Saturday, June 30, 2007

Peace of Shit a Poem / Obituary Mr Marquis Pets /Rains

30th June 2007
It has rained cats and dogs , distempered pussys in Mumbai , since last night , the roads are flooded , gutters choked , this is what happened last year, what happened year before last , life goes on.The Mumbaikar braves it all, he walks the on a live wire with Death overshadowing him, this morning news was a guy travelling in a local train on his way to work standing near the entrance of the train got into an argument with two commuters who beat him up badly, the 300 train travellers watching this reality show none coming to his help, a local journalist Sivnath rushed him to the Sion hospital he was proclaimed dead, he leaves behind a young wife and a daughter.
This is the other dark side of the Marathi Manoos ..the two guys were eventually caught by the railway police this is Mumbai life on a slow track.
Mee Mumbaikar , hollow words , when Man destroys another Man not for religion, not in defence but because he believes in Might is Right.
Funny had I not joined Flickrs I would be writing this at Word Press.But I have to reduce the load on my Homesite , so I am bringing my poems here re edited revitalised ..
I walked from home with my F100 shooting Boran Road , I dont have the energy to punish myself or my surviving camera in the heavy waters.I opened shop at 11.45, I packed off the staff gave them an off , they live nearby , one guy stays at Mulund he called up it was bad day of flooding at his end..Mumbai in the rains ,, bhuta , a cup of Irani pani kum chai, Brun Maska ..some Kheema is the right stuff for a restless soul..roads lead to Good Luck Irani joint near Mehboob Studios..

my post

photographerno1: 05/23/2006 5:50 AM

head above shoulders
a heart filled with boulders
missing files and folders
beauty is ugliness
in the eyes of the pissholder.
life peace of shit as
you grow older
find a new
ass licked beholder

my 366th poem titled peace of shit this poem happened as I was commenting on Velvet Paws latest Ratty post.

Rats are very intelligent ..I kept White Rats.
These I would buy from Marquis Pets , I owe my love for animals to Douglas Marquis , there is not a single lad that has never bought a fish, Persian cat, a dog, parrots, love birds guinea pigs , hamsters, squirrels, from Marquis.
Marquis died a few years back, his wife was bedridden but she could do all her work directing the help.
And their bedroom was the hall, Marquis was a chronic asthamatic, always wheezing, never cursing.
Marquis was a Chor Bazar freak, he would leave very early morning, to buy the glass pieces that came from ship breaking yards, out of this he made unusual Aquariums, he bought all kinds of stuff, made cages, custom made, in my alcoholic days when the booze joints were shut for dry days specially at the Yacht restaurant ..they would give me a take away ofa quart gin I would come to Marquis borrow a steel glass mix it with water get tanked.. listen to Marquis's yarn..
I remember a very big shot Shetty who was on his last legs thrown out of his house a more condemned alcoholic than me .. would come and drink his hooch, country made stuff thar wa 100 proof or somethinng like that.
He was a terrible sight he spoke of good times, his kids, his homlessness, gave me the creeps as I was on the kerbside trying to walk his walk..
Yes I came away I never forgot Mr Shetty.
And I never forgot Mr Marquis.
He was known fondly as Dougie.
Bandra Banstand was Marquis's Haunt or Adda opposite the Sea Rock Hotel, opposite the mega star Sharukh Khans house would be a horse cart of Marquis kids took rides grew up with their Dreams..
I miss Marquis but do bang into his son Chris who was settled in United States but gave up all that came home to take over his dad business of Pets.. Chris Marquis

Thursday, June 28, 2007

I Am What I Am..Uncle Sam

Date: 03/28/2006 Time: 11:59 PM

Uncle Sam
In a jam
War veterans
Who cares a damn
Political scam
Spit and spam
One night stand
A free fuck
God bless you Maam
On the sands of Karbala
Another sacrificial lamb
A fire in the bush
And what a sham
That proclaims
of Mass Construction
I am what I am
American political spam

American Educated Thugs

She once in anger called them Shia Thugs , the Iraqis who are fighting to get back their self respect , their honor and dignity.The Shia have been persecuted systemarically by the Bathist government , much the Western world never knew nor ever bothered to know about it, close to twenty five years.My poem

She the american Lady Bug
was upset called them Shia Thugs

God and Country
Liberty Fraternity Equality
And cloaked as Much Bigger Thugs
Hit and shoot the
Heart of Country
for Weapons of Mass Destruction
find Saddam and Baathist slugs.
And depravity,stolen fuel , anarchy
And a Bush like mug..
And a soul debug.
Spilled waters of Karbala
And a Broken Jug..
American atrocity Abu Gharaib
not at all humbug
human rights trampled
shoulders now they shrug
Impeach Bush as a War Criminal
Digg It Bury it Or Be Dug
A wounded Bleeding Heart
of a country that with more
Wounds as you plug
Miscplaced Martyrdom
Saddam Hussain
whose Body the Jehadis
on their shoulders
as a crucifix lug..
Shias Sunnis sectarian hate
black spy v/s white spy
keeps the Papacy , the Israelis
very smug..

looking at the picture American Lady wont say UGH

photo courtesy

Saturday, June 23, 2007

Women In Chains

why do we chain our women
why do we cause them pain
we crush their beauty and their brain
over their minds their bodies
their souls we reign
man born of a woman
sells her for gain
a prostitute her destiny
a thought so plain
woman enslaved
manacled in chains
as she ploughs
this rough terrain
her tears her lifes story
all in vain
helen of troy
or a plain jane
being a woman
is a womans bane
the blows that rain
she wont complain
within her womb
she carries her pain
a street performer
born to entertain
in mans domain
a shattered
bleeding window pane
a mutilated hymen
she wont regain

Uploaded by firozeshakirphotographerno1

Who let the( Indian Fucked )Blogs Out

These are not pictures but memorable moments under the guidance of a Guru, today you wont find gurus like Malushte or Jatkar and Mr KG Maheshwari .
Today a child needs no guru he has it all at click of a mouse, he wants to come out of his mothers womb and get straight into the studio shooting glamour.. big bucks..
And yes you need bucks photography is not like poetry that you can write on an empty stomach, you need bucks and technology is changing every second, I was reading the Photographic Society Of Indias newsletter , that had stopped coming for several months I am a life member , I got one from their office it had all the various segments of photography , photo journalism, movies, macro, glamour, press, nature, wild life, arial but there was no mention of Photo Blogging.. because photo blogging is charitable work, you give the best of you and your pictures free.. main stream photography institutions like main stream media has already written us off as failed writers , failed photographers , yes but fuck we have not yet failed as good human beings.. the blog world is an asylum , everyone thinks the other person save him is a looney.. Blogging is a million light years away aleast in India.. is a breeding ground for copywriters .. dengue and chikungunya infected who copy everything but good writing.. the matunga whining types, the Jainyu brahmanic types and I found them all on the shore of a river bed going dry called Sulekha Blogs..
And the bitching and ball bashing and calling Muslims Katuas because they are perhaps endowed with a little extra bit they dont want.. being called a Confused Muslim.. fuck I d rather hibernate on Buzznet and Bloggerspot...
Biz Stone was very right who let the (Indian fucked) Blogs out...

This was shot oudoors under the guidance of Mr Kg Maheshwari at Nasik..

Lighting of Mr Kg Maheshwari

This is the classic lighting of the Master , I only shot the picture at Photographic Society of India , Mumbai this is my 300 th post at bloggerspot beta...
And when Buzznet goes Better than perhaps my photographerno1 and commentator no1 could be conjoined .. without fear of the unknown zone black zone..
only the wise magus Steve Haldane could do that for me...,buzznet support sucks does not even acknowldege the mail I send them..
This was an old post .
The person the model is Mr Pawar fatherof Photographic Society of India member Nitin Pawar.This was shot about 5 years back , Prof BW Jatkar was the President of our society .This is where I met the great Indian Master Maheshwariji touched his feet became his Chela.
I am not a studio light set up man , I have rare books on photography , studio lighting written by old Masters , I am going to sell this also along with my 225 old cameras one day.
I owe much to Psi mumbai , the society as we lovingly call it , it has seen many ups and downs it has been completely ravaged , politicised , by vested interests..
I mean they dont even have web site, with the money they recieved from donors all that was done was just cosmetic..exterior prop up while the soul of the 65 year old grand lady weeps for better days..
The Camera Clubs are Dead Long live the Photo Blog

On retrospection I think I can never shoot like this anymore , I am a Poet uncontrolled emotions of the Street kind...

KG Maheshwari s Pictorial Magic / Nikon D70 Digital Disaster

I shared some great moments with Mr KG Maheshwari , one of these was a visit for a photo shoot lecture outdoor studio like photography and one light the Sun..

And this was at Nasik where KGMs son Mr Kamal Maheshwari has the largest Numismatic Institute called Money Museum, a house of study for coins and old money , also houses KGM s archives of his pictorial works , KGM took part in the Quit India Movement , wore Indian Khadi, gave up all English things of comfort of course he must have used the only American thing a Box Camera, I called him and he confirmed that it was an American box camera called Norton or something like that , America has been a partt of Kgm s life his company was partners in India of American Home Products now called Wyeth.

And I was crying narrating the unfortunate day of the blomb blasts on that unforgettable day 7th July it crushed raw metal but not the spirit of Man.

And KGM is what photography is all about, he took photography as his passion, but never sold his pictures or transformed his hobby into a business.

And I know when I bought my Nikon D70 camera on a three years loan taken from Standard Chartered Bank he lashed me publically at a forum , in a huge gathering at Photographic Society of India., it hurt me immensely but I realised he was right , a loan for my business was justifiable but not for a hobby.

And when I took the loan on the sly I never did tell my wife either, I still am paying the premium, another few months to go, will heartless Japanese Nikon Camera giants realise what price we have to pay for the faults of their technical research departments.

I think if I was an American they would have kowtowed and given me a new camera.

And I think we Indians are much better than the Japanese, I had made a dress for a cllient Mr VP Malik from Delhi it was for his new son in law, raw silk, hand embroidered , and after a wash it frayed, it was a defective wash of a laundry, but I respect my clents faith in me I replaced the entire dress , salvaged my Honor and respected his continued Patronage.

But the Japanese wore our Honor in their attacks of Banzai.. the ultimate Hara Kiri of Honor.

And punishing Lebanese for the faults of the Hizbollah , two Isreali soldiers is what the Brave New World is all about.

And this will have great repurcussions , every country will take the role of a bully , bomb another country till there will be no countries left.

Only America and Israel, a silhouette of an island called Great Britain.

And the UNO


I cleared my Nikon D70 loan, it again went dead , so I have to shell another Rs 4500, it is so convenient for Nikon to discontinue defective models in a few months, we suffer because we Indians slog our ass of buy it as a long term investment ..but Nikon cares a flying fuck..
Indians yes some of us are dimwitted buy Nikon for its resale value..makes me throw up..
I know wedding photographers , new kids learning photography cursing Nikon D70..its a nightmare ..
This is not bad mouthing I have the receipts of all my repairs at Interfoto Nikon authorised technicians

In My Masters Light

My master KG Maheshwari the great eminent photo artist taught me how to unlearn photography, he taught me to see the world through the viewfinder , but read it as prose and transform it as a pictorial poetry…

This is photography , how you read a thought and how you write it down as a picture.Photography , the Brahmanic form of photography rquires that you find a guru, touch his feet , give him guru dakshina , and you have found a path.Pictorial nirvana comes with time , faults, mistakes and the guidance of the guru..

My first lesson of photography came from the Mahabharta , Donacharya shoting the Pandvas and Kaurvas archery , archery is photography, some shot the tree , some shot the fruit only Arjun shot the eye of the bird , and if in a portrait you capture the glint in the eye your picture lives forever, yes I am a Muslim and for me good photography is Hinduism my cultural inheritance, in one lesson of the Mahabharta, I learnt depth of field, angle of focus, perspective, circle of confusion and shooting into the eye of a needle.

I do not need Brookes, all I need is a stream of thought and the hands of my Guru , yes I am blessed I have three gurus.. Mr KG Maheshwari, Mr B WJatkar and Mr Shreekanth Malushte.

Incidentally the 84 year old Mr KG Maheshwari industrialist magnate,philanthrophist, is called Dronacharya, by those who rever him, this legendary Yousef Karsh of India.

January 4th, 2007

from left shreekanth malushte , mr maheswariji, me and prof jatkar

Better Be Saif than Be Sorry

Date: 06/22/2007 8:39 PM
Better Be Saif than Be Sorry
Saif Shakir is my son, 23 years old , today was his traditional day so he ransacked my wardrobe , he was going dressed as Pandit or a Hindu Astrologer, of couse he got the first prize at his college.

He is quite tense these days as his mon has begun hunting for a wife for him, she visited a place to give his proposal, so lets see whats in store for him, yes he will not see his bride to be, this is called arranged marriage, my wife will do the selection, she knows my sons needs … better than my son.

April 11th, 2007

Summary 23 june 2007
My son Saif is very excited, he never much liked studies, but we insisted that he atleast complete his it was important credential for success as a yardstick in modern times..

I am almost uneducated Inter Com failed.
Saif Shakir complied today he got his report card he makes us proud he is our humble familys first graduate ...
So I copied this Word Press post ..
I am proud of this Hulk of a Son..

PaxRomana And 100 Blogs At Her Feet.

I was posting at Bloggerspot old Bloggers , every time I ran away from Buzzmet with my tale between my legs ,I wrote first 50 blogs, this was the 100 .I reached upto 3750 , I dont know what happened I deleted all of them in a single click..
I still have an account with new Bloggers over a 1000 blogs.But once I went to Word Press I stopped posting here.
I needed a Word Press account as my homesite is not Blog oriented does not have feeds or whatever technically you call it.
I recently before coming to Flickr had a change of heart started two more Blogs at New Bloggers one for my Poems the other for my pictures of the Kumbh Mela..
Flickr changed every thing, I could post from here to Word Press or Bloggers.
As my homesite is overbursting, I thought of moving my main galleries here ..I had to halt my Kumbh Mela posting as I cant be everywhere at the same time..
I also before coming to Flickr rejoined Buzznet , but there I post only 2 pictures a day , the same that I had posted earlier before I deleted both my Buzznet accounts..
I have bought a domain name as one thing I want to really do is some social work for the Hijdas ..this domain is hijda oriented .My school mate Anil Shejale a web savvy creature wanted me to take another Coppermine gallery , but I am trying for a Word Press account, as moving from Flickr would help .I cant afford uploads .Even at my homsite that has 8126 picture files I have to pay for picture space..I am doing my blogging without any pecuniary gain this is my story , I am not showing off that my is smaller than yours at Flickr...I write I will be read through my pictures .
I have not shot anything new since a month.My Nikon D 70 has been repaired but it is with my camera friend Subhah Solanki , I have asked him to sell it for me after deducting repair charges Rs 4500/ this is Nikon we Indians love Japanese cocks that come in camera bodies and fuck us in repairs..
Nkon is the Biggest Con,,..not that Canon is any better.
I have never used a Canon in my Life .
I was hoping to sell 225 old cameras I have in my collection but I am not getting what I want...these are twin refex and other old models .I have the list .

My post
A few pictures of sites in the Residency ground...and a poem for her...

Quick And Bitter.
by Yehuda Amichai

The end was quick and bitter.
Slow and sweet was the time between us,
Slow and sweet were the nights
When my hands did not touch one another in despair
But with the love of your body
Which came between them.

And when I entered into you
It seemed then that great happiness
Could be measured with the precision
Of sharp pain. Quick and bitter.

Slow and sweet were the nights .
Now is as bitter and grinding as sand-
'We shall be sensible' and similar curses

And as we stray further from love
We multiply the words,
Words and sentences long and orderly.
Had we remained together
We could have become a silence.

translated from the Hebrew by Assia Gutmann

And I was never into Poetry in all sincerity I hate to write life itself remains sentenced to unpublished silence... whatever I read when I was young comes to haunt me and spectres of words just rise and clothe my love thoughts.
And I am happy holding her hand and listening to the drone of her complaints.. she mystifies me.. she is abstract... she is faithful and maternally responsible .
And I fell in love with he a giant of a woman me dwarfed to touch the hem of her petticoat.. I doubt if she wears one.. only a misadventured metaphor..
And silently I pass my days in her thoughts.. a formidable fortress invincible , unapproachable roads all cut off .. just a wire that dashes on water like a dragonfly approaching imminent death.
The woman I call theBlog Godess is a figment of my MInd , not incidental to anyone living or dead.I had to flesh her , being a slave of my copper tone emotions I gave her the identity of an American.
I dont much care for my skinned Desis.
Frankly I hve seen we crib about being racially humilited by the Whites , which is just an excuse as we Indans hate Indians per se.
We are filled with hate for anyone who walks barefeet paints better than Picasso..
we Indians love racial profiling more than the whites, we Indians love underdogs they are easier to bludgeon..I stay away from Indian Blogger Indian Blog sites . I dont mind being sodomized through my brains by the White man or White Woman..
The Indian Dick of Hate sucks sucks ..
Sulekha Blogs made me aware of the fact that I was a confused Muslim.
Yet I do carry an Om on my Armband that is as much my cultural inheritance than a Hindus.
Cybernetic Hate well that is what the Internet is all about.That is why I talk of an imaginary love to self heal my imaginary wounds my malaise , my monochromatic melancholia..

And all my 100 blogs are dedicated to this woman that has been lighting my way and oceans and occeans between us.. Pax Romana.

And like the ghosts in the Residency I too try to subjugate the demons within me..

Friday, June 22, 2007

Dont flush me at once

This picture was not taken by me..
I dont take credit for for what is not mine
And mine cannot be.
Street Photography in a loo
Is just not me..

Stuck in a land of no return..
The best of me in watery urn
As a Toilet Blogger
I have lot to learn..
And it is from Indians
That the West was won.

And hit by shit on my face
My love war has just begun.
A bald head, hands bejewelled
The Stigma of being
And a worms eye view,,
Of the most beautiful posterior
Under the sun.
Dont get mad
Have fun.
Pray to God for motions
and the runs.
And dont , dont flush me
At once.

I never was a Poet you made me One

A little speck of dirt lodged in her eye,
She thought she would wipe it away
Before it made her cry.
Enbalmed to her soul
Is my love on a clothesline
Kissing and flapping seductively to dry.
Her body belongs to her beloved
Her spirit mingles with mine.
She is someone elses sun
I live off her sunshine.
I Love you ...Yes I do
And to my harboured thoughts resign.
What is poetry but sweetened prose
Wombless umbilically connected to her online.
I never was a poet you made me one...
Rubbing salt to my wounds
Scars on my Indian back that pine
And bleed tear drops
That taste like Italian Wine.

Eternalized to Despair.

Archived as brutalized bricks in the mansions of her heart.
Contemptuously criticized moments before they fall.
Running streams of tears..hoping for a recall.
moisture less dry, like wrinkles in a shawl.

Silent , silently conceived,unashamed to overhaul.
Eternalized to despair..despaired to eternity all in all.
Dwarfed outrage unenthused wont enthrall.
Leisurely waiting to embrace a deathly pall.

Picture shot by me at the British Residency Lucknow ...the most photogenic and ever compliable model is my hand.

Me Icarus Fallen In Love

photo courtesy google images

She wears a wantonly sensuous burkha (veil) of delight
She won’t allow her face to be seen in spectered light.

Her curvaceous form is a pleasure to my ‘cataracted’ sight.
Blossoms of her laden fruit a pompous posterior very tight.

And her silken slippery lips like juicy apple bites.
And her blushing brown eyes..Eye lashed to my insight

And she fades away each time I touch her bosom..
Like a baby fawn in fright..
Me a web-footed woozy wobbly dwarf
She my poetically sleeping Snow White.

And this is what love does to me..Internetted.. And wired is my plight..
Pushed by Daedalus me Icarus falling from a great height.

Just once, only once my crushed skull on her bedsite.
I will finally get to sleep ..merged in the darkness of her night.

Unloquacious Locked Door

He stands sentinel at her locked door ,
She knows.. sri shakir.. photographerno1
Sri sri jagatguru, pakshgiri sri sri firoze.

Her computer has the runs,, that too she knows
Burning fever rising temperature.. adds to her woes.
And he stupidly follows her wherever she goes.

Pride and vanity the wind that humanly blow.
Radiohumped tuned in to a friend who is not a foe.
A shoot .. wedged into a sapling that cannot grow.

Perhaps in another planet some other time..
She will come up from below.
And open her unloquacious locked door.

And one legged barefoot ,bald, eyes closed photographer
Who accidently fell off a Bollywood fashion store.

Some other time some other place I will tell you some more.
Speech therapy, yogistically I preach to a unloquacious locked door.

This was shot by my wife Mrs Afshaan Shakir at Ghanta Ghar Lucknow

Peace a Venus on the Mound.

Shot and missed by the wife
Precariously perched on a window sill
Shot by another arrow in the eye
Limping on a leg,
broken wings and cannot fly.
A dove in love
Electrified to internet wires.
To read page cannot be dispayed
To sigh and die.

Or a leopards leap from her heart to the ground.
And an epitaph on his tombstone
Server cannot be found.
Death even thy sting
Is not profound.
In the grave unbound.
Whorling round and round
Peace Pulp Fictioned
A Venus on the Mound.

The Terrible Door by Harold Monro

The Terrible Door
Too long outside your door I shivered
You open it I will not stay.
I am haunted by your ashen beauty.
Take back your hand I have gone away.

Dont talk but move to the near corner.
I loathe the long cold shadow here.
We will stand in a moment in the lamplight,
Until I watch you hard and near.

Happy release! Goodbye forever!
Here at the corner we say good bye.
But if you want me , if you do need me,
Who waits at the terrible door but I.

by Harold Monro....

Sometimes I feel amazed...
she has the key
I am locked inside..
She is the one to whom I confide
Her I seek and from her I hide.
Peace to a Peaceful man
poetry to a photographer
as pictures cried
on the emulsion of his soul
burnt dodged bromide..

On The Wings Of Angels

Date: 09/28/2005 Time: 04:28 AM Visits: 75


I learnt shooting seagulls with Prof BW Jatkar one of my photo gurus , we would take a steamer from Bhaucha Dhakka , thhough shooting is prohibited on the seas , we would convince the boat guys we were bird lovers, we carried Ghatia for these Australian migrants , they just loved it..I would lie sprawld on the deck shooting against light right into the soul of the seagull.
Prof Jatkar met with an accident so this outing now remains as a memory through this picture..
Prof Jatkar is known as Black and White Jatkar the best of a technique and pictorial style..
He and Mr KG Maheshwari were te two persons who moulded me , without me imbibing their styles..
They put me on to camera clubs salon exhibitng..
On retrospection all Indian Camera Clubs , suck, they take you back into prehistoric times, those that are active are actively political, serving their own interests, nepotism , inter club rivalry..
Million light years from photo blogging.
They hate photo blogging because it means giving away pictures free..
Indian stock agencies well less said about them the better , most of them are like Marwari Kirana shops..
These are my views I have distanced myself from all clubs..
The Internet is the best place to learn , share and also rub shoulders with the best through words and pictures...interstiched imagery in emotions.
The only man in India who places poetry and photography on the same pedestal is Mr Subroto Roy of FIP indeed a forerunner and a person who is a picture poet himself.
I am a picture poet too at the lowest rung of the ladder.
This poem was a comment I had written about myself.

The Third Eye Of Shiva

My Third Eye Gift of Shiva.
A lamp that lights her ,My Diva.

Outside her door I tremble and shiver.
A heart that reflects the cirrhosis of my liver

A gift returned back to the giver.
I forget not , nor forgive her..

A peaceful calm
Tears enmbalmed.

Me a sailless raft ..
And she my meandering river..

A wet cloth to soothe the droplets
On her parched brow..
She has caught the Indian Fever.
O how I Love a female American beaver.

The dreads were kept sanefully in order, discpline by Lady Diana of the Dreads.
This was the look that suited me best,at Bhendi Bazar the skull caps would go bersek seeing me like this barefeet accompnying a burkha clad lady my humble wife.
I had to chop them as my scalp culd not take the load of the extensions, the tantric beads powered by Lady Dana too, she was after my blood to convert to Shivaism, take Diksha from her Kailash Guru, I would tell her I was already enslaved to Hazrat Ali Guru...quite happy with my beliefs , though my soul was shiafully saffronised.
I am a fan of the Hindu pantheon pictorially I am shooting Lord Siva ,Durga Mata and the Elephant God Ganesh..
They who drag me into their world to capture divinity...
Gokul Ashtami I dont miss at Ranade Road Dadar shooting the Ladies Pyramid called Govinda.
I think any religion that makes your heart throb as a human is a religion human enough for me..
The Queen shoul even give a knighthood to Sir Osama Bin Laden to appease the Muslims for the sake of Salman Rushdie..
The one person who deserved Knighthood in his times was Oscar Wilde....

I Cant Come Back

I can’t come back … you know why.
You are my death I live and die.

I think of you and sit and cry.
A forbidden fruit.. that cant be mine.

A wounded soul that scabs wont dry..
On the landscape of my back belie.

I left your world.. you know why.
It was my way of saying good bye.

When things got hot I would leave Buzznet for the dry unholy pastures of Bloggerspot , she was only a footstep away she me her trembling door ..
Yes I wrote my unlove poems for the Blog Goddess .one day long after I am gone my unborn grandson wont have to ask his parents "Who was the Blog Goddess ?"
He will see it in a Flickr burnished on his own soul.


Originally uploaded by firozeshakirphotographerno1
Man in the shade
god made...
got laid..


Originally uploaded by firozeshakirphotographerno1
Motherfucking son of a bitch, swollen headed syphlittic

ass hole, gonnohoreal good for nothing,

Love words enveloped

As greetings

In the brothel of my brain.

This is my red light cage like gym

Where my fuckedwords go to train.

Cunts smelling of roses cinamon, cardamum

To my claustrophobic cock enchain...

And every slide and every glide,

The pathos and the pain

My slithering tongue in

Her vulva lipped mouth.

My libidinous karma drain.

Cunt heads.. tit heads, why complain

You sanctimonius sacredotal shit heads

Would be the first to fuck her free

In the hallowed hollowed brothel of my brain.

This is dedicated to my Alaskan Fern, who taught me all the fucked words for Free.. ..Indigenous Indians.. when they see me walking barefoot on snow say shaking their heads"O there goes the free fucked word.

Actually American Women on Buzznet thoroughly corrupted me I had stopped bad words , but they pushed me to the edge so Shri Shakir tried to be with the jones..though I have given up writing cock poetry..
There was one incomplete poem
Buzzbot Circumsized Cyborgean Cock.


Falling in love presumably makes you a poet,not falling in love keeps you an arsehole all your remaining shelf life.
You remain where you are on the staicase without ever reaching a landing of her heart.

These are my earliest poem piggy banked at my homesite
I release them here at flickr to be unread on her heart...
The sea shell the echoes of Om Home Sweet Home..

shot by bw jatkar
Date: 10/23/2005 Time: 07:01 AM Visits: 64



March 28th, 2007

Mostly I commented in poetic form this was a comment on Xris Taylors most popular post at Buzznet the Tinies , he had in verse killed the cream of Buznet ...Comments are what help us grow as bloggers, comments are sometimes the heart that beats our body posts.People ae wary to comment or not to comment , to the bloggers depravity not cause a dent ..delete and repent love uncoiled as yogic kundalini at the mercy of the serpent ..I bleed in Moharam you mourn in Lent ..
Cyberspace a migrants tent from her page to your page it depends ...

On my homesite no one has ever commented..that is a thought highly commentable .

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Dying Standing Hijdas Death

every single moment
reminded of death
buried alive
she said
crawling up her
soul to be fed
married to arayavan
a goddess
widowed unwed
the charpai a martial bed
he on top
a seed
already dead
no amnioic fluid
no umbilical
cord of silken thread
a gateway trapdoored
stormy emotions
sodom gommorah
dark biblical
clouds overhead.

poem no 714

The Hijdas Flight the Hijdas Tale

This is a quintessential character of a mumbai night life and the words and settings are Bambaiya.. and close to the truth that hides under the petticoat of a a sleazy and steamy darkness of the city or the soul of a transgendered prey and the midnight unwholesome predator.

recreating Gods
adding new highlights
toning old shadows
and midtones
resculpting Gods
misapplied orientation
a new hyperlink
cut and paste
a new web page
a nightingales cry
an ungilded cage
a fleet footed
river a new hope
a new beginning
at every stage
a hijdas tale

cruising linking road
city walk signal
khar telephone exchange
frustrated furious
no customers
diwali and idd
a slakish thirst
empty stomach
cant assuage
the hijdas tale

at peela house
another time
another place
alankar cinema
poor mans
randi khana
moonh mein lungi
bees rupiya
gand marane ka 50 rupiya
teri jagah
meri jagah
haath gadi wala
the hijdas tale

another night
another place
rajabai tower
oval maidan
dark glasses
navy drunks
bhendi bazaar hunks
cat calls galis
from crusising skunks
over to gateway
bade miya
kheer boti wala
pet puja
and some chunks .
hijdas tale

tajmahal hotel
gateway of India
in the night
gokul drinks
a time pass
quick bite
bhadwas jhagdas
and some fight
a new invite
handsome hunk of
good height
a quick fuck
a sleazy joint
lady maid
guest house
fires ignite
more rim light
handsome hunk
drunk and tight
steal his wallet
introductory rite
to passage
its all right
the hijdas tale
the hijdas flight

poem no 715

The Frangible Hijda s Soul

Hijda fraternity
7 gharanas
panch naik guru
part of a
some plucky
some ducky
not all lucky
some hardly witty
dancing tunes
songless ditty
vaginal like
asshole to eternity
some sell body parts
pitch forked pity
some precariously pretty
moti katra and ajmer city
some distempered
wrath of a kitty
outdated words
outdated worlds
fast and flitty
some daredevilish gritty
some silly coned valley
outrageously titty
the hijda all colors and hues
monochromatic ..
the Khwajas dome
their Holy City.

poem no 717

Allah Ki Den Gods Gift

Midday Mumbai June 21 2007
Story by Prawesh Lama
(Nuh Mewat Haryana )
40 year old woman in Mewat district of Hayana gave birth to her 23rd child on Sunday .
The baby was born to Bismillah 40 and Mohammad Ishaq 50 at the nearby Al Afia Government Hospital in the district.
The couple were married in 1976 and since then , Bismillah has given birth to 23 children the latest being a female child who was born on Sunday named Shabira .
“delighted father Mohamed Ishaq said “Yeh toh sab Allah ki den hai agar hamara chaubiswabaccha agle sal hua to who bhi hum Allah ke den samjhenge.”
(All this is Allahs gift ,If we get a 24th child next year we will welcome it too).”
“I find it very difficult to remember their names as they all look the same”. he said

Yeh sab Allah ki den hai
Yes this is Allahs gift
He voraciously fucks his wife
On Allah the blame shift
This is Islamic thought
Distorted short shift
No guide or Muslim leader
From such Ignorance uplift
No Fatwa makeshift
23 children he has been very thrift
Certainly Naught spendthrift
This is life Made In India
A future of birth control
Gone adrift
Working overtime
Both shift

God Made Man Woman Hijda

estranged nipples
seeking fresh air
on a mound
that has gone
through repair
twin peaks
feminine compare
dare and bare
the eunuchs
they share
looking towards
offering a prayer
but god above
caught in a snare
ambushed genesis
what does he care
man and woman
a hijda
and no thought to spare

poem no 719

The Hijda Rules

cross gendered mules
no family jewels
the hijda rules
one eyed wise men
blinded fools
specie assholes
in transgendered schools
the hijda rules

poem no 720 at poem

Tongue Tied Tongue Lashing

typecasted teasingly
two faced, twofold,
tyrannosaurus tyranny
tell tale tail spinning
traumatic transgender
transvestite trepidations
transsexual transgressions
telepathic temptations
theoretically testicle testifying
truncated testosterone travesty
thereafter tenderized
tightlipped tinder boxed
titular transformed
transfigured transitional tragedy

poem no 723

IIn Pictorial Arms of Poetry

land lubbered
ominsexual lakshmi
clung to me like
drowning hope
she me entwined
to the end of a rope
I kept my hand on her waist
her lacquered libido
I had no time to grope
laminated lamentations
through the world
of a bollywood bioscope
transgendered trauma
that I could not cope
her posterior landsliding
on a downward slope
she me the rope
my mangal
dashed on the cape
of her horrorscope.

poem no 724

Lakshmi Prima Donna

transgender diva
in black and white
prima donna
we danced all night
sorrow and sadness
we did spite
pearls birthday
oystered invite
the dancing floor
in flames
passions ignite
panoramic sight
open air
chikungunya dengue
malarial fever
love like
a mosquitoe bite
oh what a night
she half woman half man
me in limbo and contrite
she did excite
an alarming
call at midnight
from my housewife
very uptight
all went quite
barefeet left
pumpkin like
and my flight
my hopes
beneath her feet
my trampled soul
the dancing floor
a mound
a tombstone
a burial site
my epitaph
incomplete poem
will rewrite
on my death anniversary
my testiculr infortitude
my lifes song
eunuch kids will recite.

poem no 725

Mona The Hijda Child and Mother Babita

Mona is a hijda child, you can read about her on my site at word press.

Her mother who has adopted her is Hijda Babita.

She won the prize hands down for the Fashion show , the most outstanding attire , and the best ramp model, Najafgarhs Own No 1 .
And the happpiest person rushing up on stage to take her picture was her adopted child Mona..
And it was a very touching moment indeed.
It was Babita much deserved victory.

The Hijda Cladrags Beauty Contest

greater than a gladrags Mrs India beauty contest
greater than gladrags manhunt and mega model contest
maureen wadia married beauties beer packed brawls in her nest
but she has not seen the hijdas ..walkin the ramp
the best of the very best ..All India Hijda Sammelan what a Fest
sohel, priya hijda from singapore, babita , muskan, simrin ,kajal
bosom heaving some with padded chest ..
transgenders beautifully a few skimpily dressed
the Hijda crown they wanted to wrest
the prize money in sex change operation invest
their story through this blog Word Pressed
aesthetically , poetically ,pictorially expressed
their world androgynously amorphous manifest
a Hijda Djinn that has me possessed
a Blog Goddess in her heart
me a cybernetic paying guest
more about her on request
laxmi narayan tripathi s hijdaeroticness
has certainly made progress
explicit permission with which
my unclothed thumb fucked
multi colored ass
by lady journalists gets transgressed
transvestism transgenderism
by moral brigade as un indian
against our culture supressed
a kiss is oral rape
richard gere how dare he shilpa shetty molest
now through a jaipur court case expressed
fast track courts under trial sufferings
age old unheard cases going on for donkeys years
the system sucks the victims all dispossessed
the criminal walks free …the complainant under house arrest
burn buses , paint teachers faces black, the only way to protest
you shame our country more much before the inquest
you cultural cops your mobocracy we detest
clits tits elephant dicks creativity you cant digest
take an early golden hand shake retirement
ia all I can only suggest

Transvestism is literally the practice of cross-dressing, wearing the clothing of the opposite sex, and transvestite literally refers to a person who cross-dresses. However, the word has often had additional connotations.

Thursday, June 21, 2007

The Omnisexual Hijda Queen

a glamorous glitzy
celebrity sex siren
in between
the omnisexual hijda queen
a mask beneath a mask
trick or treat
on halloween
her arrested
age beauty
just nineteen
her eyes
crystal ponds
of aquamarine
cover page
peoples magazine
calm cool
so serene
a goddess
of a silver screen
in her aging
hijda community
she a diva evergreen
when idiots plagiarists
turned Xerox machine
bimbo headed journalist
turned mujaihidin
create a scene
she does try to intervene
on going war internecine
tabla tango tambourine
paleologus pillowtalk
papal paroxysms
deleted interviews
in quarantine
ass spitting fires
trauma tracing
tragedy routine
blog spot
word press
blog bashing
cracking a
computer screen

Hijda Heart in Cyberspace

ashen face
two halves one body
claustrophobic curiosity
enclosed space
transgendered trauma
flesh is willing
to reshape
remold and replace
spirit is weak
no hiding place
hybrid holocaust
a disgrace
to the master race
suffocating emotions
cataleptic convulsions
no breathing space
a holed out horizon
a dehydrated dream
a rainbow chase
like deleted pages
beating and breaking
their heads in a recycle bin
of a prisoners base
wanting to relive
in cyberspace
the hijda heart
a lonely hunter
a hapless prey
a hopeless predator
lurking on the
souls of a human race

poem no 726

Hijda Hoping against Hope

hijda sorrow hijda tomorrow
under the microscope
many a times
with her toy boy she did elope
not to return to a worldly brothel
hoping against hope
but born to misery
more misery she could not cope
her toy boy sold her to another
unworldly brothel
as he needed money for his dope
she had forgotten her freedom
was bound to an umbillical rope
god before she was born
had messed up her horoscope
karma dharma recycled
hijda a condemned
a deaf and dumb doctor
her ailment
beyond the beat
in a stethoscope
hijda hoping against hope
a darkness she cannot grope

The Hijda in the picture does not represent the short story in my poem, she was a very beautiful person, she had come to terms, with her life having left adversity far behind..
she is the positive hope that shatters the myth of the darkness in my poem.

April 24th, 2007

Hijda No1

Hijda No1
Originally uploaded by firozeshakirphotographerno1
I am zeenath
a primal force
a fountain head
dark and sultry
she proudly said
I do the tandav
dancing on
bodies of the
living dead
married to Aryavan
and still unwed
on a marriage bed
cut open my
heart and see
the blood spread
hijda no 1..
written in
tears of red
like pearls
on a silken thread
dying flesh
on a soul undead

pem no 728

sexuality a pain in the ass

dont throw stones
break our earthen pots
said the hijda
I live in a housemade of glass
sexuality a pain in the ass
neither man nor woman
a community enmasse
rabid remorseless genitalia
ambiguous physical class
soul distempered
life rotten and middle class
sodomize our hopes and sorrows
our cultural ethos
you trample and tresspass
hermaphroditic accuse and harras
our offsprings we have none
to outclass or overpass
childless we live
old age , a life sentence
even death can never surpass
our critics , our enemies
nobody can break their
stained window panes, alas
they the sanctimonious saintly
who live protected in
houses of fiber glass

poem no 730

sweating it out Sweet Jesus

Many of my pictures were hit badly by the red eye at the All India Hijda Sammelan, the best way to get rid of them is to go to the channel mixer in adjustments , image and manipulate the degree you think is right and another aesthetic look, you have to select and feather the eyes with eleptical marque tool.. on Psd.. Cs 2 the very best.. and salvage your pictures.
I try not to change my image drastically but sometimes it adds a fun element.. I paid guys to learn all this.
As a Blogger I found even a picture that should have been thrown in a dustbin with Psd took over a new hybrid soul.. reincarnated itself as a pictorial thought.
And drungekko is an able master , his pictures and his technique worth its price in gold..cest vrai.
Another magician is Aljie .. the man from Wales.
And Mahayani too has evolved as a great photographer who sees beyond what she she shows us in her picture..
And Scarlet Lark.. superb photo artist.
And I am sure there are so many great new breed masters and we will learn something from each of them.
Touch ads more than a Touch to her imaginatively elevated images.
I have stopped snooping completely , I cannot say much about silver chromed cameras..
Xris is a holy stream for poets with sterilty.. or poets that are barren, each time I visit his Buzz

I end up with my arms full of referigerated defrosted Poetry.
And Foster Fucked Blaine ..
He is getting his american
ass fucked on some other plane
a voice from Mumbai engrain
a silver casket unread poetry in vain
prostituting prose beneath the
legs of a brindled colored Great Dane
It Rains , It rains Henry Higgins
My Fair Lady ..Eliza Dolittle
more in Bandra Bazar Road
than it rains on piss assed poets
defrosted as Blaine In Spain In Spain.
Pain O Pain mainly on an ass Remain, Remain..

Another new master here at Flickr is Quikenobi Diakitora .
Bora Bora Bora ..
a pictorial explorer

Slithering Simran

breath taking
bohemian beauty
a warrior queen
deservedly for
attila the hun
hijda pride
a battle she won
a shadow
larger than life
belittling the sun.

poem no 735

a Hijdas journey of guilt

unquenchable thirst
unslaked sorrow
the hijdas life
a shattered today
a battered tomorrow
a womans destiny
like used clothes borrow
an ugly crow with
of a sparrow
a razors edge
a journey of guilt
a path that is narrow.
stem cell survival
bone marrow
a heart
in a posterior
a bulls eye
to a mans
bow and arrow

poem no 736

hijda bawas of ajmer

at char yaar
seek solace
from hijda bawas
who share
same face
powered by
the khwajahs
smoke a chillum
a dua tawiz
all at one place
djinn djinnat
as your ace
buri arwa..
chase ..
come back
next Urus
the same path
at chaar yaar trace

poem no 781

these are pictures shot on negs last year at ajmer urus..

Hijdas on Chand Raat

chand raat
all decked to kill
hijdas sing
at pydhonie
crowds overspill
of peace love
man bad
kismet vexation
idd price hike
a rewarding night
great sensation..
gender animation
loveless levitation
filmless gravitation
dodged to burn
devious discrimination
self preservation
another night
back to
false hopes
no great expectation..

poem no 776

The Hijdas of Haji Malang

high up
in the mountains
lies a sufi saint
one calls him muslim
prayers fatiah
such is their plaint
the hindus in the
color of saffron
the baba repaint
so fights and
severe constraints
in such surroundings
the hijdas come
rising above petty
in the worship
of this saint
hindu or muslim
no part
of their complaint
their androgynous soul
mortgaged to
the khwajah of ajmer
haji malang baba
their patron saint
they dance on his urus
with their chaddars
their offerings
without restraints..

poem no 809

'hijras sodomized by an english homosexual act'

wiggish long hair ,
tweezed out
facial hair,
false boobs
cosmetized aspirations
adapt ..
for this tragic comic
by society get slapped
hijdas becomes hijdas
sufferings and sorrows
ancient rusty English
left over of an act
by the cops
and the so called moral police
get further blackmailed
and trapped
a racial and sexuality based
profiling so rapt
in India so apt
politicians become hijras
hijras become politicians
a line of demarcation
confusing to a wisdom

poem no 835

to be or not be a hijra

the hijras at haji malang
all vying for the magic eye
of my cameras attention
hijdas on drums
dancing mid air
in rapt suspension
a spiritual serenade
of a devout dimension
love floating in the air
for the holy saint
no parody or petrifying
pretension s
no hyper tension
laugh be merry
don’t marry no
birth prevention..
no menstrual machinations
by any extension
condom aids
no misapprehension
hijra hegemony
on an ascension
sexual flexibility
to be
or not to be a hijra
breaking all convention
honrary mention

poem no 836

Bhandari Bawa a Devil in Disguise

I met the Chancawalli Sufis body piercers or Rafaees as they sat around the Holy Fire or Dhuni at the Shrine of the Holy Saint Maqdoom Shah Baba of Mahim..
I was introduced to their head or Peer Sikandar Wali Baba, by my friend Fahad Pathan whose late father was the Pesh Imam of the Makdoom Shah Baba Mosque..
I began recording their story through pictures , following them from one holy shrine to the other and showing their lives , their frugality and their adherence to the Chillum holy smoke of the hashish filled pipe.. I dont smoke nor do I believe in Sufism but I went up to Haji Malang a mountain top , with burnt feet as I had walked on a ramp of hot coals the night before last year and my back to was sordid with self flagellation all these being rituals of my Shia beliefs in the month of Moharam , commemorating the Martyrdom of Imam Hussain .. here I shot the Hijras , all the Bawas or ascetics loved me I came from a different world but I looked like them.. was open to their thoughts their jewelry , my camera all served to bind me with the bawas.
Back in Mumbai at the last Urus this Bhandari Bawa the chief cook of the medicant group began hassling me , I was miserable as I had a serious foot wound , I am diabetic.., during my picture taking he would come and turn his back in such a way that his ass filled the entire frame.. on the day I was shooting a woman who was being exorcized as she was possessed , he tripped me deliberately, on the Dhuni a continuous fire source ,I managed to save myself but my feet touched the holy kneaded flour I was severly reprimanded by Sikandar Wali Baba who I am sure as a Peer should have been aware at course of events, but Baba fired me instead of Bhandari Baba.. I walked away, later I tried to mend this broken fence of my relationship with the Chancawalli Sufis but Sikandar Baba humiliated me and that was the end.. These Hijra photos of Haji Malang were on a Cd I just discovered , I saw Bhandari Babas mug among the Hijras out come my poetic anguish and this long explanation..
Sikandar Wali Baba died recently , so I had returned back to the Fold of the Chancawalli Sufis under a new chieftain Khalifa Baba or popularly called Handi Cauldron.

he hates humans
of all shapes and size
hijdas with a venom despise
he hates photographers
who look like bawas
are more wise
yes he hates me
to death a reason
I did realize when
he tried to trip me into
the holy fire or the dhuni
Bhandari bawa
a devil in disguise
I fell out with the
Chancawalli Sufis
Sikandar wali baba
a few other guys
I saw them at ajmer
all these bawas
it was no surprise
I introduced them on the web
through my camera as my eyes
today this relationship
a premature death and a demise.
Bhandari Bawa
..a reason for goodbyes..
from a world they inhabit
known as body piercing Raffaees
smoking chillum ..
spiritual misery condemned
to more lies.
an act overplayed
needs to be improvised
me a shia thug
a sufi baptised

The Belly Dancing Hijra at Haji Malang

she turned
twisted her body
like a snake
in a woven basket
her way
the audience
in a sway
a flute
drums other hijras
their skirts
like open mouths
genders in disarray
little kids a curiosity betray
to see their
private parts
on this auspicious day
old hijdas shooing them away
ploughed deep wrinkles
sllithering strands of white hair
gnarled lives already in a state of decay
a few crumpled notes the people would pay
before this procession with the Sandal
into the Holy Shrine move away..
you have to see this picture
to feel the fragrance
of my pictorial poetic bouquet

the last three lines are for those at poem hunter who read my words dont see my pictures...this was to poem hunter readers.
poem no 856

The Drummer Boy in Hijda Land

The drummer boys during the Urus at any Shrine are famous for their acrobatic feats, these guys are tremendously showy , play to the galleries , get paid by the crowds that keep entertained as they lead the Sandal procession of any group.But the Hijdas love them patronise them, many have become toy boys of the Hijdas.
The drummer boys of Haji Malang are a breed apart, they dance cavort with their drums , they are photogenically alive and agile.This was my first trip to Haji Malang to meet the Chancawalli body piercing Rafaees , you have to trek the mountain to reach this place , I had walked on fire the night before , also scourged my back so this was a tough trek,, I climbed this mountain barefeet , but on the top the Hijdas refreshed my starved soul..I have a wander lust that is kept in check, I am manacled to fleshy domesticity of a marriage life, my shop , my kids , my despair.
I sometimes want to go the A L Syed way ,become a Fakir renounce it all, not foe any quest or search just to be able to see the moments of acetism first hand..but I dont like to beg, I dont like to kow tow lick ass, go down give head to fallse hopes , so this is another tough cookie..
I want to be a Fakir shoot pictures stay connected disembodied to all you guys that live on cyberspace that I call the other side of midnight..
I am a one man army I intend to stay this way..
I am at my shop posting from my homesite, the HussainTekri is on the house comp...

the drummer boy
a favourite of the hijdas
frail cute but not so strong
wherever they go
they take him along
he plays the drum
ding dong
some dance
some clap hands
some sing song
the hijdas in ghagras
sarees and colorful sarongs
stylistically he climbs
on the drum .
ping pong
this is how he makes
a living all year long
he and the hijdas
to each other belong

poem no 857

In one way posting at Flickr is giving me a chance to re edit my stuff add this Intro new to the body post..
All my poems were first posted at Buzznet with pictures, than picture decapitated published at Poem Hunter.
I now write poetry as I drink water , or brush my teeth.
Gargled gibberish of words wanting to live after I am dead and gone.

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