Lust

Something is always left over of the work, to which they are more devoted than to their dearest beloved. The women have been freshly prepared, or preserved. Yes, they too desire something, but not for much longer, the way they're roaring under the lash of the weather, which even dictates their attire. Thus their round fat bodies hum away, life goes on, man vanishes continually in death, the hours sink to the ground, but women flit nimbly about the house, never safe from all the blows that fate deals. How alike their habits are! Every day it's the same. Tomorrow, tomorrow. Procrastination, procrastination! But the next day has not yet come, the woman of the house ca

Thus we all have our worries: whom we could love and what we could eat.

One would not imagine for a moment that there was anything fake about their feelings. Rather, one would think they were genuine jewels that others bedeck themselves with: the throngs of thonged bodies, tricked out in their best (new shoes!) and wandering the paths of their little love affairs, turning to a restless trick or two in their rooms. A human choir sending their many-voiced echo up unto the father in the air on the chair-lift. It was he who created the erogenous zones with which Woman pretties herself up of an evening, rapidly shoving her work out of sight lest anyone pay her properly. Flabbergasted, the men gape into their women's holes, torn by life, and yes, they shudder, as if they knew that the box has long been empty from which the seeds have been shaken out for years. But the dear women are so attached to them. And tomorrow morning the first bus has to be caught, no matter how helplessly they have to thrash their wives, who are attached to them and their short barrels: shoot! Jobs don't grow on trees.

The others, too, take this road to death. They accompany each other for a while, and breathe loudly at the gate, for it to be opened to them. And there come yet more people who have fallen into each other's weakly branches, to tangle their limbs. So that they are a twosome when they have to face their foreman. One has to be able to do something or other! To be bigger and more numerous would be a good start, if one is sinking beneath the stroke of the factory's daily scythe. And from the spoils the owners pick out the very best that you experienced this year on the beaches of Rimini and Carola, where, blooming luxuriantly, you sank beneath the rubble of your short-lived pleasures.

The Direktor of this factory drags his wife back to the car, meaning to shorten this short break by breaking a record at the work he understands best: words of love from his transmitter sound in her ear, and she receives them thrashing and stammering as loving couples without a stereo receive their dance music after midnight. The window, where we can see one of those brightly coloured tracksuits such as generally fetch up in day-trip bars for filling, remains obstinately lit up. The young man stretches out his sleeves, gathered in at the ends with strong knitted cords, and stares out at these charmless people, who are nonetheless perfect in their way if one considers their income from the toil of humankind and their influence on state parliament politics. How wonderful to sing together with the rich and still not have to be in their works choir! To learn their ways and still not have to stand in the fields and have one's hair cut at harvest time! Like lumbering oxen the two cars are grazing side by side in front of the house, and one of the animals is now going to be disembowelled. The door opens, the light goes on. Words of endearment are sent to Gerti's home parts. This paterfamilias has not come to punish but to comfort and to resume possession, already there is a gleam as of a city beyond his gates. He has no desire but for his wife, who is sufficient unto him, unlike others who ca