Friday, June 22, 2007
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
Pray to God for motions
and the runs.
And dont , dont flush me
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.
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.
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.
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
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.
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
I AM LIKE JESUS,
CARRYING A CRUCIFIX
OF NO1... A HEAVY SUFF-IX
WHO SAYS NATURE AND MYSTICISM CANT MIX
THIS IS THE HUMAN PHOTOGRAPHERNO1
WITH HIS PHOTOGRAPHIC TRICKS...
ON BUZZNET MET ALL YOU BOYS
NOW WAITING FOR THE CHICKS
HAD ENOUGH OF YOU GUYS,,
THOSE SUFI PRICKS...
A SWORD,, THAT LIMPID TONGUE DO LICKS.
A WALL BUILT ON IMAGES INSTEAD OF BRICK S
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.
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
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....
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.
ass hole, gonnohoreal good for nothing,
Love words enveloped
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.
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
XRIS KILLED YOU ALL
I WAS OUTRAGED
A BATTLE CENTRESTAGED
HE WAS PAYING HOMAGE
ALPHA"BETTY"ICALLY SENDING US AWAY
HIGHLIT IN AREAS THAT WERENT GREY..
BUT WE WILL LIVE ON BUZZNET AND STAY
XRIS YOU SURELY ARE GOING TO PAY
FOR KILLING ROMANCE..
THATS GOING TO END IN MARRIAGE ‘
EVEN YORRIK HAS GONE POETIC PRAY.
RIB STEALER..ON A BENCH
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 .
8126 files in 57 albums and 1 categories with 0 comments viewed 507416 times
reminded of death
crawling up her
soul to be fed
married to arayavan
the charpai a martial bed
he on top
no amnioic fluid
cord of silken thread
a gateway trapdoored
poem no 714
adding new highlights
toning old shadows
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
diwali and idd
a slakish thirst
the hijdas tale
at peela house
moonh mein lungi
gand marane ka 50 rupiya
haath gadi wala
the hijdas tale
bhendi bazaar hunks
cat calls galis
from crusising skunks
over to gateway
kheer boti wala
and some chunks .
gateway of India
in the night
a time pass
and some fight
a new invite
handsome hunk of
a quick fuck
a sleazy joint
more rim light
drunk and tight
steal his wallet
its all right
the hijdas tale
the hijdas flight
poem no 715
panch naik guru
part of a
not all lucky
some hardly witty
asshole to eternity
some sell body parts
pitch forked pity
some precariously pretty
moti katra and ajmer city
wrath of a kitty
fast and flitty
some daredevilish gritty
some silly coned valley
the hijda all colors and hues
the Khwajas dome
their Holy City.
poem no 717
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
seeking fresh air
on a mound
that has gone
dare and bare
offering a prayer
but god above
caught in a snare
what does he care
man and woman
and no thought to spare
poem no 719
no family jewels
the hijda rules
one eyed wise men
in transgendered schools
the hijda rules
poem no 720 at poem
two faced, twofold,
tell tale tail spinning
theoretically testicle testifying
truncated testosterone travesty
tightlipped tinder boxed
transfigured transitional tragedy
poem no 723
clung to me like
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
through the world
of a bollywood bioscope
that I could not cope
her posterior landsliding
on a downward slope
she me the rope
dashed on the cape
of her horrorscope.
poem no 724
in black and white
we danced all night
sorrow and sadness
we did spite
the dancing floor
a mosquitoe bite
oh what a night
she half woman half man
me in limbo and contrite
she did excite
call at midnight
from my housewife
all went quite
and my flight
beneath her feet
my trampled soul
the dancing floor
a burial site
on my death anniversary
my testiculr infortitude
my lifes song
eunuch kids will recite.
poem no 725
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.
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
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.
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