"Lust" - читать интересную книгу автора (Jelinek Elfriede)

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CURTAINS VEIL THE WOMAN in her house from the rest. Who also have their homes. Their holes. The poor creatures. Their hideaways, abideaways: their fixed abodes. Where their friendly faces abide. And all that distinguishes them is the one thing that's always the same. In this position they go to sleep: indicating their connections with the Direktor, who, breathing, is their eternal Father. This Man dispenses truth as readily as he breathes out air. That is how much his rule is taken for granted. Right now he has just about had it with women, so he says. See, there he is, yelling that all he needs is this woman. His woman. There he is, as unknowing as the trees all around. He is married. The fact acts as a counterbalance to his pleasures. This Man and his wife do not blush in each other's presence. They laugh. They have been in the past, are now and ever shall be all things to each other.

The winter sun is small at present. It is depressing an entire generation of young Europeans growing up around here or who come here for the skiing. The children of the workers at the paper mill: they might well recognize the world for what it is at six in the morning when they go to the cowshed and suddenly become strangers terrible to the animals. The woman goes for a walk with her child. She alone is worth more than half the bodies around here taken together. The other half work for the Man at the paper mill when the siren howls. And people keep a tight hold on what's closest, what's stretched out beneath them. The woman has a large clean head. She goes out walking with the child for a good hour, but the child, intoxicated with the light, would rather be rendered insensate, insensitive. By sport. The moment you take your eyes off him, he's plunging his little bones into the snow, making snowballs and throwing them The ground gleams with blood As if served up fresh. Torn birds' feathers on the snowy path. Some marten or cat has been going about its natural business, slinking about on all fours, and some creature or other has been gobbled up The carcass has been dragged off. The woman was brought here from the town, to this place where her husband runs the paper mill. The Man is not counted one of the local people; he is the only one who counts. The blood spatters on the path.

The Man He is a largish room where talking is still possible His son too has to start learning to play the violin now The Direktor does not know his workers as individuals. But he knows their total value as a workforce. Good day there, everybody! A works choir has been established. It is funded by donations. So the Direktor has something to keep him occupied. The choir travels everywhere in buses, so people can say, that's terrific. Often they have to take a stroll round little provincial towns. Off they go, with their unmeasured strides and their measureless wishes, gaping at the provincial shop windows. In the halls, the choir offers a front view of itself, its rear view turned to the bar When you see a bird in flight, all you set is the underside, too. Taking deliberate, industrious strides the songbirds ooze forth from the hired bus, which is steaming with their dung, and promptly try out their voices in the sunshine. Clouds of song rise beneath the mantling sky as the prisoners are lined up

Meanwhile their families are getting by without Father, on a small income. The Fathers eat sausages and drink beer and wine. They damage their voices and senses by using both without due care. A pity that they are of humble birth. An orchestra from Graz could take the place of every one of them. Or alternatively give them back-up. Depending what mood it was in. These awful feeble voices, cloaked in air and time. The Direktor wants them to use their voices to beg for his benevolence. Even the lowly have a chance with him if he notices that they have musical talent. The choir is the Direktor's hobby and is looked after accordingly When they are not being driven about the men are in their pens. The Direktor invests his own money when it's a matter of the bloody, stinking qualifying rounds in the regional championship. He assures himself and his singers of permanence, of continuation beyond the fleeting moment. The men, built above-ground and still building still building. So that by their works shall their wives know them when they are pensioned off But at week ends these most divine of creatures come to a weak end they don't climb the scaffolding, they climb onto a dais at the pub, and sing under compulsion, as if the dead might return and applaud The men want to be bigger, greater and lo. all their works and words want the same thing Edifying edifices

At times the woman is dissatisfied with these defects that burden her life: husband and son. The son a full colour copy, a perfect reproduction, a unique and photo-graphable child He runs along after Father so that he too will be a man one day. And Father)abs the violin in position under his chin so the foam well and truly sprays from his teeth With her life the woman answers for the smooth running of their enterprise and for good feelings each to each Via this woman the Man has passed himself on to perpetuity The woman was of the best stock that could be found and has passed herself on to the child. The child is well-behaved, except al sports, where he is allowed to run wild and needn't put up with anything from his friends, who have unanimously chosen him as the ladder to the heaven of full employment His father sees to it that he himself won't pass away from the earth He manages the factory and manages his memory, rummaging in the pockets of memory for the names of workmen who try to get out of singing in the choir. The child is a good skier, the village children are like grass beneath him. There they stand beside their shoes. The woman in her daybag, which is washed out every day, no longer goes on stage, no, she provides the child with an anchorage on her blessed coast, but the child is forever running away, taking his fire off to the poor people who live in the little houses. Intending them to find his vivacity contagious. In his fine garb he will glide across the whole world. And Father is as puffed-up as a pig's bladder, he sings, plays, yells, fucks. The choir does as he wishes, roaming from valley to mountainside, from sausage to roast, singing likewise. Never asking what they're getting paid for doing it. But the choir members are never laid off. The house is so bright that it saves on lighting costs! Indeed, its brightness is better than light. And song makes a happy home.

The choir has just arrived. Older indigenous peoples out to escape their wives. Sometimes the wives are there too, their locks stiff (sacred power of hairdressers in the country, salting these beautiful women with great pinches of permanent waves!), they have alighted from the vehicles and are having a nice day out. The choir, after all, cannot simply sing to light and air. Calmly the wife of the Direktor walks to the front on Sundays. In the village church. Where God, the mere sight of whom in pictures is an outrage, talks to her. The old women kneeling there already know what lies ahead. They know how it all ends. But still they haven't managed to find the time to learn a single thing. They work their way round from station to station of the cross, and for what? So that soon they can meet their maker, the Lord God Almighty, that hallowed member of the trinity of airhead godhead, face to face. Their slack-skinned bellies in their hands to prove their worthiness to be received. At last, time stands still. Hearing breaks loose of the detritus of a lifetime's perception of their lot. Nature is beautiful in a park and so is singing in an inn.

Amidst all these surrounding massifs to which athletes come the woman realizes that there is no stable centre in her life, not even a recreation centre where a life of recreation might be waiting. The family can do good. But it expects to eat good food too. And to bag the quarry on feast-days. The loved ones are so fond of Mother. There they all sit, together, blissful. The woman talks to her son (bacon infested with the maggots of love) and fills him with her all-pervasive low and tender shrieking. She is concerned about him. Protects him with her soft weapons. Every day he seems to die a little more, the older he becomes. The son takes no pleasure in Mother's griping and promptly demands a present. Brief transactions such as these, transactions involving toys or sports equipment, are their way of trying to communicate. Lovingly she flings herself on her son, but even as a torrent she simply flows away, to be heard somewhere far beneath him, in the depths. And she has only this one child. Her husband comes in from the office and instantly she hugs her body in tight so that the Man's senses will not scent a bit of what they fancy. Music sounds forth, straight out of the baroque era and the record player. Imperative: to resemble the full-colour holiday snaps as closely as possible. Not to change, from one year to the next. There isn't a single truthful word in this child, I swear; all he wants is to be off skiing, you take it from me.

Outside feeding times, the son talks very little to his mother, even though she beseechingly pulls an intimate blanket of food up over the two of them. Mother tempts the child out for a walk. And ends up paying dearly, by the minute. Listening to this neatly-turned-out child talking like a television. Which is his main source of nutrition. Off he goes now, out for a walk, unfearing, because he hasn't been watching the nastiness of the videos yet today. At times the sons of the mountains are already asleep at eight in the evening, while the Direktor is adeptly filling more art into his engine. And what most puissant of voices is it, pray, that bids the herds'in the meadow be upstanding, each and every one? And likewise the poor and weary early in the mornings when they look across to the opposite bank where the rich have their holiday homes? I think it's called 03 Wecker. Playing one hit after another from six a.m., those busy little rodents, gnawing away our days from the moment we wake.

In the Hitlerian back rooms at the gas stations they are taking a swipe at each other again, the petty people tied up in apron strings, wasting themselves and their half portions of ice cream beneath colourful umbrellas. It is always over so quickly. And work takes so long and the rocks endure for ages. No matter how endlessly they go on repeating themselves, all these people can do is reproduce. The hungry mob. Yanking its sex out of that door so conveniently positioned up front. These people don't have windows, so that they don't have to look at their partners when they're at it. We are kept like cattle! And there we go, worrying about getting on in the world!

On the ground lie peaceful paths. In the family there is always one who is waiting in vain, or falling in the struggle to stake a claim. Mother's labours afford her a sense of security, which the fruit of her labour, bent over his instrument, promptly destroys. The local people don't feel at home here, they have to retire for the night when evening life awakens good and proper in the sporting people. To them the day belongs, to them the night belongs as well. Mother monitors the child, squatting on the wall where she lives, so the child does not feel too comfortable about things. This violin doesn't particularly care for the child. In the catalogues, all the like-thinking crowd stride out defiantly, intending to fill each other's cups to overflowing. The personal column is read, and each person rejoices in his own little night, cast into the dark of an unfamiliar body. The diligent carpenters of life put ads in the papers, hoping to install their partition walls in other people's dark corners. One man on his own ought not to be too much for himself to handle! The Direktor reads the ads and places an order for his wife so that he can order her to her place, which is in red nylon lace with holes in the silence for the stars to peep through. One woman isn't enough for the Man. But the threat of disease restrains him. Prevents him from putting forth his sting and supping honey. One day he will forget that his sex can be the end of him and he will demand his share in the great harvest. We want to have fun! We want to ramify! The people who placed the ads lie in complicated positions on their mattresses, describing the paths along which they dally. It's to be hoped their fires don't go out; that would mean they would have to go out themselves and court disappointment. His wife is not enough for the Direktor, but still, he's a public figure, and he has to make do with this small car. He tries to make the best of it: to live and be loved. The children of people who're there to be used: they themselves are employees in the paper mill (it is a temptation to them, the unbound product of which bound books are made), they are unlovely to look at. It takes a siren howling at them to produce any sign of life. At the same time they are hurled out of life and fall like cataracts, superfluous, from the lofty heights of their savings. The helm has already been seized from their hands and in their stead their wives are making for the safe harbour which the men were at such pains to avoid and to void. They are the fruit of dry vines, shrivelled and rotten in no time at all. On their mattresses they are overcome by the desire for death. Their wives die by their own hand (or have to be given a helping hand by the state). They are not private. They do not have anywhere beautiful to live. What you see of them is what you get. What you see, and what you sometimes hear coming from the choir. Nothing good. They can do a lot of things at the same time and yet they still don't ripple the water in the pool where the Direktor's wife in her swimsuit stretches out on her blanket. The blanket coverage of Nature. Nature, immeasurably high and remote from us average consumers.

The water isblue and never takes a rest. But still the Man returns from his day's work to his home. Not everyone can have taste. The child has a lesson this afternoon. The Direktor has put everything on computer. He writes the programmes himself by way of a hobby. He has no love of the wild; the silent forest means nothing to him. The woman opens the door, and he perceives that there is nothing so big but he will be master of it, but neither must it be too small or else it'll be opened up immediately. His greed is an honest thing. It fits him just as the violin fits under the child's chin. These dear people encounter each other frequently in the house, for everything comes from their hearts and is proclaimed unto the light. The Man wants to be alone with his divine wife now. Poor folk have to pay before they can put in to shore.

Now the woman doesn't even have time to lower her gaze. The Direktor has other ideas when she makes to go into the kitchen to fix something up. He takes her arm in a determined grip. First he wants a crack at her. He's cancelled two appointments in order to have it. The woman opens her mouth to cancel this appointment, but she thinks of his strength and shuts her mouth again. This Man would play his tune even in the bosom of the mountains, his violin stroke would echo off the rocks, he'd stroke his rocks off. Time and again the same old song. This resounding banging tune. So astoundingly terrible. To the accompaniment of resentful looks. The woman hasn't the heart to refuse herself. She's defenceless. The Man is perpetually ready to go. Greedy for his pleasure. To pleasure himself. Lo, this happy day is there for the rich and the poor, but unfortunately the poor begrudge it the rich. The woman laughs nervously as the Man, still wearing his coat, deliberately exposes himself to her. And there it is, the thick-headed thick head and shaft of his member. The woman's laughter grows louder and she slaps herself on the mouth, startled. She's threatened with a beating. Her head is still full of music, Johann Sebastian Bach, expressing her own feelings and those of others, music guaranteed to give pleasure, going round and round in circles on the record player, chasing its tail. The Man is chasing his tail too, or his tail is chasing and he is following. So it goes with men, ever onwards, their works ever greater but presently collapsing behind their backs. The trees in the forest are more stoutly and reliably upstanding. Calmly the Direktor chats about her cunt. How he will force it open in a moment. He seems intoxicated. His words totter and reel. He grips the woman's hip in his left hand and yanks her serviceable (easy to service her) clothing up over her head. She wriggles in his heavy-weight presence. He yells at her for wearing tights, which he long since forbade her to wear, stockings are more feminine and make better use of the available holes, if they don't indeed create new ones. He tells the woman he is going to have her real good now. Twice; At least. Women are planted full of hopes and live off memory, but men live off the moment, which belongs to them and, when carefully tended, can be gathered into a little heap of time which likewise belongs to them. At night they have to sleep and can't fill up. They are afire and warm up in small containers. Surprise surprise, this woman has been secretly rendered infertile through pills; the Man's never-becalmed heart would not countenance having no life gush forth from his ever brimful tank.

Beside the woman, clothing falls in a heap, like dead animals. The Man, still in his coat, is standing with his member standing firm amidst the folds of his clothing. Like light falling on a stone. The tights and panties make a moist ring around the woman's slippers as she steps out of them. Happiness seems to be making the woman go slack. She can't grasp it. The Direktor's cumbrous cranium worries amongst her pubic hair, he bites, his desire is always at the ready, ready to desire something of her. He raises his head to the air and now presses hers to the neck of his bottle, here, taste this. Her legs are in a tight grip. He is touching her up. He cracks her skull on his prick, vanishes inside her and gives her derriere a good hard pinch to help things along. He forces her head back so that her neck cracks, an ungainly sound, and he slurps at her labia, gripped and gathered tight, the life gazing silently from his eyes up to her. Patience: the fruit'll ripen yet. That's what you get if you stack your human habits one atop the other to pick something off the top of the tree, only to find you don't like the taste after all. Everything is hampered and trammelled by the bans and banns of lust and desire. Even on a low hill there's a limit to how much will grow, and the limits placed on us are rigid and extend not much further than we can reach, and we can't reach far, not much of a voyage in our little blood vessels, hard and rigid.

The Man pushes on alone. But it can't be good for the woman to stay in this position for long. This position she has in his house. She wriggles and jiggles and has to open her legs somewhat. His teeth pluck at her belly regardless. The Man inhabits a living hell of his own, but there are times when he has to emerge from it and go down into the pastures. The woman resists, but her resistance is doubtless no more than an act, she is welcome to another slap or two if she wants, if she's set on denying the Man's soul its light. A fair amount has been drunk. The Direktor almost spends himself entirely in his expensive surroundings, in the gloom of which he rages about the food the woman cooks for him. She does not want to let him in. And he feels so big, as if he were all men in one. Just to unload a little here between the standard lamps would unburden him, after all, he has to bear the burden of many who do nothing but grow like the grass on the riverbank, stupid, never giving a thought to the morrow when they must get up. Hermann. Now, having lifted up his wife out of her shoes, he continues the uplifting experience by straddling her on the living room table. Anyone can look in, anyone can envy the rich the beautiful things they keep hidden away. She is flattened on the table and her breasts, big warm steaming cowpats of breasts, flop apart. The Man lifts his leg in his own garden and then off he goes and lifts it at every corner he comes to, too. Not even the haziest patch of ground is safe from him. It is as normal as erotic love, which has never started a fire in their dry wood, the dryness they are born to but do not want on any account to remain in. No, the Direktor will reply to small ads, to exchange his old Ford for a more up-to-date, more powerful model. If only it weren't for the fear of this most up-to-date of diseases, then there would never be silence in the workshops of the Lord. And in the home too there would be notices on the board: Desire, the white member (of a well-hung parliament). Mighty waves go crashing through Time, and mighty is the foaming desire of men, unceasingly. Far-off places are where they love to roam, but they'll also use what they've got at home. The woman wants to get away, to escape these reeking fetters. She has been drawn forth out of nothingness, out of the void, and every day the Man cancels her with his stamp anew, rendering her null and void. She is lost. Mechanically he flicks the woman's legs over him. Various objects belonging to the child fall off the table and bounce softly on the carpet. The Man is the one who still appreciates classical music. With one arm he reaches forwards and opens up the deck. There's a sound of music, the woman puts up with a good deal, mortals live on their wages and work, but, right, music really is an essential part of the experience. The Director's weight keeps the woman down. All he needs to keep down the workers, as they joyfully return from their labour to their leisure, is a signature, he doesn't have to lie upon them. And the sting that hangs by his testicles never sleeps. But in his breast his friends sleep, with whom he used to go to brothels. The woman is promised a new dress as the man rips off his coat and jacket. He is fighting the good fight against alcohol, his tie is twisted into a noose. If I could only have this clad in brand new words this minute! Underhand the Direktor has lit the stereo's fire, and now the music is racing off the turntable and setting the Direktor racing: pick-up arms move forward to play their part, and a Direktor has to got his end away! For his pleasure shall last till you can see the bottom and the poor, drained of love, are sent off the rails and have to take a ride to the labour exchange. For all things shall be everlasting and what's more they shall be indefinitely repeatable, so say the men, and they give a tug at the reins which Mummy once held in her loving hands. Of course you can, dear. And now the Man slides into his wife as if he were greased, in and then out again. Nature cannot have been mistaken about this field; we don't want anything else growing here. It is a community of flesh, and the farmers, who are quick to cry if they're not taken on to earn a little on the side, grow angry if their wives stroke the surprised cattle destined for the slaughter. With Death the gentlemen like to be on good terms, but business must go on as usual. And even unto the poorest shall gladly be accorded the daily pleasure of their women's embraces, where they can be Big Boys after 10 p.m. But for this Direktor time doesn't count, he doesn't have to clock on; after all, he manufactures time himself, and the cards are punched in till the clocks cry for mercy.

He bites the woman's breast, and her hands jerk forward. This only excites him more, and he hits her on the back of her head and tightens her grip on her hands, his enemies of old. For his slaves he has no love either. He stuffs his sex into the woman. The music races ahead and-their bodies race ahead as well. The Frau Direktor loses a little of her control, the bulb's a little loose, better screw it firmly in again. The Man is a sleeping dog that shouldn't have been woken and fetched home from a circle of business friends. He carries his weapon below his belt. Right now he has fetched his pistol out; out it has come like a shot. The woman is kissed. Spitting words of love are slobbered in her ear. This flower wasn't in full bloom for long, won't you thank it? Just now he was wallowing and waltzing inside her, soon his fingers will be producing a fine sound on the violin. Why is the woman turning her head aside? In Nature's society, there is a place for every one of us! Even the smallest of us, even the very least member, though it won't be in great demand. This Man has emptied himself into the woman, he wouldn't mind trying out naughtier tricks in the pool some day! In the correct questionmark position for diving, the Direktor withdraws from the woman, leaving his waste behind. Presently she will be caught in the trap of the household once more and will return whence she came. It is a long while yet to sundown. The Man has poured forth his joy and now, the slush dribbling from his mouth and genitals, goes off to cleanse himself of the day's toil.

The community looks up to them in all things. Let's face it, it's a community short on sporting lasses to look up to. The woman beds down in her troubles and Hermann beds down on the woman, in the peace of the night. And then their son: he has mastered the other children more completely than his violin. Father manufactures the very least of the things that pass beneath the flame of his passion: paper. All that remains, wherever the eye looks upon the works of men, is ash. The woman averts her gaze from the table she has laid, opens a hatch in her dress and tips the leftovers in, true unto herself. Today the family, en famille, is drinking in its own memories from the projector. The food is late, the boy is late, he messes it about terribly. He won't do a thing he's told, he isn't as good as gold. For months he's been promising to improve his violin playing, but Father finds it far more enjoyable to lavish blows on this friendly young creature. The whole country likes to be lavish. It lives on Art. But not all the good citizens and the faithful do so, and none would merit a Very Good in the tests.

The woman's tongue is a dress that covers everything. She absolves herself crunching the salted snacks that seem so much bigger on television than when the hosts dissolve to meaningless nothingness in the mouth. Still, we too, when our bodies are in an evening mood, tip the snacks into our very own personal sewage systems. Father bends over his son. Tender as sausage. Son is sure to get his BMX bike. The Direktor's son enjoys the village children's envy as one might enjoy a stiff pinch of power. Out he promptly goes into the open to smash something up. But the boy is Father's spoils, he spoils him: he has to bow his head over bow and violin today, so the sound that's produced can be used elsewhere to oil feelings. Father likes to show off his progenitorial profit at the instrument. And how Father makes use of this instrument, his child, as if the boy were a shell he had cast off! The boy's wrist has to be relaxed and flexible, it's better for trade, and with the delicate bow he shall roam to and fro in the pastures of the immortals, the family of the great, who are all to be restored to life with great, familiar, restorative sounds. Such horrid sounds, too! Jagged Mozart, if you're in luck. And if you've been tied down by the ankles to prevent you from wandering far afield to graze in other pastures.

The banks offer shoulder-bags in an attempt to win the custom of the very young. Even this riff-raff, the mere proteges of parents, want accounts of their own; there's no accounting for it. In a year or so the money will be looking good: it'll be a car, for death on the roads, or a furnished apartment, for death in your own four walls. Always assuming that – like the Direktor's son – you are a child under fourteen, guiltless, single, alive, but already singled out for a life among the clientele, the future consumer guild that will tax their hearts with the wish – consume their souls with the desire – to have some gilt-edged value added. Perhaps some of us are destined to be clerks behind counters, for what are all these benches doing here anyway? The boy, scarcely baked through, dashes out into the biting cold. He has to take the healing plunge and cool off. He has to listen to the cries of his people, so that he will know how to make them cry all the more.

The Man, having shaved for the second time that day, returns to ride the woman like a boat before his flood. Her hills and valleys plus branches etc. offer prospects of plenty, true, but that final perfection conferred by degradation is still lacking. The Man, buoyed up on the breeze, creates the woman. He draws her parting and tosses her legs apart as if her bones had wilted. He beholds God's tectonic faults on her thighs, they do not bother him, he goes climbing in his private mountains taking a safe path that he knows well. He knows every step along the way. How should he fall? It is his own house. And who indeed would not wish to hang his hat on a peg of his own? Property imposes no duties on the owner; it merely prompts envy in his rivals. Years ago, in the Book of Life, this woman shifted into reverse. What can she still be expecting? He reaches under her skirt and batters through the walls of underwear. He wants to force his way into his wife (this is just a family affair) so that he will sense where his limits are. I rather think he would burst his banks, if it weren't that he's rudderless. He'd be giddy, up there on his own path. All in all, men would quite stand over us if we didn't enclose them within us from time to time, till they are tiny and quiet and quite surrounded. Now the woman involuntarily sticks out her tongue, and why? Because the Direktor has activated a muscle in her jaw, by means of which a snake could spit venom any time, it only needs to be shown how. The Man leads her into the bathroom, giving her his non-stop line of reassuring patter, and bends her over the edge of the tub. He fumbles in her undergrowth. So that he can get in at last without having to wait for the night. He parts her foliage and branches. The tatters of her dress are ripped off. Hair falls into the plughole. Her behind gets a good hiding: where can she be hiding? Where else but behind these gates, which the howling mob will storm and breach at last, the whole amiable crowd of consumers and foodstuff-of-life manufacturers shoving forward to the buffet. Here we are. Our services are required. The woman is offered an organ of similar design or of similar value. He'll screw the ass off her, it's all he wants in life, except to screw the rest of the world and draw his massive monthly salary. A shudder goes through him and he spends his entire sum, far more than any money he could make; how should the woman not be touched by this ray of annunciation? Now she contains the whole man and nothing but the man, as much as she can take; and he maintains the woman, as long as he finds her interior and wallpapering pleasing. He shifts her forequarters into the bathtub. As the proprietor of these and similar premises, he throws her back room open. No client, only he himself, can let in so much fresh air. No one but the Direktor can rain down on her like this. In a short while, with a yell, he will have relieved himself, this enormous horse, eyes rolling, foaming at the mouth, driving the cart right into the dirt. The woman's car is not there for her to drive wherever she may please; he has already shown her the route she is to take, shooting a track clear through the forest for her.

The woman clumsily kicks her slipper heel out, kicking at this clumsy heel who's slipped inside her. She's heard his private parts slapping like a harvester against the rim of the bath. The kick enrages him. The shit will be sticking to him, what a life. A wily lot, the weaker sex. At pains to look beautiful into the bargain. The Man resolves to command the woman to observe their marriage contract. He claps his hand across her mouth, and is bitten, just a few percent of her jaw power, so he has to withdraw the hand in question. He covers the woman with night. But for her enlightenment and his own satisfaction, he shoves his electricity main up her arse. She tries to shake him off, but quickly tires and has to go through with it, eyes shut. He has no love of the wild. Being so wild himself. All about them is a yawning emptiness in the house: the only signs of life are the bushes of hair on his and her abdomen, a sign that says you can get it on tap right here. This year's wine every day of the year. Can't fool us. Awkward nothings are slobbered into the woman's warm earhole. The power of the Man! No need for trickery or weapons. She need only open the gate, for this is his dwelling place, and it's hard to keep back his seed. With a smile, the Creator brings forth out of men their product, so that it may grow accustomed to dashing about in our midst. The Man distributes Creation at a forceful pace, and meanwhile Time passes at a pace of its own. He smashes the tiling and glass in that shady room, which rejoices beneath his busy endeavours and in the brightness of his light. Only within the woman is it dark. He enters her arse and bangs her face against the edge of the bath. She cries out yet again. The pilot settles in for a lengthy session in his cockpit. He himself may already be at rest, but his cock is pitting itself against the elements, ever onward, cliff to crag.

Such a one dives into the shit as others dive into the sea: throwing the switch marked blow on his appliance, he goes on full throttle until he has totally emptied his dustbag.