Ami Lovelace's Blog, page 5

New Poem: The Sacristy

The Sacristy

     I'm seeing this

through Michael's eyes.

    The bright sacristy, the marble, the Holy Water for gathered worshippers.

The room glittering in kaleidoscopic light, dour saints etched in glass,

    filtered purples, blues

the air ripe with musky incense, lust

                                                        domination.

Secrets balanced on the hinges of a door.

    Lies hiding from the turn of a knob.

The men's sin excretes its scent from their sanctimonious pores,

each thrust of their cocks

    a step closer to giving him their own holy serum.

Splayed across the altar, under vaulted ceilings and preaching tapestries,

    the raw, sacred flesh of their virgin,

the boy—their sacrifice,

                                   a tenderized lamb,

whose seraphic palms stiffen whiter, erected and pressed against their hardness,

pounded meat—

                          inflamed ass weeping burning tears of blood and semen,

eyes closed, gagging out desperate prayer,

                                                          "Oh God, help me. Please. Please, God!"

How many times have you whispered that prayer?

     How many times have you mouthed those words?

On your knees in the pews,

     in your bed at night before sleep.  Begging. Praying.

Will you pray for him? Will you pray for them?

Baptismal fonts and clergy robes—
       ready ablutions to splash off cum's sticky noose, braided with blood and sweat.

To be cleansed for the blessing, to be reinvigorated

       for their Sermon

Will you take of their sacrament?  Take from the children of God,
after they take from him?

after they fill his draining rectum to the rim,

forcing him to guzzle their house-made wine,

                                their spunk-muddled bloody mary—

                                                                                          the Blood of Christ.   "Amen."

The sacristy's a meat-packing plant, a crypt for virtue

Where the clergy dance and writhe, playing a child's game of naked Twister

Smell the carnage of innocence shredded, suffocate under the weight of the faithless,

living carcasses balanced on cocked scales,

        and found wanting? 

Do you Want? Will you take of their sacrament?          

Swallow the Eucharist in weekly salvation? Drink of their Holy Wine?

They will pour. They will pour.

Angels' tears fall, collapsing to the ground

         as a boy's faith shatters on the marble.

And God does not intervene. Will you?

©2011. Ami Lovelace. All Rights Reserved.



Content Copyright 2011. Ami Lovelace. All Rights Reserved.

Poem: Ave Sevilla

For NCD--

and all those who love Sevilla.


Ave Sevilla

Suckling at the breast of love, we cling to the slope of maternal comfort,
and there is only one Mother Sevilla—
Dios te salve Sevilla, llena eres de gracia
Sevilla who shelters us, her children, Sevilla whose Giralda towers in a Mudejar beacon of nurturing protection, the amaranthine emblem of her loyalty through growth and transformation in the tempestuous barrage of her Al-Andalus pubescence,
finely aged to affectionate parent whose embracing arms wind effortlessly around her family,
el Senior es contigo, bendita tu eres
the consoling flood of fervent emotion embodied in the tangible currents of the Guadalquivir,
hugging the banks of her city, our city.
The city of Sevilla, whose citizenry revels in the ardent rapture of castanets,
rhythmically tapping away the seconds of our lives,
the city where the blush of Carmen's cheek still draws freshly
across the wealth of bourgeoisie sand
and the dancer's tragedy resounds in the zealous rapping of palm against palm
crescendoing in despair to the erotic lull of binging brass harmonies—
a citizen's homage to the minotaur's descendents, Gods of the Arena,
falling brusquely, the conquered supine at the feet of gypsy kings,
a lethal dance of mating cobras, entwined in the swathing bloodied cape of pagan pageantry
adopted, converted to the practical rituals of Christian saints
regaled in the hypnotic tones of the Paso Doble, a spectacle for post-Sunday lunch digestion.
Sevilla, where an aging flamenquín fingers his maiden lover,
the nimble hand of experience eliciting art,
coaxing the heated moans of passion while calloused palm smacks the plump,
voluptuous curvature of her frame, the classical beauty of a Goya portrait
entre todas las mujeres
feverishly plucking her virginal chords until she snaps in an orgasmic climax of Bulerias,
bravoed  by the languid sigh of sherry soaked voyeurs and the throbbing release of "Ole!"
becomes the echoed refrain of the congregation's panted hymn.
y bendito es el fruto de tu vientre, Jesús
In Sevilla, my Sevilla— la Vida Gorda drips in decadence from accent laden tongues,
its sweet taste, the warm liquid chocolate that dangles from the richly smothered churro
I savor luxuriating in the repose of a steel-wrought bistro chair as Apollo's footprints gleam,
their early earthly resonance shimmers against the reflection of Aurora's tears trickling down the face of hand-lain cobblestones,
and this century's Don Juans swagger by,
heavily cologned in a proprietary blend of stale smoke, sweat and sex,  
slip upon the moistened surfaces, honor's vengeance reaped by the vigilante justice of silent leather soles, trite vindication for the fleeting promises of the Tenorios' heartbreaking trysts.  
Santa Sevilla, Madre de Andalucía
Sevilla, where Torquemada's victims transcend, wresting from centuries-old shackles,
breaking their entombed silence with screams of jubilant penitence,
the bansidhe wail of an antiquated gypsy ghost,
ruega por nosotros, pecadores
as the masses revere Godly idols in a glamorized ensemble of pagan ritual,
ecclesiastical opulence flaunted in golds and silvers, silks and velvets, carried upon the shoulders of Sevilla's holiestly tortured sons, a de facto Auto de Fey,
ahora y en la hora de nuestra muerte, Amen.

© 2011 Ami Lovelace. All Rights Reserved.

Content Copyright 2011. Ami Lovelace. All Rights Reserved.

Virgins: A Short Fiction Piece

So, this is going to be a bit different that what you're normally used to reading from me.  It's a piece that was birthed out of the necessity of completing an assignment for a writing workshop I'm attending. We were given the first seven paragraphs of Daniel Orozco's "Orientation" as our model excerpt and writing prompt.  The intent for my piece is stated below. I would strongly suggest reading at least a partial bit of the Orozco piece, in order to better understand the intent of my own.
If your offended by the nature of the language--too bad. It was necessary for the intent of the piece.

Intent:
To mimic the style of the Orozco piece in structure, tone and voice.  Using a first-person narrator, direct speech, clipped, simple and crisp sentence structure and introducing an over-the-top, out-of-the-ordinary, absurd, potentially uncomfortable situation or reality while the narrator maintains a clinical detachment, revealing very little about his/herself.  The narrator will also indicate no judgment, make no apologies, and offer no excuses in the presentation of the specific reality.

"Virgins"

That's the Bondage room and there is the Key room. The undressing room is down the hall, on the left.  You will take your clothes off in there. It also has lockers with combination locks. You need to use them. Never leave your clothes on the floor. Take your lingerie and masks with you. Take your shoes with you, too. Never leave your shoes behind. You don't know what's on the floor. Bring plenty of condoms. You cannot engage in club activities without them. All condoms brought into the club are subject to inspection. The club doesn't allow expired condoms. If you forget your condoms, you can get some from Madame Valia. She is tall and wears sparkling red pasties. They cover her deformed purplish nipples. If you can't find Madame Valia, ask Elena Nibbits in the Jacuzzi Room. She hands out towels. She also hands out condoms.

Here is the Communal Room. You must be pre-screened to go into the Communal Room. It takes six weeks. They check for diseases. You will have to plan ahead. If you are approved, you may enter. Everyone in the Communal Room must interact with everyone else. If you do not, you will be kicked out of the room. Duke Gordo watches over the room. He will kick you out. Duke Gordo also interacts with the members. He touches them. He must abide by the rules. Everyone is subject to the rules. Never break the rules. Wear your condoms. If you do not, you will be kicked out.

Yes, we have other rules. If a room has rules, they are posted in the hall. Check the hall before you enter. No, that's a good question. Women are not allowed at the club when they are menstruating. Some clients get disgusted. Some like it. Either way, we do not want the Health Code violation. If they come to the club bleeding, they will be kicked out.

This is the Break Room. Do not have sex in the Break Room. This room is only used for resting. You cannot stay in here longer than twenty minutes. After twenty minutes, if you're still too tired to fuck, go home. If you are here longer than twenty minutes, you will be kicked out. Also, do not have sex in the bathrooms of the Break Room. It's against the rules. You will be kicked out. Madame Valia will not let you come back. Gerry Ryan, an old member, had sex in the bathroom. He had only one leg and needed the toilet to prop himself up. They caught him. See the cameras? Gerry Ryan was kicked out. Now, Madame Valia will not let him come back.

This is the Billiards Room. All surfaces and items can be used for your pleasure. Don't have sex on the bar, though. The bar is where people eat. We don't want the possible Health Code violation. That woman eating at the bar is Erika Briggart. She comes here often. She's a fake blonde. She fakes a lot of things. That's her husband, Darryl Briggart. Darryl Briggart likes to fuck on the pool table. He also likes three women at the same time. Erika Briggart can't stand him. He can't get her off. She'd rather be in the Bondage Room with Rachael Morris.  Rachael Morris is not a lesbian, but pretends to be when she's here. Talk to them, but don't fuck them. Rachael Morris has herpes. They're not allowed in the Communal Room.  Rachael Morris also hands out condoms.  Some members think that's funny.

Content Copyright 2011. Ami Lovelace. All Rights Reserved.

Poem: The Look of Love

The Look of Love

Volatile.

a whisper, a protest,

the silent murmur mouthed under the opaqueness of the moon's veil

utterances in the pursuit of pliable ecstasy

malleable, permeating, the fluidity shape shifts

a constant stream of enigmatic energy

manipulating its facade

never to be fully understood, fully known

recognized

soft-spoken, attractive,

a gentle glow in warmth's face

faith in wholeness, security, reciprocity

then while trembling, a brackish permutation

to rough, terrifying skin

blood-boiling rage, wails of agony

the arms of comfort attack

violent bursts with tongue tipped sabres

scars lashed through thick emotion

only to alter once again

a cosmetic lift to the deformed countenance

new life breathed in

ice thaws in fiery blood

seduction revives in passionate waves

the once dead notion

and love imbibes its new life

regenerated in karmatic existence

a face reincarnate-- absorbed in whims of familiarity

but changed still

Evolved.

© Ami  Lovelace. All rights reserved.

Content Copyright 2011. Ami Lovelace. All Rights Reserved.

New Poem: White Lilies

White Lilies

That week's errands haunted my ashen mother,
heartlessly pursued by the wraithlike reason of their being,
numb and distant, with the soft rhythmic cadence:
"the Lord is with thee" echoing on her chapped lips,
I watched her standing in our kitchen, wizened and greyer than days just before,
she blindly kneaded—
the dough her unwilling sparring partner, punching it into submission, then,
defiantly tossing its remains to shroud the muddled and pulpy corpses of cherries, already eviscerated—
she buried all evidence of the bloody mess,
of their previously vibrant existence...
Laying limp, silent and momentarily forgotten at the edge of the flour-dusted counter
the haggard slip of paper stalked her,
and with the guilty stealth of a child thieving cookies from a cooling rack,
I glided a pudgy finger over its frail entries:   
groceries & comfort food (check), calls (check), transport (check), flowers (uncheck)
I perused the tattered, water-stained list, and
seeing the moistened glistening captive in the shadowy chasms under my mother's eyes,
I felt the road beckon,
merciful, with promises of welcomed consolation and euphoric oblivion,
so I fled.
But with each callous traffic light, my Beetle's brakes shrieked and wailed
screaming their lamenting protest—
a pointless attempt to diffuse the threat to slow or cease our desperate escape,
their cries only softened, drowned hostages to conspiring radio waves,
scaling the murmurs of "Amazing Grace" and "Let It Be"
instinctively, thinking to clear their words, and my sight,
my fingers coaxed the windshield wipers to high, my ears comforted by their roar
and, even in all their ferocity, the furious, screeching wiping
did nothing—
my vision still blurred by the torrents of droplets
veiling pedestrians in smears of dusted charcoal black
a morose impressionist's watercolor, tempered and marred
with the vagrant brushstrokes of grieving mixed hues
made minuscule, insignificant against vast hospitals, dreary and disinviting
neighbored by spiraling Goth-inspired churches—all lining up,
noisy spectators speckling my parade route,
pushing me, driving me towards the destination: Myers Florist Shoppe.
Entering, dizzied by the glaring resplendence of the flowers' vibrancy
even through the still-placed, engorged Oakley's
I squinted, averting, shielding my tired eyes from the new intrusion of pain.
Their honeyed fumes seared at the already sensitive,
congested hairs in my nose, my throat, my lungs—
a quiet cacophony of blended aromas,
the sweet scent of opiatic dangers hanging in the air,
dulling and drumming out the endless chatter in my head
and through the kaleidoscopic whir of taunting colors,
I could distinguish Roses, Poppies, Freesia, Irises, and
White Lilies;
Ghosting towards the White Lilies, I tugged at their feeble plumpness,
squeezing the delicate velvet shawls in which they had swathed themselves—
petty retaliation to the gloating crispness of their deceptive vivacity
they lorded it over, joyous in their gleaming purity, frocked in bright embroidered silks,
newly bound and gagged together in the intricate arrangements of mass floracide,
and in charming bouquets of slow, torturous murder,
sheen and sure in their fleeting vigor, even
as their freshness waned to frailty
my fingers curled around the ribboned nooses,
toying with the idea of their salvation
of freeing their still robust bodies, lifting their already slightly drooping heads
glorifying in their last reach for the warm golden comfort of the sun's kiss
except they were inside, straining against the softened cords of strangulation
imbibing the humming glow of artificial fluorescence.
And with decision made, I moved towards botany's mortician.
Pulling the lot of cash, mingled in somber congregation
with heaps of betraying tissues, hardened, crusty and crumbling,
tainted with tinges of embittered yellow and sickly green,
the florist snapped them up, expertly plucking each bill by a still unscathed corner,
as I was sure he had done so many times before.
And peering into the murky opaqueness,
the vacant reflection of tinted lenses—a poor man's Venetian masque,
his pen hung starkly, hovering over the rakishly grey form
and he asked, "delivery to which Home?"
My dirty, unkempt nails dug in, one last time,
stoic fingers moving where paralyzed lips could not,
brushing the near impassable rims of my tight-fitted Levis,
the final guardians—keepers of denial, standing at the gaping pocket of truth
and, pulling out Pandora's box,
I handed him the embossed piece of 2x3 stock paper,
cementing reality in the revelation of William & Sons' gold glossy ink.

© 2011 Ami Lovelace. All Rights Reserved.

Content Copyright 2011. Ami Lovelace. All Rights Reserved.

New Poem: Tread On

Tread On


Tread on, fair one
with the steely determination of a blazing forge
heated with passion, alive with fire,
persistently hammering to create, to change, to repair
Tread on,
with the elasticity of mind- formidable in flexibility,
stretching its own limitations,
expanding, encompassing,
ne'er to retract,  rubberbanding to snap back upon yourself in pain,
nor ever to break,
Tread on,
with the eyes of an ethereal mystic, white and fluttering
knowing what lies behind,
noting even the smallest pebbles as they subside to your presence
scattering beneath the arch of your feet,
and peering through the swathing mists of the valley over the ridge
a vision of cloudy details, yet discerning existence
Tread on,
and experience your destiny,
Tread on.

© 2011 Ami Lovelace.  All Rights Reserved.

Content Copyright 2011. Ami Lovelace. All Rights Reserved.

New Poem: Expiration

Expiration

And she breathed in, deeply
chest heaving, expanding to the breadth of passion
her eyes fluttering in nostalgic ecstasy
absorbing each particle as it touched her
caressing her insides as they moved through her
knowing the decadent, aromatic air that still held his presence
the sweet life-sustaining oxygen she desperately imbibed
the inhalation of his essence, his invisible lingering existence
the memory of his taste as her own panting tickled her tongue
all—was to her, cyanide
deceptive toxicity that filled her lungs
like the ambrosial cologne of noxious opium
a lethal necessity
that she
refused to exhale

© 2011. Ami Lovelace. All Rights Reserved.

Content Copyright 2011. Ami Lovelace. All Rights Reserved.

New Poem: Monster Waves

Monster Waves

And my heart swells
like powerful waves cresting in a tormented ocean,
roaring and churning in the grasp of a Perfect Storm
all at once tempestuous and beautiful
like the surges from obscure depths,
rolling, tumbling, heaving the life of all its creatures,
captive within its agitated fluidity
yet I seek not safe harbor,
nor sheltered marina in which to weigh anchor
as the water writhes in angst,
driving forward, hungry mouth agape
salivating with the prospect of appeasement
I stand, head to head with the Rogue waves,
facing the existence of immortal legend--wild, intemperate, illogical
ready and willing to be swallowed, subdued,
overtaken by the humility of Being.
And my heart swells,
like powerful waves breaking the bows of grand ships,
splintering steel masts, and digesting their essence
and I am unterrorized,
looking not to the solemn sky for a desperate salvation,
but to the dark, rippling water--
to the buoy you have thrown for me,
bright and reflective in the smeared abstraction of an oily blue-gray palette
And I know I will again see the colors of morning,
the plush purples, pinks and oranges of sunrise,
generously speckled over a calm, embracing sea
shimmering in tranquility.
And my heart swells,
like the reach of a glowing gentle sun, warming the expansive horizon.
And my heart swells.

© 2011. Ami Lovelace.

Content Copyright 2011. Ami Lovelace. All Rights Reserved.

New Poem: In Me, Through Me, With Me

In Me, Through Me, With Me
 
the warm kisses of their soft lips
carried to my rosy forehead on the beams of the sun
squinting, the shadows and spotted colors of the star's playful dance begin to form their faces
and I see them in a clear blur,
a lucid dizziness of past, present, and future
colliding, transforming, coalescing into the ever-changing melanin of my own skin,
the youthful freckles metamorphosing into wise moles,
the traces of their footprints speckled down my arms
with each sloping curve of my own body, I map the rippled topography of the women
--my women
their strength, fertility, and endurance visibly replicated in the DNA of my cells
their resilience bouncing in the elasticity of my breasts,
nestled in the ridges of my full hips
I look down at my hands,
and in each crease I see the wrinkles of their struggle, the scars of their labor
along the life lines of my palms lay the treadmarks of their path,
never divergent but overlapping, sharing-- searing the bonds of continuity
and they reach forth to me, through me, to a novel world of endless opportunity
and in the land, I feel the extension of their love,
grounding me, rooting me by power of their unseen fingers on my toes,
the thick, aged roots of my family tree,
lively and nurturing in the woven labyrinth wrapping around my ankles,
only to lift me upward, pleading, encouraging the natural evolution of bird's flight from branch
and those who've walked before me,
their songs and stories caught in the cavern of my own throat
distant echoes swelling, blending, and escaping in the mingled tones of my voice
their hopes, dreams, fears and fortitude become battle cries,
poised to advance, erect at the edge of the sword of my tongue,
and driving forth in each of my determined words
vessels through which they rise again-- to conquer, survive, surpass.

Content Copyright 2011. Ami Lovelace. All Rights Reserved.

New Poem: Welcome Home

Welcome Home.

Blue fields with skies of gold
waves of wheat linger in swaying slow dance
and family...
--Oh family
Silent on the edge of their mound
stones overgrown, rigid and cold
yet here, now, still and always
they listen, their frozen words muted on paralyzed tongues
and comfort comes,
in the great emptying of a weighted heart
their silence embraces,
like the soft woven blankie of a now grown infant,
wrapped and coddled in their heavy presence
and their invisible eyes, their shaded hands,
all reach out, gentle sage palms wrinkled and weary
cupping to catch the waterfall of tears
I can stand only leaning against the etched numbers
1993.
And I know I'm home

© 2011. Ami Lovelace

Content Copyright 2011. Ami Lovelace. All Rights Reserved.