Alex von Auslösen
Germans want meat, like the rest of us.
For all the fuss of German despair, i love the sentimentality of it. So "rührig", not the message, but the reaction. Such flounder excitement inside my identity frame of residence. I breath air under German clouds. I love my mighty self. Since that is truth (yes truth, not true) i would live in self denial if i´d not look around and find fruit to chew on; find people to build on, find pride to nag on, find Germany lovable. Because i can leave anytime. Because my pride is effortless and always elsewhere. I am Germany.
Germans want meat, like the rest of us.
I play my balls, and most Germans do too, in private. So we´re ok over here, just a little backtracked by and large. And it´s hard for us to kick ass while so much ass kissing is going on.
Though remembered with much pity, i was not breast fed (i think) and therefore find myself affectionate without a reason in response to the system´s motherly affection. There is this groundfloor of wealth, invisible, forgotten, sucked to oblivion, on which i walk. I stride like that.
For the heart of it, i do encourage goodness. That kind of meme that dies soon; too kitschy to penetrate for long. Kitschyness however is what a Butterbrot German lacks most, is what sounds discordantly in the hairy german ear. Goodness is too good to be german. There are exceptions, petty exceptions (in the forests around the cities).
Exogenous competition seems to be too strong to be givin' without chillin' in good ol' Germany. Shake hands, crack ice. Even in good ol´ Germany, a mother´s child is a mother´s child, eh. Bear with us. Let us grow at our pace. Bear with the scientific grunge in the heads of those with power, bear with the many elite loosers hunching in creative agencies cold at heart. Those self-made intellectuals of void. Bear with the wind, until it carries along the seeds of bullriding champions. Martyrs of goodness is what Germany needs.
Chorus: Germans want meat, like the rest of us.
Most Germans, if they are not butchers, prefer Kuchen (cake). But still, butchery numbness prevails. Germans want meat, like the rest of us, but we´re a little more saucy over it as we steal a rib or two from our neighbour´s Cool. That´s why the Germans love & envy the Spaniards. Not only do they have more bullfights, they also have a mother tongue so rad! To attract Cool, you´d have to loose your mother tongue in Germany, but then, how could you still be lovin´ yourself? Now come here, gimme a hug you german grumpy ghost of a nation.
The girls want to freak, but there is so much freaky kill-billy sexuality in the well-fed, german wannabe middle-manager, that it would be overkill to share that in the open. It would leave american obsessions a footnote in the history books of human sex drive.
Chorus: Germans want meat, like the rest of us.
There is so much grunge, fraud and innocent comic all around. The old man on the street complaining about my unabashed bicyclist right of way. The music manager at EMI who not long ago cautioned me to play the ball low (this is a german saying for: shut up, just don´t try something that would cause the universe to implode). The other CEO from a small agency who offers communication for the masses but thinks most people are actually stupid. The many men in their late forties, imprisoned in the way of doing business in the 70´s; who have less manners than you´d have guessed. The recent graduates in big blue chip companies who take everything for granted. The butcher´s wife whose daughter is so forked up about being as mainstream as she can.
"Invest so much time into the improvement of self, that you have no time to criticize others." Be Germany. "Be the change you want to see." The street is not only for walking. It is for ignoring the path and hauling home the chicken (the Bundesadler).
Chorus: Germans want meat, like the rest of us.
Let two or three generations grow and diversify. Let die out the 40-somethings of the present who are childishly vying to prove something of which there is nothing left. Let´s make babies. The revolution is in them. Let me leave this country. I am not her martyr. I love Germany. But i want a much sweeter sauce on my steak.
Germans want meat, like the rest of us.
For all the fuss of German despair, i love the sentimentality of it. So "rührig", not the message, but the reaction. Such flounder excitement inside my identity frame of residence. I breath air under German clouds. I love my mighty self. Since that is truth (yes truth, not true) i would live in self denial if i´d not look around and find fruit to chew on; find people to build on, find pride to nag on, find Germany lovable. Because i can leave anytime. Because my pride is effortless and always elsewhere. I am Germany.
Germans want meat, like the rest of us.
I play my balls, and most Germans do too, in private. So we´re ok over here, just a little backtracked by and large. And it´s hard for us to kick ass while so much ass kissing is going on.
Though remembered with much pity, i was not breast fed (i think) and therefore find myself affectionate without a reason in response to the system´s motherly affection. There is this groundfloor of wealth, invisible, forgotten, sucked to oblivion, on which i walk. I stride like that.
For the heart of it, i do encourage goodness. That kind of meme that dies soon; too kitschy to penetrate for long. Kitschyness however is what a Butterbrot German lacks most, is what sounds discordantly in the hairy german ear. Goodness is too good to be german. There are exceptions, petty exceptions (in the forests around the cities).
Exogenous competition seems to be too strong to be givin' without chillin' in good ol' Germany. Shake hands, crack ice. Even in good ol´ Germany, a mother´s child is a mother´s child, eh. Bear with us. Let us grow at our pace. Bear with the scientific grunge in the heads of those with power, bear with the many elite loosers hunching in creative agencies cold at heart. Those self-made intellectuals of void. Bear with the wind, until it carries along the seeds of bullriding champions. Martyrs of goodness is what Germany needs.
Chorus: Germans want meat, like the rest of us.
Most Germans, if they are not butchers, prefer Kuchen (cake). But still, butchery numbness prevails. Germans want meat, like the rest of us, but we´re a little more saucy over it as we steal a rib or two from our neighbour´s Cool. That´s why the Germans love & envy the Spaniards. Not only do they have more bullfights, they also have a mother tongue so rad! To attract Cool, you´d have to loose your mother tongue in Germany, but then, how could you still be lovin´ yourself? Now come here, gimme a hug you german grumpy ghost of a nation.
The girls want to freak, but there is so much freaky kill-billy sexuality in the well-fed, german wannabe middle-manager, that it would be overkill to share that in the open. It would leave american obsessions a footnote in the history books of human sex drive.
Chorus: Germans want meat, like the rest of us.
There is so much grunge, fraud and innocent comic all around. The old man on the street complaining about my unabashed bicyclist right of way. The music manager at EMI who not long ago cautioned me to play the ball low (this is a german saying for: shut up, just don´t try something that would cause the universe to implode). The other CEO from a small agency who offers communication for the masses but thinks most people are actually stupid. The many men in their late forties, imprisoned in the way of doing business in the 70´s; who have less manners than you´d have guessed. The recent graduates in big blue chip companies who take everything for granted. The butcher´s wife whose daughter is so forked up about being as mainstream as she can.
"Invest so much time into the improvement of self, that you have no time to criticize others." Be Germany. "Be the change you want to see." The street is not only for walking. It is for ignoring the path and hauling home the chicken (the Bundesadler).
Chorus: Germans want meat, like the rest of us.
Let two or three generations grow and diversify. Let die out the 40-somethings of the present who are childishly vying to prove something of which there is nothing left. Let´s make babies. The revolution is in them. Let me leave this country. I am not her martyr. I love Germany. But i want a much sweeter sauce on my steak.