The Pig in Community House

Ms. M. is sitting on the window sill on the sixth floor in a community building somewhere on the Gürtel in Vienna. She has a bloody knife in her hand.

The cars roll through the streets.
One big sheet avalanche.
An avalanche that lasts now and then.
Then it rolls on again.
Indolent and indifferent.
People sit in the cars.
Protected by the sheet metal around them.
People walk in between.
They almost all have a goal.
And if not, then pretend.
They try to avoid each other.
Look at the ground.
Everyone goes about their own life.
Slaving through, between the others.
As if they were obstacles that need to be avoided.
Beautiful and ugly,
Thick and thin,
Successful and unsuccessful.
It doesn’t matter from up here.
They all look like ants.
Small, hectic ants.
Busy and driven and scared.
This is how they spend their lives, their time.
And don’t see how pointless it is.
In the morning they close the door and go out.
To go in somewhere else.
They close a door.
Doors are carefully closed.
So that nobody sees what’s going on behind it.


Like the neighbor who lets his daughter suck his cock.
The mother pretends not to notice.
The girl is already emaciated to the bone.
Or the neighbor who lets her dog fuck her.
A sheepdog.
The dog always hugs around like that.
So on the wall, with his tail drawn in.
He is afraid.
And then there is
who is constantly being beaten up by her husband.
The doctor, as we say.
He is a doctor.
She is the Mrs. doctor.
A respected man.
Everyone has only the best to say about him.
She puts on a costume and smiles.
She wants to stay with the doctor.
When she goes out of the apartment
and closes the door she leaves it inside.
Nobody notices anything.
Everyone knows.
And I stabbed my husband.
No, not stabbed.
I cut his throat.
He lay there gasping and slowly bleeding to death.
It took a minute and fifty seconds.
He looked at me.
There was so much disbelief in his eyes.
He couldn’t believe
that I actually did it.
He tried to say something
but he couldn’t say nothing,
No more yelling at me
or putting me down
or berating me.
Just gasp.
Then I cut off his cock.
Just before it was over.
I put it on his eyes.
That he’ll see him again.
His cock.
Since he got so fat he couldn’t do that anymore.
I wanted him to see his cock one more time before he dies.
I cut his throat so that he knows how the pigs are doing.
That he slaughtered
every day.


In the beginning
he suffered from the slaughter.
Every night
when he came home
he cried like a baby.
He said of the eyes
who look at him so full of fear
because they know.
The pigs.
Driven to death by the thousands.
Assembly-line work.
At first, he cried.
But he had to do it
because he found nothing else
and because I was pregnant.
By the time.
I cradled him in my arms.
Like a baby,
like I that I carried in my body
would weigh.
It would be different.
He just has to look around.
It would only be for a little while
I told him.
I told myself.
He also looked around.
But at some point he gave up.
To cry and feel sorry too.
Then we started drinking.
And with the drinking came the violence.
He fought against the pigs‘ fear.
Against my fear.
He beat up the pigs.
And me.
Once he kicked me in the stomach.
Blood dripped onto the floor.
A brownish-red-slimy mass came out of me
and lay on the kitchen floor.
That would have been my child.
Ours.
You could already see but we needed the money.
Actually not anymore.
Then when he killed the child.


Sucking cocks, fucking dogs,
slapping women, kicking children to death,
it also takes place behind closed doors,
like slaughtering pigs.
The maltreatment and massacre.
He began to talk with pleasure.
From pointed sticks.
He stabbed the pigs‘ pussies.
He said.
And with the stun gun.
That’s cool.
Also, because he no longer had any friends.
Who wants to have something to do
with someone who murders,
to the rhythm of the assembly line.
That he kills for her they don’t see that.
He’s the killer.
Those who eat the meat wash their hands in innocence.
Because it’s so horrible.
Because they can’t see that.
And despise those who do it for them.
Close the door and don’t talk about it.
So, he drank and ate.
Until he was so fat that he couldn’t see his cock anymore.
Then I cut it off and put on his eyes.
That he got to see it again.
Then he was dead.
And the people scurry through the streets
like ants find their way through the sheet metal avalanches.
And the hustle and bustle behind closed doors
does not affect them.

Schreiben Sie einen Kommentar

Trage deine Daten unten ein oder klicke ein Icon um dich einzuloggen:

WordPress.com-Logo

Du kommentierst mit Deinem WordPress.com-Konto. Abmelden /  Wechseln )

Google Foto

Du kommentierst mit Deinem Google-Konto. Abmelden /  Wechseln )

Twitter-Bild

Du kommentierst mit Deinem Twitter-Konto. Abmelden /  Wechseln )

Facebook-Foto

Du kommentierst mit Deinem Facebook-Konto. Abmelden /  Wechseln )

Verbinde mit %s