The Direktor already has his hand in his trouser pocket and is stroking his truncheon through the cloth. Very soon his generous beam will jet upon the woman. And the boy is beaming too. It is not simple with them, the child is already crumbling like petfood under Mother's cutting edge, slicing sternly into his flesh. Mother giggles, her hair in the dust on the floor, which the woman of the house does not concern herself with. The child would like to tell of the rotten things his playmates did to him. But Father hasn't got as much time to love children as you have. Helpless, he kneels over his family, over the one small item amid the huge entirety of his creation. They all laugh heartily. They are tickled by Father, first the one and then the other, as if he were out to shake the life out of them. All of them go on laughing, the Man is less and less touched. What does he care about the kid! He'd rather take aim at Mother's lap, he wouldn't mind sitting there himself. To the child, neither good fortune nor ill matters much, there must be something to be done about that. Time the boy learnt a little discipline, or better still, time he went and tidied up his room! In times of illness Mother is always the one who does the soothing. And women even have to preserve the Man within themselves, lay him out in the chapel of rest, safe from the fire storm which throws bodies out into the night like dogs, to do their business and sleep well afterwards. Opulent Christmas decorations are hung on spindly twigs. The main thing is to have lived, to have been brightly inscribed in the tablets, and as for what one has eaten, from one end of the sacramental menu to the other -! No, here on this wallpaper there's nothing but Taste! Our son, our audience, is already familiar with body-wrestling and finger-painting from many an occasion in the past. He extorts a promise from Father in which sport, his god and idol, plays the principal part. Alluring promises will call upon him. He will be summoned forth by carpets of exciting snow laid out upon the remotest mountaintops. I mean, it will be exciting to see all those skiers racing across the ground to the centre of the world. The child is promised an experience, for Father is expecting a good deal of Mother's body and its ramifications stretching out into the night: this landscape cannot accommodate more than five thousand!
They strut brimful in their functional trousers, the lordsandmasters, and the son is already making his own contribution too. This child, whom Mother cannot reproach with growing too rapidly, after all, she fed him with her own frugal self. This child, a member of the fresh generation, has been brought up by his mother, wound up, and now he can't be stopped, he just keeps going! But now for the lordsandmasters, of whom the Direktor is the highest. His prick can be born in seconds at any time from a warm bath, be pulled out and do its work, and then be reeled in again, contented, by Fate, wherein dwells the strength to play tennis, ride a motorbike and bustle about other such business. When you walk it jiggles, gentlemen. Men try for a great deal amid the weak branches, but I am alone. The child is thinking about a period in the history of the earth which unfortunately he is unable (too late!) to experience retrospectively. A while ago, Father fetched out an encyclopaedia and bent pedagogically over his carefully calculated number of child. Anything more from a child would perhaps deflect Mother's interests too much from Father. Father wants to tie his wife to the bed himself, venomous as disease: God is mean, but he's not the one I mean at the moment.
Like a bell the Direktor rings over his seated group. Outside the trees stand dark, waiting. The family is reconciled, heavily and discourteously the scrotums hang in their very favourite disguises, in paper-lined cupboards, in the balloons of underpants and tracksuits. You just need to reach in and see, everything can be fetched right out again. The sex we belong to, each to his own – as elastically as the rubber band that keeps the poorer bunches of people (they do not count individually) all together, it snaps out of the sack when the lonely man addresses himself to his property as to his shadow, which is the sole one of all living things that fits his measure precisely. The bundle of life, right, sags from the body and we feel fine. Those who want a lot will have to go and buy themselves something. Even the boy: already he's glowing like a real man who bows others and bows to others. He goes from the one to the other, pointing to his own person, which cannot be improved, and carries on along his own envious track, whizzing past us at high speed. The mere impression of it is a very deep one. Yes, this boy may be small, but he's specifically designed as a man, I believe.
Now he's still just a wretch, a brat, so small, but he beats on our eardrums and sends us flying to the poor neighbours, who would complain if they dared. Lovingly Mother bows her mouth to his hair. Father is already becoming inexhaustible, he can hardly contain himself. It's what he keeps concealed from his employees at other times, now he can't help squeezing his instinctive urges tight. He shoves up to his wife from behind. The woman bends contemptuously forward so that life stirs in her depths. With laughter, since his mother's tickling him, the boy shits himself, dumping his dung in Mother's face. Never mind, we go on frolicking about as if we'd just repeated, damply. The woman really has to watch out, but it's too late already and she's half exposed at the rear while at the front she's still sucking up to the child, telling him nicely to be a good boy and tidy away his toys. More this man does not dare, yet still he wins. Like a low-flying aircraft he strokes his wife's behind. Like birds flapping against the light. Today Father can sense his health roaring within him, winning free extra goes. Secretly, under the camouflage of his house jacket, he places his swollen warhead against the slit in his wife's arse, where he thoroughly examines what is at his disposal. He only needs to plough this one furrow, thus the farmer helps the good earth. None of us has to bear the burden of life alone. But why does no one help him buy a car, so that there's something to carry the load companionably with him? Let us look with our eyes open at each other's sex, so that we shall be calm and slender, just as we try so hard to be with medicines and diets. Zealously competing with the others who have come to lay their own spoor. Even at the open door, the Direktor is still pondering which entrance to take, to run himself in, what an honour, to be offered up in a sheaf! Oh God, how beautiful to be a heavy load in a cart stuck luxuriously in the mud for a good wallow. Some vandal has torn down the traffic signs!
The family go on kissing and farting. The time of blissful waiting is over and happy words are in the air. The voice of the king of the house oozes out, it becomes a battle, which he wins. He gets carried away by himself, heaven came close to forgetting the workers and employees who have been well and truly screwed by the boss on high and his holy church and have to stand in their byres, well-proportioned, well-appointed, angrily jangling their bells and chafing at their ropes. What? They don't even refrain from kicking their one sole space?
The woman knows where her husband's shoe pinches, the one he will kick her fence down with in a moment. Sometimes he can hardly wait till evening and tells her to come to his directorial office at the factory, where this bird of prey can contain himself no longer and angrily desires to move into his own homeliness. He reaches into the clouds of his sex and it grows, like fire. The little winner is already being pulled out of the little room above the trouser legs where he has been lurking till he is shown the voucher for a trip of a lifetime, to the golden rain in her apron. Happiness for the owner, from far away his dogs can already smell him and are at each other. Every day's a holiday. Will sleep at least find us today? We have earned it, waiting in silence on the mountaintops under our warming layers so that we do not stamp loose any planks of snow. Just think of the many folds in men's shirts alone, from which men can tip out their sacred streams!