AMÆMI is a Tantric, Sex Education Practitioner and Sound and Body Performer. She’s also an experimental Dj. She graduated in Philosophy, completed a Master’s degree to obtain the title of Sex Educator and Consultant in Sexology, and then became a Tantric Yoga Teacher. Through her dj sets, AMÆMI tries to create an immersive space shaping unusual flux of sonorities made by mixing obscure trance music, ancestral vibes, ambient and psychedelic notes, to represent both the Occidental reality she lives in and the Tantric sensual ritual world. Instead of a classic interview for the launch of her new EP  “Spiral Signs”, we gave her a safe space to share some intimate poems and thoughts.

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Granada, 25.12.24

Choosing the tribe, favoring sacredness over coincidence.
I am grateful, blessed by your burning rays
by the sharpness of air piercing through
the moment the sun ceases to assert itself,
when lunar intuition settles between the opulent towers of your insight.

Every corner overflows through my eyes,
every step carries the sound of a spring,
gushing forth in an ecstatic rush.

Choosing love, reclaiming the psychedelic meaning of Christmas.
A sensual, warrior Madonna torments—satisfied—the sea devil,
while the heads of pure children spill from her moon-womb.

I want to celebrate abundance,
let creativity flow through nourishment.
I listen to empowering music
to remind myself that I emanate life—
with every step, in every act,
through the awareness of the present moment.

I am the one deciding what nourishes my tribe.
No yellow-lit restaurants, no duty disguised as tradition
will weigh our bodies down with their stillness.
I play with colors and spices,
each sound blesses a substance,
I smile at aromas and create contrasts:
hard and soft, sweet and fiery, tart and briny.

The sun asserts itself, relentless,
warming, burning, demanding to be felt,
pressing upon bodies satiated by the five senses.

I bless your piercing rays,
I bless your fiery circle
between the towers of the Alhambra,
and your quiet retreat when the woman on the terrace
silently asks you to step aside so she may pray.
She kneels, arms stretched forward,
then rises, hands folded at her chest,
saintly, devoted,
while Arab laments whisper in the background,
and silence stretches like a veil,
a sacred membrane in which to lie down,
bathed in your final golden offerings.

The air sings in flamenco rhythms, woven with Moroccan lullabies.
You are a bastard hybrid, a proud gypsy—
the red-haired saint, the sensual and warrior Madonna
who torments—satisfied—the sea devil,
while the heads of pure children spill from her moon-womb.

We play at being children,
scribbling on torn pages, tracing shapes
that give meaning to our world—
because from a circle, a flower can be born,
from a rectangle, a portal,
from a straight line, a broken lamp post,
casting shards of life like a prism.

A hundred more nights,
losing myself beneath your sharp, infinite sky,
where the moon always seems full,
drunk on pleasure,
a squirting of pointed stars.

Geometría sagrada en los suelos de tus plazas,
rituales por la calle sin querer.
La oscuridad y cuatro candiles me guían por los portales de tus castillos,
restituyéndome partes perdidas de mi ser.

“You know, this barrio hums with a hidden current—
no signal ever finds me here.”

I carry it within me.

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Milan, Jan 25

Ten, a hundred goddesses dwell within my slender, sinuous body, I offer to the feminine.
Their presence resonates in the sharp, electric clang of the Christian bell found at the flea market,
in the mini handpan I play through the white streets of this ancient Arabic city,
the manjira struck on the terrace where the Alhambra stands
and the sun-scorched, whitewashed buildings reflect the light.

I embody Kali when rage surges through me,
knowing anger is a vital confrontation with the shadow,
from which true brilliance is born.
I become Lalita in moments of innocent sensual joy,
reminding myself that play is the most serious thing of all,
to remain a maiden is to embody eternal, delirious life force.

I am Dhumavati when the cold, crystalline night air slices my face,
a shroud of fog enveloping me as I meet the fear of abandonment,
accepting that each surrender to death grants me fragments of eternity.
Chinnamasta, when devoted to the sacred power of sex,
creating rituals of pleasure for strangers worthy of love.

Ten goddesses for infinite forms I seek to transform,
shifting into the tantric serpent,
a sound of my evolution echoing through the cosmos,
as it resonates deeply within us all.

Awaken, oh lullaby,
a vortex of life,
drawing humanity into a dance of unity,
in a huge love ritual,
where the Goddess reigns supreme,
devoted to the cycles of nature.