Dont Touch Me

Dont Touch Me
Originally uploaded by flickr photographerno1

This is shot from a rickshaw, and ‘Don’t Touch Me’ is inscribed on all the fare meters.

And the irony, its pathetically inscribed on her girlish soul too, I did not want to shoot this picture, the girl child mother had covered the face of the new born baby with the end of her saree , that was the picture transparent infancy,, but I disallowed the artistry , not the metaphor with which I wanted to share the picture with you, I hate manipulating real life, placing a rose near a bomb blast and shooting the extensive depth is a distorting a decisive moment.

I shoot pictures, don’t touch or disturb the underlying pain, I shoot blood , but its only an invitation for you to see the layer beneath the blood, I cut my self severely , not only because of allying with my faith , but to understand the sound of gushing blood, musical tones and as it gurgled and warmed the slopes of my cheek, I was crying and my tears purifying and diluting the sanguinity of Moharam ritual.

And once you start hearing voices pushing you to press the trigger, once you start seeing reality in dense pictorial undergrowths you have matured as a photographer.

And its a very William Blakish kind of feeling, sometimes I saw it in Tom Do You Like Its Pictures... even Scarlet Larks bench picture, some pictures grow, keep on growing in your mind till they become a part of your unthinking mechanism.

I can understand the confusion my poems cause at Poem Hunter.com, half of the idiomatic essence of my poetry lies at Flickr in the form of a pictures , the Poem hunter critic only sees the wall the windows but not what I see through a closed door.

And a poet honestly has no time or love for poetry, poetry is words that transform as pictures... if Poem hunter had an option for posting pictures, my poetry would not sound the same as I conceptualize it first as a picture.
A Flickr page is my pond, my word like fishes, my commas like little tailless tadpoles, my full stops like little snails kissing the beginning of another sentence, my insert link what connects me to her soul, than the image, the crowning glory of my webpage, tags, that brag and with a touch will open another world beyond a technocrati redemption.

And the cock teasing on the insides of my webpage, feverishly pulling at the undergarments of my soul, private or public.

And Fuck am I really a poet, poets are people made of greater specter like quality , I don’t possess, I don’t want to a be a poet like that, I am a conversationalist poet, I am a talkative poet, a padlocked pedestrian poet.

I am a multi colored poet .

And the juvenile delinquency, irritatingly underscoring my seriousness, post to My Space.



And that lady with a silver chromed mask who knighted me Sir Lancelot Journaler.

And I shall post this at Poem Hunter as a Prose Sounding Poem ,someone will tell me to tighten my prose, loosen my poetry.


From the rickshah I did see
A girl child mother hiding her new born child’s face with the end of her dappled saree..
Begging a thought that seamlessly said to be or not to be
A thought that did touch me
She was the same girl dimpled cheeks sold flags on Independence day
Now she was a mother herself fourteen years out blown in agony
A Fare meter ticking away that said Don’t Touch me
I wonder without offending God or his dark humor
Are we really born free an umbilical cord connecting us
With someone else’s destiny..
To be gang raped a few seconds agonizing pain
A Mother soon to be none to blame
But a child fucking sucked up society..
An oceanless depth that scares and bares
Our wounds that we call reality..