THEY MIGHT REST IN PEACE and security. But first the sunshine that peeps through the forks of their limbs would needs cast its piercing light upon them: there is something they can do that it's worth having a body for! They can doff each other's hats. With a few thrusts they work their way through to the other side of each other. Their dwelling place seems a very heaven. And before they (like the cheetah) have taken the few mighty bounds that will take them to the drinking trough of the mighty, they'll have coupled several times over. Like motes of dust in a sunbeam. Why else would they have and hold each other, care for each other with water and showers of emotion, as if they were to be canonized? Every part of their bodies has earned their partner's attention and love. Like the farmers who work on the side and get on the foreman's nerves by forever falling asleep on the job. Laying into the animals, slitting their throats, nodding and winking at blind horses: all the tricks that have been performed on themselves, dozens of times. Here comes the small farmer from the stalls and sheds, in Wellingtons, because his good shoes are at home together with his good wife. The blood of the rabbit the children loved is dripping from the sleeve of his jacket. But even this man, who is on this earth to have a life, has an occasional friendly side when he drags a girl off the dance floor into the bushes. And she scarcely notices what she's putting up her resistance to.
But those who dwell in the light that enters through their blinds experience things altogether differently. They are at their best for each other. Even when they oil the silent ointment of time upon their bodies. You hardly see it, time, that suntan lotion of creation, but those who have anointed themselves with it are safe from the rays and noise. Look at this woman, for instance, in this photograph. Time seems to have passed her by without leaving any trace at all. There she is, in her locker, where her husband has stored her for safe keeping.
The big kids who attend the school of profit are filled with worries about nationalization, which tugs at our purse strings as this Direktor tugs at his wife's dugs. The owners have given him to understand that the big companies, wonderful in their greed as in their wrath, would like to play for mortal stakes with the people of the country. The children of those who lose out are the first to realize what side their bread is buttered: no matter how thin the slice, you need to earn your daily bread and save it up in your bank account. On target for the super premium. And maybe the Direktor will play along and sing a chorus too, hallelujah.
He has other worries, then, which he wears with a ruffled air. He wears his hair parted, unruffled, and his genitals in a bag he's brought for his wife. How her eyes will light up! Wait and see! His high monthly income brings indelible joy and cheer upon his weary but notably solvent head. We servants, though, are known for what we are. For there is life in the depths. The people flock to the pub. Soon we shall have all our sheep safely in from the rain and cold, we'll be feathering our own nest, doing our business. Our rapid growth causes suffering to the nobodies who can't see further than the ends of their noses and yet travel further than that, bare-headed and full of resolve, and still end up in front of the boss. Who says he can't comply with their wishes, and swish! – their wishes are scythed down in swathes by the company's resolution to rationalize (ah, these rational people). Truly, the Direktor is in his element. He takes the measure of others, for he is immeasurably wealthy in the eyes of the people who learn how to fall like autumn leaves beside him. Softly, so that they don't disturb him when he plays the violin. He can see no reason why he should restrain himself inside his belt, which looks good on him, for perhaps another has dwelt inside his wife, where only he should dwell. My thanks for listening to these insults.
Tenderly, every inch the jovial deity he can sometimes be when he's in the mood for his wife, he leans over her skin, which is musky with animal vapour. She wants to sleep now. Not a well-advised wish. She is full of her recent past, and if we get real close we'll notice it too: the future "is wide open to the young, if they have studied and their parents have learned to play them off against one another. Let the neighbours' children rot like fallen fruit where they lie. And this woman is already wide open to a hopeless love, cosy as a rabbit hutch the day after the battle, she has already shlepped in all her furniture and there's flowery wallpaper too! From her pussy only a narrow path leads on, and there he stands, the student, together with all my readers, an educated youngster, mild of temper and tempest, waiting to get in again. If we all keep together and keep everything we've got together, our premonitions may come true. We are unnecessary! If we have any title to live at all, then in the memory of some loved animal we have fed or some loved person we have fed ourselves to.
The Direktor could batter his wife, bat her skull-first into the garden any time he chooses, she'd better watch out if she goes batting her eyelids again. But he doesn't bother just now because his urges are gathering like waters in a woodland spring. Useless tears will make her mascara run, she'll be masked, unrecognizable. Patches of purple will blossom on the moorland of her body. Poverty isn't the only way to beat people into submission when day inflames the early hours and coffee gushes into people's gobs. It is not good if we women have nothing to love but the cleaning of rooms and are not subjected to daily inspection to see if our organs are all in order. Don't worry. We're all just as we were. Just the same. Soon the abyss will be full of us. Our detached houses will be o'ershadowed by the interest on the loan. And the boss will be off to the byre, to us animals on the chains of our wishes, waiting to be kicked about. Anyone with a smallholding and a little house of his own will be the first to taste the bitterness of unemployment: so say the people who have just been shopping at a divine little boutique and then squeeze in behind their desks where no one can soothe them any more. Not even the ever so slight friction of water on the sex brushes they use to paint each other's wishes can make them good to the goods and chattels they keep chattering with fear in the death cell. Often it's a drive of several hours till they're home with their human partners and can switch on the current that zaps through the chairs.
You don't go eating out if you've built a beautiful house of your own. Shadow falls on the street. Workers returning home want to turn in somewhere for a beer. The Direktor's brow is innocent of effort. As a violinist he is just a fart in a hurricane, but he can still service his wife in just five minutes. His suspension is good, look at him banging his little jug at her udder, did you see how he stuck it in her mouth? He's still having problems parking those wings. But the lordsandmasters always like shooting the rapids, getting their business done, they're always in a hurry. And your cunt'd be on fire too if someone took a slash in it every day! Outside a zealous policeman passes, making notes. There's many a one of you has seen a strong man weaken at the knee to see a no-hunting sign, but when it comes to the women back home where it's warm and dry, the season's always open and the game is waiting for the hunter. To come and play. This lordandmaster, in whom a need for excitement is stirring, appears like a sign in the heavens above the woman. His tongue sets a pulse beating in the can of juice she has jammed between her thighs. You mustn't be wary of brandishing the fist you thump on the table. Elsewhere, people are seeing to their backfiring exhausts and brooding over their engines, so that they won't be late for work. But in the evening they flare up like flames if their wives' cooking isn't any good. What's this, they say, and the wife casts her gaze up as if she had just climbed the Alps. These people don't have much time left to languish after a beautiful object of their desire with breasts up front (no point having them elsewhere). Even our cars use up our last bit of juice.
The Direktor clings to the woman who shares the bed. She's been worn out and knocked about so long, perhaps he's intending to finish her off. Let's take a look. She really mustn't go prowling about to see if someone will be a real man for her and stick his tongue in her pussy.
The Direktor uses no contraceptives because what he'd like best would be to see a whole lot more miniatures of himself. Only small ones, mind, he won't be put in the shade by anyone. He steps out onto the path of light and cracks open the woman's mouth with his drill. His grip starts her coughing, a shudder passes through her from rudder to udder. The Man seems fascinated by the fact that he can give birth to the entire length of his dong single-handed. He is changed. He quarrels with the woman on account of his slow-burning stove. What an active substance it must be, blessed trinity, growing to three times its single size without divine intervention! No martyrdom required! What a man! And then he rains down on his nearest and dearest. Elsewhere they have steps leading up to the houses, though no one wants to live in them, given the choice. The poorest of the poor find themselves at last, with their small steps.
Yelling, the Herr Direktor drills his way into Gerti's mouth. First he has to be beside himself if he wants to get inside her, these aren't the times to have a little something on the side, and the Direktor was always encouraged as a youngster to show his good side. Put up a good show, fight the good fight, and always make sure your instrument's tuned. His son already plays an instrument too. The slopes tip whole handf uls of acid trees down the mountainside. The woman kicks and is kicked. Till she screams. No, this isn't the time for wandering about the house or smoking a cigarette or boozing or behaving in an angry, threatening way to the staff. Her nightie is stripped off so that she can be groped from various sides, yes, the Direktor is a many-sided talent, right! We often use the bed. It is where we sleep off the war of the sexes. To think we could simply inspect the ranks ad infinitum there and work our way up to mediocrity. In no other field do you rise so fast, always supposing (in the case of women) that the face you have suits you. The crag, after all, doesn't go to the pasture; the animals go to it, to rub their heads on it. Now the woman is flailing and thrashing as if she were out for immortality there amid her electrical appliances. She fades away like the dying echo of a cry, the cry you give when in broad daylight the lightning, that incorrigible flasher, can't control itself and zaps into the TV set. The set, entertainment for the dark night of the soul, will have to be repaired. The Direktor wants to fire his gun again today. To be sure of his wife – lying there bleeding, breathing, retching. Sleep heavy in her eyes. Bile rising in her gorge as this intruder rises in her gorge.
Of course he can spread her cheeks any time he likes with those great heavy paws of his! Those buttocks are his property, just as God is ours. Her sphincter squeaks like an old shoe. In less than five minutes he'll have shot his bolt again. Keep clear at all times! For this Man can't stand life alone, and others have to stand him every day. The woman's body is at his service most of the time.
every now and then it seems as if the sun is going to shine. Get these people out of the way, the farmer's left the furrow ever so slightly ajar! I left them sated and sated I find them, and no lamp lights the way in this terrain. So they plough and rape their wives, and bow and scrape to the works committees, not that the committees have any real power left. Sometimes before you can say Jack Robinson a new skilled worker has been given a dressing down and is waiting in the workshop to be dressed and salted. His field is limited to the very end. There are few women seated at breakfast, which is served by the housekeeper. Opposite the man. With sunglasses shading their drawn worn forlorn eyes. One place exactly is occupied by them. At night they were ridden and rocked like the heavenly horses children learn to ride on. But the children sit more securely in the saddle! This Man takes as many liberties as our president, he is almost as great a burden for us wanderers to bear upon our shoulders. He says that Mozart was a wonderful composer. He too enjoys playing. But on a smaller scale, if you compare the frame. With a little space left over for hobbies. At the Salzburg Festival he has an opportunity to test his stamina. Father agrees with himself. Giving a merry wink, he penetrates his wife's sphincter. She restrains the cry that's straining at the leash, after all, she's a married woman now. Nobody learns to read without paying for it.
The Direktor dips a toe in her cool waters and then emerges from the gloom into the sunshine. In every respect he is at ease in the mansion of himself. He may as well be silent. You can live in a house like snow on the grass of course, but you can keep your chained-up member so busy that the clinking and jingling never stops. There are many women but only one Man. He bends over the woman's hind legs and whispers of the erotic kicks he could get in the brothel any time, instead of which he puts up with her kicks. Erotic! The word was coined for the Erikas of this world, not the Gertis. It is what gives this solemn ceremony its meaning. The Man has to bear the animal within in mind, and what does the animal do when it's been bared? Guess. A conversation with the world and its well-oiled machine parts. In an ante-room where they wait till the women come to their assistance with the musty holes knocked open by the hail. The life's work of some of them will be completely forgotten by the earth. Reliably, though, the Man discovers his ejaculated semen below him, and wallows in the certainty that his child will live on after him, to torment others in his stead. Let's turn a blind eye to it all. Who lays everything waste and nonetheless is always wanting to start afresh? Right. He buys new clothing for the child, and Mother, since Nature has its limits, has to wash it. They show mothers doing so on TV. This mother plays piano, as far as the pedals will take her.
The Direktor has fucked his wife's tube enough, now he gapes at an empty screen. Takes a look at himself. And, an amiable stranger inclined over the engine now that it's idle, he fiddles with his pet. As you might stroke a dog. He dribbles saliva on her, 'scuse me. Your home territory isn't where some other man has been before you. For the Man, the woman is a constant factor/ factotum because she keeps her feet on the ground while he aims straight at the heart and writes computer programmes by way of a hobby. That'll leave them speechless. Light shines upon the field. Tomorrow Gerti is sure to be still there. He doesn't want any other man hanging round when she's hanging loose, boring into her when she's bored. Now the Direktor appears from out of his blind corner, works his way into place like the stream pouring into the valley. That's how he'd like it. Formula One impatiently pawing at the starting line. And all around the selfsame night can never cleanse the poor of themselves. Quite the contrary: they're cold, and they have to warm up at their wives' pussies. They don't want to be too late tomorrow, at the factory, our greatest good, where they are not so much wanted as expected. If they are in flight, they are fetched down. Many of them have to saw frost-damaged branches off their fruit trees. The Direktor gobs terrible wads of filth in his wife's ear. She might simply be forgotten, like a rucksackful of rancid sandwiches, it's up to her. Any time at all! She can have the good life, just as long as she doesn't go overcrowding her knickers, just as long as the way inside is kept clear and gritted, so that the Man knows where to go if he's disaffected. Got to slam the ball home, goal! And what of her? He yanks her hair as if he were still steering. Nearing the end, his trembling member crashes into her undergrowth. The Man punches the nape of her neck and the voice in which he addresses her is awesome. Could it be that this woman is thinking of another, better-loved poker? Could it be possible? So it happens that the Direktor's brimful cup passes her by and its contents are deposited on her skin, a heap of refused refuse. This woman is unworthy that the Direktor should incline towards her at an angle of 45 degrees. Let us now drink two quarters, no, three quarters of our fill! At one time the jolly conquerors didn't have so many interruptions to contend with in their conquests. But now there blows a sharper wind.
The people of the country will soon have to rise and shine, harried from one place to another, even before they know where they're at. But wait a moment. Even they enjoy an advantage: springtime will be theirs as well, with its puffing and blowing and zephyrs and fresh air. But in the mean time we shall have achieved far more. Because we shall have forged ahead. We are confident, we go to the theatre or a concert or exhibition where we recognize our own image, cast by nothing but the light of their wretched eyes. Yes, we are on the list! If you take a look down there, you'll see a wild heap of unemployed believers at the mercy of the banks, you wouldn't credit it. The light in those eyes, ah, at the end of the federal highway, has gilded nothing but factory dividends. But they forgot to indicate, and, misjudging the bend, dazzled by the glare of a job at long last, plunged into the river. One really shouldn't go falling asleep at the wheel early in the morning. And what is becoming of the taxes we pay in the mean time? The money is squandered like people, wasted like lives, an expensive sports car in a slim and talented country, see, where industry takes a sharp bend downhill. Of course people are run over elsewhere too. Now let us continue on our restless way, leaving barely detectible tracks on the federal tarmac and to our children a colour TV set and a video recorder per head.