Outside the room a young man walks by in the direction of the hallway toilet, he is in his undershirt, suspenders dangling in front. Whistling a little tune about fate, he looks through the window, which is covered on the inside with thin tissue paper, direttissima at Gudrun. She knows the young man out there, that’s obvious. She knows him, she just remembers, from summer vacation in some sunny place. A mountain inn? A bed and breakfast? A group of young people standing in front of the house. All wearing the outfits of mountain climbers and hikers, solid alpine boots, Alpenstocks studded with small insignias, woolen caps or felt hats, parkas tied around the waste, all laughing cockily behind round sunglasses that swallow their eyes, and that young man is a special show-off. He had climbed a few steps down the ditch and picked a twiglet of edelweiss. So folks are around here at times, but their existence gets ignored. The young man flips his hat down his neck and laughs, his teeth are flashing, they blur a bit in his face, almost shifting for a moment, as if they’d been broken out by a blow or kick, as if they were falling through the frame of the lips, no!, at his age he couldn’t really have dentures already! Then everything is okay again. And now he is here, in front of her door, since Gudrun knew him during a past long summer, it evidently drove him madly to this place. And Gudrun thinks: could I be the place? From outside she can hear the key put into the toilet door, then the grinding stops and the dark silhouette approaches anew, it advances, oh God, the head bends as if it wanted to return to the I, and there the young man stands again, pressing his face to the window, shading his field of vision, shielding it jealously and staring at Gudrun washing her nylons. They stare at each other, the young man outside, the young woman, bent slightly, inside. Due to circumstances it so happened that her breasts inside the capsule of her shiny pink satin bra folded forward. Her hair falling into her slightly flushed face, now she straightens up impatiently and pushes it behind her ears. Instantly the man outside flashes a smile, and even through the tissue paper on the window one can see the instantly thrilled glow of his teeth. As if he had a small lamp in his mouth, which he, with his bodily powers, could work up to a certain reflective strength that refracts in the enticing figure of the girl inside. What does the dream tell in which two people are sitting? In the compartment that runs into the undiscovered country: The young man has his bicycle tools with him because later he might repair his bike in the courtyard. The tools include a leather strap with loops that hold the screwdrivers and screw-wenches, neatly arranged by size: All these tools consist of bones! Cleaned ulnar, radius, and metatarsal bones, others I can’t see at the moment. And, as I said, arranged according to size in the loops, handy to use. Otherwise, I can’t see anything unusual about the young man. Except that a few other bones, white and bleached, are scattered about on the floor as if thrown away, torn open with strange abruptness like the door of a train compartment, where we have to let a new passenger in even though it is ours. But I would not see that if I were Gudrun Bichler, for all she can see, strictly speaking, through the tissue paper pasted around the sharp edges of the window, is a floating face. It just proves that people are able to adopt an alien nature if they could not keep their own. And already the room with the two people gets carried away. Utterly senseless how the railroad tracks are laid out, as if to put the reins on the landscape out from under the frozen morass, they don’t fit anyway, and will be plowed up with all the people they hacked out of the Nothing, blond God, you’ve got quite a way to accept an alien nature! Out of this world! You have to stand up on your tiptoes to be able to look over your hobodies with blood running out of their ears, the bludgeons get quite a workout, and it’s always by the ears you start to cut, torture, skin them alive, because they can’t sing and play such cool pop songs as you do with your ancient lyra, still the same old song. The Most High is closest to the one that’s already high up, thus your song climbs up the charts, holding on there with an ice pick, pimple-picked faces are glued to the window, looking forward to the children’s camp they were allowed to be sent to, where even more German youngsters are waiting to bravely forge ahead, with folks on the march in their ears. This is about Endkampf, the final battle in mounting, screaming, and stomping! Okay. The young folks are busy for the moment, but here, in this room, see for yourself: A young man finds himself and his form and leaves it there.

  A knuckle knocks briefly against the glass. Gudrun straightens herself, a strap of her slip slipped over her upper arm, she raises the whole arm to readjust the thin ribbon. She’s got a live man at the frontline of her eyes! Or not? Her pursed lips lure him in so that one word may lead to the next. There stands the young barbarian with his warmth looking for an oven to put it in. Let others have their mind and eat it, too; those pushing and shoving behind him at the checkout, they shot the blood juice of the masses that’s been treaded under booted kicks up their veins, and now he, they are looking for a place where they can empty that juice in peace and quiet. They will be hot for ten years, and then they will get cold again. Woe, when this breed’s hot fermenting sex rockets upward, it will kick in the glass pane cover of our brooder’s fire alarm and pop out so that everything will come into being, while we’ll be the only ones to escape this fate and thus able to continue our slumber. This athletic young man behind the window, e.g., has risen already, which means his turn is first. He took his sex into his lap, so it won’t get lost amid an entirely annihilated lineage or panic. Those many dead are a huge heap of Volk, who even has to supply its own police to make sure it stays within the borders, the togetherness of the vacation camp. The old BS about Eurydice won’t do anymore, for the living are repasts chewed up by the teeth of time, angels of history running backward from the start, no one snaps at them, but you can’t break them out either. Birth to some is already the high point of their existence. Never again will they be attended to as much, the dead. So then, the man knocks at the glass pane, it sounds as if many behind him were knocking with him. Now all that’s left to do is tying off the threads of fate! The window is not an obstacle, the door is open, and Edgar, that’s his name I decided once and for all, flows milkily into the room where little-girlish pussycat pictures hang on the walls getting lapped up instantly by the milky way so many followed. The relief is here, the fork punches the time clock, a spark of grease jumps off the exposed plate, where the last souvenir photos get burned, we are looking for contact, yessir, there it is, people just have to do much work on their bodies, so that they acquire a certain shape. The door is open now, the being enters, opens up right away, no holds barred. It is a welcome guest, for it arrived according to specification, tall, slim, and naturally blond. Feet are networked into a steady trickle of commemorations, the connection works, the source finds the current, the head is a big box truck of thinking, but it doesn’t do it any good: Half a tennis ball has been put over the connector of the prime mover, and the fans are cheering cheering cheering. The nets are raised to pull the millions into our hungry traps. Lots of pictures are taken, even though those millions could not even cast their own pictures in the mirror. No reason to kick over the traces, for the tracks can be redrawn by dead hands over and over again, a spectacle around which an entire German forest darkens, that godpiece of the Germans as they keep raging like two converging rivers. And we must get into the act as well. We entangle ourselves to a web of wimpy wieners whining that it was not us Ösies, the Österreicher, we Austrians to begin with, we: the Ur-Volk. This isn’t our fault. We are just the neighbors. We don’t know if anyone’s at home over there, we haven’t seen one in quite a while.

  10

  If the root is sacred, why not also the branches? Or the raised arms of a people raving that it grew, like a tree, over the other peoples? This tree at any rate has gotten too big for us, and now, at 5:45 p.m. it would have to break through the ceiling. The young man for whom Gudrun Bichler opens the door, had half his head slide off him, despite the surface roughness of his dreamy inclination. The skull like a sheet of paper that had been cut off with precision along a sharp line drawn with a ruler, and Gudrun sees: It was not because of the privacy shield of tissue paper pasted over the pane or the steam on it, no, the young man’s head is split open along an imagined breaking line with almost an entire half missing. On the side where something is missing, there is absolutely nothing. As if someone reached for a glass placed usually to the right side of the plate and it still stands there, but the thirsty person can no longer see it, or, even stranger, he can no longer grasp it! So here the appearance puts us on hold forever and then it is incomplete to boot. Wow, now that head, thoughts must have been working in there like worms! A street corner got in its way and broke it open, a milestone, and what does Gudrun do, she takes a left turn to go home empty-handed once again. This student, if she turns her head to the mirror, is not an appearance to turn heads, she is awkward, an investor who can’t offer anything but a taut, healthy body, that runs noiselessly in the wheels of the joints and on the leashes of those entitled to claim the right to gracefulness and pushed-out breasts and held-in bellies and, long hair, hehe!; but the lines often get caught in that machinery, what do you call those that give humans quite a bit of leeway for running or, as is the case right now, teeter into the coercions of embraces? Living corpses. Women like Gudrun are not desired, for they are too tightly entangled in their pupae threads. A strong wind is howling outside. It tears the last sounds out of the mouths and beats them around the heads of the folks that passed by and disappeared behind the fork in the road. A squall bursts into the clanking street lanterns and dries the last footprint in the snow slush. The cheap displays in the shop windows darken, a sharply outlined cloud has moved in front of the sun, a foehn cloud, it glows up bright red around the edges.

  The man with nothing on his right side, no pet, not even himself, for he is quasi-folded: a man whose life is finished, in whom the spine of memory has been folded back a bit, as if he still tried to turn the page but didn’t get to finish reading the book. So here is this young man, his body discarded almost unused, but when it was thrown out, it still was good. Quite a pity, isn’t it? His hair still thick, a wild mess, whole clumps falling out as if tousled, as lovers like to do, though in other parts still solidly in place. This apple core still has plenty of apple to it! And the joint capsules firmly hold back their flesh if, imagining itself unbound, it wants to disappear for a bit. What’s more, the flesh is even growing! Surprising the happy fella with his very self! On the branches of the hips, it already bursts the skin, lures with passions that, like joint fluid, drip out with gelatinous clarity since someone, doctors, nurses, helpers, broke open those firm thighs, burrowing inside them with claws of steel. This son was doomed and dumped into the garbage, blood-water running from his side, but in return he now leads us closer to Gudrun, lighting the scene like rotted wood. Pulls her slip over her head. And the straps also pull back her shoulders, so that her breasts come out like folding wheels. A body can also be used as a luggage cart or like the famous Knirps folding umbrella. Once is enough, and the woman exits the compartment. Then you dry yourself off and leave again, but only after you jumpstarted the woman. And a second hand that more or less comes out of Nothing, since one half of the young man is almost completely gone, pulls Gudrun’s somewhat worn cotton panties down her knees, while life shines in the woman’s eyes and senses, and she learns that sometimes one has to line up in front if there is no room in the back. The wheels rattle, one hand, which unfortunately is not there, goes on a journey and kneads the roast and lifeless vegetables under the anthill of the sex, where the pine needles of pubic hair had been woven and arched into a small heap, into a bite to eat that’s grabbed between the lips and chewed; and even in the place where the man’s face had been cut off, Gudrun can still feel the strong teeth. Her body is in the making, but it is not the body of the Lord.

  Still, it emerges, barely tasting of anything, in the mouth of a young man who skillfully opened Gudrun and now works his way further into her with his tongue rolled into a cone. Her primordial playgrounds are laid out before him, and now the screws of the nipples are turned so that the little vehicle can start moving; springs are squeaking that protect us from an all-too-hard landing in the other. The counter Gudrun is open now, the counter guard went down. No need to forego fake freedom! The dead shall also live! In its daily workplace now, the man’s member stands up, a pole of rotting wood, in which animals played for a pale lager and lost. Rising through the dark of this trinity, long since turned to humus, of the male sex, which once may have been a temerity, is the head, still well supplied with blood, of the crucified, an arrogant Christ, who hasn’t got time to head to Galilee for three more days so that he can be there on the third day. His soul, locked into a plump piece of flesh at the end of a hose, wants to finally get out and look around whether it would like to stay here. Thus the body is prepared and shaped in a way that during its stay it can strike as well, since it has been awakened anyway.

  A little glob of liquid, bright as a plastic bag of Mildessa wine sauerkraut, has been added, and the sausage rages, a sledgehammer, a battering ram against the teeth of the girl who, tipped over from the chair, dragged down by the hair, had been slammed to the floor, so that she, uncanny upper of a cannery (also does bodywork!), gets this spicy sausage bite tossed at her once and then keeps going for it over and over again. With the young woman’s jaws open wide, the flesh gets pushed in, not that it existed at all for her!, but a part of the man’s prick is also missing, and still, Gudrun’s gums are almost torn by whatever comes rowing through the flow of her saliva. Now we have to leave this gentleman for a moment, for he retreats for strategic reasons, so that death can have its effect on this most stubborn spot of life. How would this body have died, if, as with Jesus, life had still been inside it? That is the question. Because then death would have gained control over that redeemer with his bobbing balls and his busily backward-tilting and somewhat indecisively forward-pushing (nothing found again!) pecker, which would be counterproductive, and thus the death list was conned with cunning. This young man’s body might have died (it must have, cut randomly in half, how could it be so agile?), but the beam of his power has once again come over him, that’s how it looks, and he dispatches his meaty, somewhat stringy shaft into Gudrun’s mouth, so that he, the man, who no longer exists to the left, may at least sit to the right of whomever until the end; but this is in the crossfire of a stinking television channel, thus he does not sit for long but fires away. Only then does he look at what he jabbed into.

  It is the soft flesh, yuk, deep-frozen!, ready-to-eat!, of a woman, that will perish from its own sluggishness, but here we also have a slugger’s balls throwing a jab directly in Gudrun’s chin! Hello! But there are different strokes for different folks, and here Gudrun has this fellow’s balls banging whoosh!, whoosh!, into one of the cups 36C or some other assessable size, from where teats and udders must first be lifted. To that end the attendant male had to make a half-turn propeller-style on top of the woman, that’s pretty obvious, one has to just imagine it visually and converted to narrow gauge. Look here, the lower back rotated like a grinder blade, and promptly the dead youth was stung by the visible, perhaps the flesh of the psychical, the bite swells up red, only one single bone of the young man will not be broken. And just this one wants to get into the woman’s sex, which gets kneaded by fingers and teeth, and this only works when this Crucifixated rotates halfway around his axis so that his earthy cloaca orifice, dug up by busy bugger-bugs, is right in front of Gudrun Bichler’s eyes and nose, an antsy hill leading right into this lord, and yes, now those shy, ravenous animals are crawling one by one out of their burial mound to leisurely check out Gudrun; so then, we are looking at a small mound, piled up by industrious little buggers, and, as mentioned before, smack in the middle a darkly outlined little hole for this winged little war vet Isidor Cupido Jelinek, a dashing dead he, sure thing, and then at the hairy bread bag beating against Gudrun’s chin and then, with the soul his only clothing, the last member in a long chain of dead members, which couldn’t possibly have vanished all at once. So where did they all end up, since we don’t know anything at all about them today? This one member settled inside Gudrun. Well then, poking around now in this Austrian mix of treats, a national specialty, is this elegant young human’s elementary particle, which we absolutely still have to get for our natty wardrobe, then it rudely pulls back and, after its owner rolled over in his grave once again almost full circle, closes this mouth with a long kiss, until Gudrun had sucked the ultimate pleasure out of this dead man’s mouth. A few teeth don’t mind coming along, since they were already sitting quite loosely in the earth. Cheek is pressed against cheek, the young man’s tongue licks across the woman’s skin in rough, sketchy strokes, as if to do her one more time, and with an abrupt move he hands her his love bone and the pneuma it contains, which, for its part now, also has the urge to suck in and blow out some in Gudrun’s suction hose, depending on what’s been turned on. For Gudrun, this stick of flesh is quite amusing, albeit incomprehensible, like a ghostly apparition, if only she knew what a stream could burst out of there! There now is some burrowing, if a bit clumsily, in the young man’s stiffened crotch, fingers rush to their workplaces as ordered and indicated, entrails fall into a certain design, Ms. Jane Doe signs for us all the still totally blank documents, she picks up the pen, it’s already spilling and spitting, her hand is completely overrun with it!