Lipstick: the muse II

 

She paints prayers with your Lust
Red ochres rising, from her earth
Crushed petals veiling laughter
Over sweet nights cried back to her soil
And blinking back mascaraed lashes
A summer sun, a mirror hung
From ripened breasts.

Blessed, your eyes
Shadowed by two birds
Heavy and thoughtful, suicide
Upon her body of life.
Balanced here, passion a calm moon
Placed before a kiss.

At the moment of entry
Your palm, laden with Jewels
Of pink and red, a bold perfection
Angel’s furnished from her womb
And your fingers over her lips
Each a pilgrim in prayer
Returning season after season.

 

 

(c) A Hannan

 

 

 

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Lipstick: the muse

I pressed my lips to his
A kiss of stamen birthed to rising sun
Swollen, ripe
Curves of bliss traverse landscapes
Painted, to match the flower
Enticing man to virgin breasts.

 

 

(c) A Hannan

 

The history of lipstick can be traced back as far as 5,000 years when semi-precious jewels, plants, ants and seaweed were used to colour the lips red, pink or deep brown. Its origins, although prone to contradictions, often undiscussed and unadmitted, were of an erotic manner. For thousands of years the mouth has been considered the most sensual part of a woman’s face and woman have relished in exploiting this power by decorating and enhancing, colouring the lips to match the labia. Although, lipstick is not merely seductive. Depending on the colour and shape of the lip line, lipstick is also a symbol of power, of sophistication, of rebellion, of courage, of optimism and more.

Note: The stamens in a flower are collectively called the androecium (from Greek andros oikia: man’s house)

Divinity: of The Waters

There never were the slightest flaw

In the rose.

 

I quickly exile a dissipating breath,

Stifle the flight of swans,

Reflect ancient floods

And where the streams meet

Veins, rivaling the moons charm,

Saving the sweetest kiss beneath the flower.

 

Of inspiration

I lift the empty glass skyward,

She parts my vapid vision

Piercing my mute witness,

The smooth horizon breaks,

Waters cluster in harmony

An endless song laughing in waves.

She is divinity, chasing my caramel skin,

Spreading adultery over the contour

Of my sunset stained breasts.

Beauty is entwined in this embrace, stripped

Of voice she, idolatrous drum solo

Seared across ancient desert dunes

Tracing rumours until their flame dies.

 

Passion, all but rouged bursts from the figs heart

A frenzy of tears, now that I am ripe

Let the savage bliss of God’s bouquet

Frame my blessed sin, one delicate finger,

Mouth open in flight, poised,

The petals of a rose mingled into a disheveled kiss.

 

 

Anahita – The Ancient Persian Goddess of fertility, healing and wisdom… the divinity of ‘the Waters’.

 

 

 

(c) A Hannan

Inspired by the post ‘Arianrhod’ here: Shining City On The Hill

Morn

Morn

His tongue in my ear,

Mornings first breath.

Fingers ripple over naked, waves

Of desperate hands all over me

Aching like cheeks pressed with wine

Savoring each sip they draw

From me. Shakespearian sonnets

And prose, so smoothly sculptured,

Metaphors pushing through

Motionless minutes, sultry soliloquy’s

Moaned over ripe lips, cherried.

He devours them.

Licking at juices

Spilt like droplets of nectar,

God blessed,

Sweet.

I sigh.

(c) A Hannan