Let's Drink!

Gloriously: becoming aware of one's own body every second for two weeks straight, an essentially physical and extrasensory life, without intermediary shields, no readings, literature, philosophies, abstract formulas, or combinations of concepts: my last book will be about precisely this, the last book to be written anonymously by me, gathering and arranging everything that truly matters, everything will be said in it, amid libidinous images and strange dialogues; I will put enough in it so that the writers of the future, not yet born, will have in it their arguments, their dramas, their poems, their myths, and, most importantly, their Occult Sciences; the world will be able to feed on it for a thousand years, absolutely colossal in its presumption. The mere idea of Him will crush us with His Light. It will be enormous, the Book... don't worry, for now, this is just another of those watered-down chapters, without a coup de grâce, in which what is said seems very little, although ultimately it is no less than everything, but the action seems indefinitely suspended, the characters frozen in an eternal and dizzying close-up, struggling against cascading words, leading nowhere. Verbose, Parnassian surrealist, I seek the simple words of those who have lost their connection with the world to "bring me up to date with the most important," this seed of the new that comes in the form of murmurs, emerging from unsuspecting crowds, without reproductions, without launch cocktails, without excursions, without destination, without postcards. Only the strong hands of a poet, poised like spirits ready to abandon their ghosts and create flesh in the text. Beatriz lifts her legs off me and throws the rest of her body over mine, nature guiding us like a mother, but the sweat on my face is cold in the air: "You are wonderful, Beatriz," and her skin is impregnated with my words and gestures. We kiss. With a surge of emotion, she runs her tongue over my chin; I wrap my arm around her waist: the dawn has finally been digested and left its husks upon me, its sacred sonority of a fine wind, and long hours of covering in the germinal stone of the morning—the light is now that of a white sun, and the pillow shimmers, blinding Beatriz's eyes, while the white light continues to be projected on the window. With a smile of relief, she raises herself on one elbow and kisses me. My face remains solid and inert, soil on which love struggles, burning agriculture in the mouths of a man and a woman. My last screw is finally tightened by that kiss; the thing now runs through my veins, a gear informing me at every moment. She returns to the position in which she had been sleeping, but she had already slept too much. As if seeking access to a new dream, I reach out to her naked body, a short distance away on the bed, and travel up and down wide slopes, warm as a cake fresh from the oven. They are turned to me, their backs, and a thought of distress flashes in my mind, as if by the effect of a telepathic spell from Sabrina, and I feel that kind of madness invisibly coveting me. I caress Beatriz's back tenderly, slipping into an astral trance in which, without moving a muscle, the natural, tangible color of the world returns from the non-being beneath her eyelids. She stretches and turns, and I know she felt me below, my symmetrical statue of twin legs rising toward the stars of the humid morning, my white face made for the depths of the sun, my chest made of rituals, minerals, trades between water and astral blood. My face like a blow to Beatriz's face, her eyes of avid salt, of quick marriage and friendly tongue inviting love again in the morning light of misty mouths, breasts like silken liters floating silently in her ribcage, almost too naked now, with her white-hour teeth, systematic equality between the sexes, inside her mouth under my stimuli growing under my meter of hard bone. A fixed kiss like a winged structure, of the health of a furious mansion stretching limitlessly across the early morning street. Without a doubt. At the party later, we joined in the conversation, listening more than talking, especially when they started talking about figures, yelling at the mention of six million in "hard currency," and checking the market prices on their cell phones. A waiter came to our table and offered us strawberry margaritas on a silver tray; the girls accepted their glasses, I kept a beer. Beatriz handed one to Anabelle, bowing her head, and another to Sabrina, then took one for herself. Everything seemed slow around the hubbub as they tilted their heads to sip the drink through red straws, distracting themselves with stirring the ice. The drink crept up their jawbones to their heads, under the sun by the pool in front. Suddenly, as if pulled by invisible strings, they lifted their heads simultaneously and, holding their breath, smiled at each other, like three musketeers. "A foursome united at this party, SO LET'S TOAST!" —Sabrina said, without much enthusiasm, flirting with Anabelle as if her words had been a hint just for her. As she raised her glass, the glasses clinked and clinked in the air, as if "calculatedly" a vision to stick her words in our heads.