nicht sterben
Meine Wut stirbt nie
Du kannst, Du willst und wirst nie vergeben
und Du verteufelst sein ganzes Leben
treibst in den Wahnsinn von
malosem Zorn, Vernichtung und Rache,
Du bist zum Hassen gebor'n
Meine Wut will nicht sterben
Meine Wut will nicht sterben
meine Wut stirbt nie

song performed by Rammstein
Added by Lucian Velea
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