Lust

In the kitchen, Father tosses a couple of tablets into his son's juice, to silence this fellow who's eternally on duty, just for once. After all, his son can't do much with his juice yet, but Father, oho, once there's peace and quiet he'll thrust from his suit into Mother and tramp along the well-trod path. God sends his ramblers far and wide, up hill and down dale, till they lay each other waste for good and can continue the journey wih the children at the family fare. They sing when they make their appearance and don presumptive sheaths, when they leave the organ they leave their own dung heap behind. That is what the regulations governing the lay-bys of our life say, and in the process the countryside remains lying in the valley, unattached. Down the path that descends from the mountains, just for us. Father will come, turning in for some refreshment at Mother's dairy, where he can drink it on draught. Not even a Direktor gets a special made-to-measure job. These nipples have been well covered up by time, but they feature wonderfully in his everyday life. The child had best lie down to sleep on the house at last, when he's pretended to play the violin a little more. That's it now! We're off to bed. Just one more lullaby for Mother, who can no longer properly make out her son before her own face, though. How often photos have been taken of that face! The child laughs and yells and fights a bit, till the very last of the pills has flowed into his blood. Yes, this son babbles as if he were pla

Mother tries to avoid intercourse with Father's sex, that devastation by means of which he constructs his works in her, with the support of the holy federation. She wants to dwell, yes, but not be visited.

What wouldn't we do to escape the countless speeches from the branches of the child, get into an escape account where we too could finally lie down and, like money, increase in our sleep? It is as if this bottle had been uncorked for good. Nimbler still than the ramblers themselves are their recollections, their bank statements clearly speak of a mountain of interest and sore interest rates. The boy had better sleep and be smoked now, as far as I'm concerned he can skip his bath today. Ah, at last, didn't I say so, at last he's stopped blabbing and is reclining in the armchair. Just now he was cheekily holding forth about the things he knows, and now he is already covered with air and time as if he had never existed. Everything, for nothing is in vain, flows into a trickle of drink from his lip and down his childish chin, where his smile flowered. The child, now that he is finally quiet, is given an inarticulate hug and kiss by Mother. There'll be peace till tomorrow. The main thing is that their son has been knocked out of the way. That child has well and truly surrounded us. At a time when we're busy, with all our orifices, gumming ourselves together in our current situation, which is love. The child's room is made of rough, heavily laden walls, Father carries his son up and drops him out of his clothes and onto the bed like a soft bolster. Whatever lies, sticks. The child is already sleeping, too tired to spray any more sparks from his little tail today. The grown-ups exploit their affinity and paw at each other's gills, to show that age ca

This child is so young, and already gleaming (dreaming). Tenderly Mother lays herself in the child's bed, as an extra, is it going to be a loving night? No, she will soon be extinguished beneath the rigid muscles of her husband, who wants to skim his own cream. The child is already fast asleep. Mother tires herself out with pointless kisses which she spreads across the blanket. She kneads the slack tallow of her son. Why has he stopped flourishing for today? For his spirit to flee so fast is u

Gerti squeezes under the blanket, places her kisses beside the child on the pillow. She rummages in the entrails of the cover, is it gradually dawning on her that she is caught by the heel in her husband's binding, with no hope of rescue? To get in the track now, silent, and go down the slope! Only that binding still holds her to the mountains, till she sinks, mournfully. Now Father is already in his workshop, busy with the loading gear, a good bottle is never spurned. Is that a right that Nature, which gave it us, takes away from us once more? A while later he is standing at the toilet, pissing it all out again. Meanwhile the woman, cringing in her coat, is already ru