No, the woman is not mistaken. The boy will long since have put her aside by the time he is a man, and then he will be gone. Now Father drags her into the light, with all his strength, to open her dark tunnel for the express train roaring up. Every day the same. Even landscapes change, be it through sheer boredom, by virtue of the seasons. The woman is passive as a toilet, for the man to do his business in. He shoves her head down into the bathtub and, his hand clawing her hair, threatens that as you make your bed, so you must cry on it, that's love. No, cries the woman. She isn't asking for love. Already the Man is busy with his buttons. Her nightie is hoisted and wrapped around her ears. There is a whimpering in her entrails, like the whimpering of captive animals trying to kick a way out of their cage. The cambric nightdress, bright as a pilot light, is stuffed in the woman's mouth, and the Man appears as Nature made him. His innocent water is passed. Right beside the woman the water splashes from the dark smoke of pubic hair into the tub, past her bowed head. The enamel shines like new. How quickly the Man's tail has grown into a fine upstanding fellow in these friendly surroundings. The woman finds she has to cough while her flanks are being prised open. The can opener is pulled out of the terrifying flannel trousers, and presently a milky fluid appears, in just the time it takes to make a grease stain. His member is hauled out far too early from its drawer into the light. The woman, whose arse has been straddled wide open, a shady lane for the Man to go walking, is left standing. He pulls the helm right round and forces her to look at him. In a rage, he addresses himself to her frontage, forcing her to take hold of his dying willie. There. Already it's starting to twitch again. It wants to dwell within thy hallowed halls! He pushes the woman's hair into his come, what's left of it, let her take a good look, the simpleton. No, they do not rest, the heroes, when their labours are done. The woman is smeared full of sperm. Building her a fine house ensures that a wife will not go missing, and outside stand the paltry terraced houses of the poorest and the unemployed, up for sale, for public auction, or to be torched. And what was once a home is now under the hammer of the local lordsandmasters. What once was work is brutally taken away from these dear hearts. The women/though, can recoup it in small coin. Where else should they go, the women, but to those who splash about in the pool of power? Those who splash out with worthless rubbish that flies from them like foam from teeth? The generators create unnecessary products, the generations create unnecessary problems. This time the Direktor has kept his assets to himself till the right moment. Up front he creams the woman's face with his supersensitive lotion, then she gets an eyeful of his supersensitive parts. To drink in his ichor, truly, is not what she wants, but she must, she must, Love says so, she must groom him and lick him clean and dry him off with her hair. Jesus came first, so to speak, in this. He was wiped dry by a woman. In closing the woman is dealt a slap on the ass, time to close down, a crass lordand-master hand rummages in her slit and probes her orifice, his tongue licks at her nape, her hair hangs down into the tub, he tugs at her clit, and her knees give way and her arse snaps out like a folding chair. And lo, many others are obedient unto his command.
And the boy? What of the boy meanwhile? He's pondering a present he wants bought in return for not having seen any of his plug-and-socket parents' secrets. From every shop he sets eyes on, the child wants another slice of life, cut fresh, only the best, just for him. The child is a devious little rat. The new generation, this. The best is barely good enough. But soon this generation will be passing on as well, moving down the line. How else would we go on?
Father has shot a wad of sperm and now it's up to his wife to clean it up properly. What she doesn't lick up she'll have to wipe up. The Direktor strips off the rest of her clothes and watches her wiping and weaving. One moment her breasts hang forward, the next they bobble about in front of her as she scrubs, making things as new. He pinches her nipples in thumb, index and middle finger, then twists, as if he were trying to screw in a minute light bulb. His raging and weighty entrail slaps out at the window that opens in his trousers and whaps against her thighs from behind. When she bends down she has to spread her legs. Now he can cop hold of her whole fig tree with one hand and set his fingers angrily a-roving. Oh and while she's at it with her legs apart like that she can stand over him and piss in his mouth. What, she can't? Let's see. Up with her knee. There we are (applause, applause!) – the tender lips of her cunt, well part them with a soft smacking sound and we men'll be banging our tankards down on the table with a thump. If she still can't pee we'll drag her privates down by the short and curlies till she bends the knee and splays across the Herr Direktor's chest. By the hairs he holds the lips of her cunt parted like a handbag and slushes it across his face so he can drive his tongue inside, an ox at the salt-lick, the mountain is on fire. The men bear the load. Her waters murmur incomprehensibly. And the women even soak it up with absorbent rags and clean the place with Ajax.
The woman drinks the cold dregs of coffee from her dismal cup. As if preparing to flee, she has pulled on her wispy tights again. There isn't a woman anywhere near who has it anywhere near as good as she does. Her lordandmaster's claw rests upon her head, to make her feel at home in the cage. That evening the Direktor will be smiling at his weary wife again and setting his sights on the target. Later his surging banks of foam will crash against her yet again, his Austrian bank safe against any crash. The woman reaches into nowhere, where the food's spoiling, as if she wanted to shake him off the place of her slumbers. And so they will always be passing each other by on the broad and perilous highway, the terrifying mountain railway of marriage. This woman is envied by the villagers for the fine clothes she wears. The dirt in her house is vacuumed up by a woman hired as a cleaner from the catalogue of villagers, who wanted nothing but to live in brotherhood. The child was born late, but not so late that he hasn't the time to turn into a griping adult. The Man shouts out loud with pleasure, and the woman's voice snuggles against him so that he will wave his magic wand and produce nice expensive things for the home. Such as a three piece suite that can be used at the stations where the two of them go to rub off their blessed sex. But no one can do magic. When the Man sobers up he is obliging towards the woman and good-natured, of course he'll buy her whatever she wants, he bought everything you see here in full colour, ladies and gentlemen. So dry your cheeks! There, now.
In the evening, their plates will offer a refuge to food without a home. Fleetingly the dishes are introduced to each other. Then off they go to mingle. In the bodies. What must things be like beneath some people's roofs! Food is of no consequence in this house, all that matters is that there be a lot to eat, so that the stronger of the two can smile and yield in his largesse. Sausage and cheese of an evening, wine and beer and brandy. And milk for the child, to guarantee his growth. That is how the middle class works: safeguarded below and legally protected above. The protection of Nature is done by the ones underneath. So that the whole class doesn't go plummeting into the bottomless depths.