"FOUR THIRSTY MOUTHS
(from "Radio Lyrics", 1934)
The first mouth says:
I want dry wine... light red... with ruby transparency. Bringing the glass to my lips, a fragrant warmth must slightly intoxicate me. On the palate, it must appear quiet, flowing, and thirst-quenching. In the throat, it must slide like a crystalline waterfall of gathered peace and silent poetry. Through its reflections, I must see the sinuous line of its slender wasp-like profile, blood-red of filtered strawberry with bluish veins of purest pre-Alpine air. Preparatory wine... adolescent... spring-like that gives me a sense of inner bathing, of healthy scrubbing to the muscles, and of light optimistic warmth!
The second mouth says:
I desire thick, round, fleshy, nourishing, and full wine. A wine that tells me everything. Nothing sweet, firm, mature, and virile. Square of body, almost gloomy in its frown, deep in its gaze. When it writes on the tablecloth, it must be black and strongly affirmative. Its spilled stain, well-defined without watery smudges, must descend into the throat like food, like a slice of liquid meat. Its short-range aroma, not very expansive but saturated and intense: a southern wine with a tanned face, solar nerve, sure fist, high degree, passionate voice.
The third mouth says:
I desire it the color of gold, pasty on the palate. Sugary in the throat. Wine that sings of the sunny vineyards of the Apennine hills, of the Roman hills and summer gulfs... white in name only. Its true color between gold and copper with brassy edges, with pupils of old gold and golden gazes. New on the tongue, it must spread like oil and descend into the throat like velvet. To the eye, it must appear like the sun in a bottle, aroma of ripe peach, strength of a liqueur, fluidity of a Titianesque hair. In the mouth, it must fill warmly with inflaming naivety. As soon as it is drunk, it must transform the blood into solar gold, the veins radiate phosphorescent light, giving a sense of bliss.
The fourth mouth says:
I have completely different tastes. I am metropolitan and nocturnal. I desire wine: neither solid, nor dark, nor light, nor golden; neither sweet, nor raisin wine; neither Titianesque, nor ruby. But a sparkling wine in décolleté, silver, jumping. That as soon as it is uncorked, begins its ringing song with a gunshot. With a dry vertical burst straight to the ceiling. Superb as the whistle of a steam engine, with a tall tuft of parade foam on its head. A cuirassier wine. A wine that as soon as it reaches the mouth recalls cedars, lemons, oranges, and sea foams, mixed with beautiful white teeth and sparkling laughter of nocturnal joy. Transparencies of neckline, reflections of alabaster, ringed wax hands; Paris, Sanremo, Monte Carlo, roulette, eyes of light bulbs, dollars, and pinwheels of fireworks. Toasts - decorations - victories - baptisms - ceremonies - fanfares - bottles - grabbed by the neck and killed against the sharp snout of the prows - music on board - whistles of sirens and jazz in cabarets. Joy uncorked and iridescent fountain of happiness..."
Created by d'Araprì