A Thief of Nature

A moon caught in your throat
Little bells ringing out
Solus sanctus
Enthralled to stillness.
There are many ways you pretend
To be still, and still you move
Shivers chasing my tongue
Fingers breaking the secret
Supplicating eternal upon my skin
New legs brushing the voice of history into prayer.
What wholeness!
Tongue wrapped around your man poem
Recital that understands perfection.
I steal those tones.
In my hand – our lives
Those moments of natures expansive intimacy –
Those moments never last.


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




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)

Meeting Places II


Meeting Places II

I tapped my fire engine red nails on the cheeks of white porcelain,
my coffee steaming in incense spirals from it’s lip
like offerings sprawled at the chiseled stone feet of a statue.
The warmth as I cupped my hands around the waist
seeping through me… like the hungry womb
begging to be filled, consumed, placated.
He sat a couple of tables from me.
Nothing auspicious about the clothes draped from his tall frame,
a surprisingly serene expression painted on his face
as the world bustled around him,
chairs squealing at the pavement
as people came and went,
time slipping past as coffee sips drew on yesterday morning.
He ordered another coffee as the waitress passed,
taking a moment to scan the streetscape,
barely noticing the two pretty girls
seated at the table next to him, long tanned legs
lazily leaning towards him, their flirty giggles touching
his cheek like butterfly kisses. I noticed
the fluidity of his fingers as he rolled a cigarette,
sure, calm, knowing, suspended.
He placed the cigarette in his full lips and lit it.
Again, smoke spiraled like incense offerings.
My mind slipped to the stroking of flesh,
the hunger those fingers could draw
from my aching breasts, awakening something within me,
confusing the senses at the ease at which they would separate
the petals of my flower and touch of it’s moisture.
I imagined them touching every uncharted recess of my body,
playing my passion with the cunning of a beast,
tracing the lines with confident brushstrokes
then shifting in waves, pressing firmly
into my tender naked flesh, kneading it until it submitted
to his will before drawing it into his mouth
biting, licking, kissing, consuming me
like a piece of ripened fruit, my hunger rising like a madness
until I was starved of breath, throbbing
the scent of my salty honey spilling on soft thighs.
Jolted back to reality as someone reached for my sugar jar
knocking a spoon that clattered to the ground unceremoniously,
I noticed he had risen to meet the hand of
a beautiful young woman. Her smile
drowning out the drum n bass of
traffic and idle nothingness chatter.
His fingers tracing the lines of her face,
noses touching as they paused there, the world shuffling by,
their breath becoming one. Like watercolours spilled upon the page
their fingertips meet, moments passing like winter sun
edging over a frozen lake, then slowly,
ever so slowly fingers tangled together like the roots of an old tree.
I took a sip of bathwater warm coffee and wondered what that felt like.

(c) A Hannan

Nude Imprints

It pulses and shimmers upon my skin,
A serpent coursing ripples over naked breasts,
The salty taste of him, in droplets
Kissing at my cherry red lips,
His hand on the drum beating it hard
As he rolls me, smokes me, chokes on me
And I drift into the parted waters of Moses,
Head relaxing as soft thighs sigh,
Pressed, caressed, masturbating to
The smooth sound of his dulcet tone,
The high-rise, bouncing off friction
As he ID’s me, owns me over a melody of ‘we’
Be… it is the memory of us, hesitation
On propaganda pointing my eye
To the nude portrait of he and I,
It is the memory of a promise, ‘Love’
That pulses and shimmers upon my skin.

(c) A Hannan