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.