Friday, August 24, 2007
Is that moron or mormon you must get yourself some anger management pills
you are losing it not good poetry rub yourself with some deep heat but be careful getting it on your fingers, we know what you do when the lights go out in the infirmary
Warm regards AJS
kettle calling the pot black
Neo Nazism in poetry on track
duck faced dick head
quack quack quack
banned member on my poems list
why do you keep coming back
anger management pills I will take
provided primal therapy
you begin pronto
throw out you key board mouse
your hate filled Mac
I masturbate unlike you
In the infirmary
With poems that your
What you need brother
Is a jolly good whack
You a miserable needle
Lost in a haystack
How it hurts
This Indian asymmetrical attack
You bigoted multi racial man
Who loves all colors but hate
Brown and black
You like to hit
Bit don’t like to get hit
Balls that’s what you lack
group of Germans at the festival provoked initially a scuffle with the Indians by chanting anti-foreigner slogans.
The mob then proceeded to chase the Indians who sought refuge at a pizzeria after a street chase.
The doors of the restaurant were smashed by the assailants as a large crowd of by-standers merely stood by and watched the incident.
At least two police officers were hurt as some 70 policemen drove back the attackers from the entrance of the pizzeria.
Two people were briefly detained in the criminal case, but later released.
According to the weekly Der Spiegel news magazine, the xenophobic attack was apparently pre-planned by a group of people, widely known in town for their neo-Nazi ideology.
Earlier this month, two foreigners were hurt in two separate neo-Nazi attacks in the eastern German state of Saxony- Anhalt which had the highest figure of per capita neo-Nazi assaults in Germany last year.
All in all, the number of crimes committed by neo-Nazis has reached a new peak in Germany in 2006 as officials openly admit that their efforts to combat far-right crime have failed.
Some 18,142 neo-Nazi crimes were registered in Germany last year, up from 15,900 in 2005.
The number of anti-foreigner attacks stood at 511 in 2006, indicating a 37 percent rise from the previous year.
The latest figures were a "cause for concern", German Interior Minister Wolfgang Schaeuble was quoted as saying earlier this year.
"Unfortunately, our multi-faceted efforts have not led to a lowering this kind of crime," he added,
Political observers link the dramatic increase in the number of far-right delicts to the recent success of neo-Nazi parties in key regional elections in several east German states.
Young neo-Nazis feel more and more emboldened to commit hate crimes, knowing that police won't really charge them with an offense.
Most of the suspects implicated in neo-Nazi crimes are under 21 years old.
Neo-Nazi attacks are mainly concentrated in economically depressed eastern Germany, which has yet to recover from the whiplash transition from Communism to capitalism.
Some 17 years after the German reunification, prospects are still bleak for those living in the five eastern states.
Allen James Saywell
This member is in your BANNED MEMBERS list.
A rabid dog bitten infected poet
Down under defoliated dung hill
A true blue dinki di ridgy didge
Hydrophobic at Mumbai airport
Had his ass frisked
Smelling of amber colored
Totally Totally Pissed
Ava go yer mug
Colors of multi racial hate don’t mix
He loves little bitser Indian boys
Poofter in the Mist
He hates Aussie dinkum chicks
Prostate prone testicles
the kind custom
officer dressed like me
tried to assist he said
this is a story with a twist
quarantine put him on sick list
quick get cute ass fixed
call for Dr Haneef
a surgery to remove
hate filed sac and cyst
Native of Australia
With more sultry colored Hate
To shit comments
On a poem hunters
“My banned list “
Moral of this story
Gutful of piss
Forget my Asss
Forum help Enlist
Don’t shoot comments
Write Poetry on Keats
Live let live Coexist
And fuck sake
Spit the dummy
You are no more
On my Mailing List
Hearing all this
I have no need to write all this but people like AJS need mental medical treatment and care , immediate institutionalization...for the safety of society and a secular poetry world at large.
You have a new comment about your poem: Man O Man The Weeping Weed by Allan James Saywell
IS THE MAN IN THE PHOTOGRAPH A HEMORRHOID
WARM REGARDS AJS
I don’t know about the man in the photograph
But you need to go to a shrink
You turning eunuch
At Poem Hunter
Your mind going crazy
You Australian scumbag
What little was there
You are suffering from penis envy
bastard child of Freud
why don’t you sink yourself
for ever in a void
Grow tits get a clit
Take androgynous steroid
A flaccid manhood testicular
Your comments on my poem
Not worthy of your
Stinking Australian sense
Criminal genetic blue blood of a whore
Brainless head in a pyramidoid
Suffering from elephantiasis
A twat like thyroid
A tipsy gypsy outdated
Try pulling your head
Out of your arse
photo courtesy google images
As my wife Afshaan hails from an old Lucknowi family most of the aspects of Moharam ritual, are followed to the T.
Ghame Hussain is No1 priority .
Nothing comes before or after. The buck stops here.
The kids, my daughter are all in the throes of this funereal atmosphere, my house turns into a citadel of a Shia ethos.
My house is a facsimile of Lucknow, same ancestral values and traditions all imported by my wife who came here at a very young raw age to be married to me a man with an overtly colored past , innumerable skeletons of dissatisfied dehumidified emotional disaster hanging in the closet as tarnished memories of foreclosed romance.
All this changed or maybe not..
Prior to marriage we had a house Imambada at our Colaba home, but my Mom who had become a Bambiya, did not go for the House Majlis aspect..
Ashura and Chehlum .Moharam was over as I remember vaguely.
There was no strictures, we as it is never delved into Music or Films.. we were part of a cosmopolitan neighborhood , and a great stress on tolerance..
My mom loved my childhood friends be it late Keith Kanga , Vimal, Rayo and later other friends who came into life..
The only jarring note was I used to visit the Hindu temples of Shiva and Hanuman and Ganpati which she felt was going a bit far in Tolerance. As a mother she was scared I would get a bit more saffronised.
But she had faith in her upbringing that has stood its test even after her Death.
Well with this background to my Shiasm, the world that my wife bought with her was challenging, very alien, my wife’s Shiasm comes from discourses of Maulana Agha Roohi the Lion of Lucknow.. my mother in law Wassim Qasim Qazilbash a part of a band of his followers known as Tabarahi..
I kept away from any such overt display of my Shiasm, I had scourged my back as a teenager with Firoze Badami of Dongri but that was it…
Alcohol and my dependence on it later in Life was a great stumbling block and the Devil worked overtime on the whetting stone of my Mind.
The Shia ebullience has happened a few years back, exactly the same time I gave up Alcohol for good, my photography bought me closer to my religion and its sanguinity of Rituals, that ever since I saw Athvi and shot the Chup Tazia in Lucknow broke through with an indomitable force and a Shia was Reborn.
With a difference of course...Tolerance instilled Shiasm .
The House Majlis my wife keeps at the Shia Khoja Bandra Masjid..segregated for ladies and gents.
I went for a year or two these pictures are of that time the Maulana Hassan Zaheer of Imambada Meeran Saheb Muftiganj .
After that I have stopped going to the House Majlis completely, I stay away at my shop.
This upsets my Shia friends who attend, but emotional reasons I do not wish to emote at this juncture.
My faith is Intact..
I live in a World that has closed its doors to clerical thought..
My pain is my own..
I was born for that pain.
© Glenn M. Losack
I am memerised by
doctor glenn losack 's
diagnosis of a world going to seed
pictorial thoughts as images
that make your heart bleed..
man rotten hopes the wanting seed
hate more hate racism violence to breed
racial discrimination of caste color and creed
born in captivity man
empty slugs as words
no action no deed
man ancestral greed
money more money
a thought hybrid
Man Good Luck
Man born of a woman
breaking free of a woman indeed
man destroys woman womanhood
the unborn child wont pay heed
Man O Man
The Weeping Weed
trying to connect with god..
man and machine
man through machinations
fishes and loaves
or attila the hun
with a sword
a bush with presidential
of a dehumanized façade
sovereignty of a nation
faith hope justice
faces the firing squad
terrorists relgionists and political
spare the child and spoil the rod
god made man
man destroyed god
man destroyed the womb
where born as a child
he became god
of a man and lord
man killing man
the rise of man
the fall of god
a god in Jerusalem
a god in the White House
a god silent in Riyadh
muslims killing muslims
while the somnolent
gives a nod
MAN AND GOD
dedicated to a brave heart called Da Vinca
© Glenn M. Losack
man is he with genitals
manhood testicular fortitude
has the world in his hands
man coward and superman
a biological man
neither woman nor man
a travesty of birth
with the trappings of a woman such man
as they call a hijda man
than you have the alpha man
the metrosexual man
but this man at haji ali with half a torso
shot by glenn losack an american
photo taking man
shows a creative god mocking man
when he decided enough is enough
man or no man
he created just a torso
calling it the half man
puppets of a lesser god
god in the image of man
man god as god man
the rise and the fall of man
a thought for the day ..he may not be
as brilliant a poet as you are today
don’t provoke , belittle him as your
feet inspite of your gilded hate thoughts
are made of clay ..
you thought you could beat him black and blue
and easily get away
we both tenants here
forever we both cant stay..
sunburnt cream on my bleeding face
well ps carter you did laugh that day
now Google Search Australian racist poet
you will find hate crimes do not pay
..through a maze of misery
farkme your partner from bombay
multi colored word play
I don’t intend to forget you anyway
big bully big brother jade goody goody
your multi colored victim you could slay
I am no shilpa shetty who will cry away
you and your coterie of hooligans their
hatred on display …if not today perhaps
tomorrow you and your kind will
soon pass away ..unremembered
on your unmarked graves just thorns
from a recycled bouquet
your 3000 poems in decay
through this poem my thoughts
I do convey
right of admission reserved to red indians
and a few brindle colored stray.
the Crow that shat on my head
gravitational gyrations of a love that fled
dying Crow stoned and dead
by a goddess he was once fed
the shit as blessing on my head
she and me and a silken thread
she reads .. her heart unread
will search for my epitaph
on my grave instead
when 6 feet down
i am buried alive
i prefer any thing
that is you..
you look new..
wanting to date you
love is a disillusion
like vomit i do spew.,.
her brains only the
brainless can chew
a woman into
a child out grew
thoughts i see
through and through
her ethereal form
my soul bids
her soul adieu
spirit a pact
effect and cause
in this poem
Death is camera shy
does not like to be
or show its human cry
wants to be
in its final good bye
would turn its
truth into a naked lie
you can buy
from the ward boy
on the sly..
is not to high
at times I think
even death is too
ashamed to die
with sleepy eyes
of human cries.
From Mother Earth
Father in the skies.
wretched and ravaged behind the walls
todays' humanity and it's pitfalls
underneath fierce emotions, hell's gateway
the blood, drop for drop
my hearts' tears staccato, beat matching beat
and my soul falls to her knees
a moments' defeat...
steel don't shudder, I hear a close distant whisper
there are ways and means of coping and defense
the lost innocence, a tear worth crying
let it's splash gently fall on tender hearts
they are worth saving
innocence virginity, the last hymen broken
turn the fucking back into loving
coal hearts soon quit beating
escoriated vault walls bearing scars
slip slide, but after all the essence
the reason for being
is to nuture the genesis, hope against hope
neucleant bursting, evolution microcosmic generation... don't underestimate..
the Power Of Love
Well this Waza , the hard hitting Waza, and we share a rare relationshipof mutual trust, to be given a password to her buzz , and allowed to post a picture, and another reason too, is a pretty trusting thing to do in todays times, as photographer with an eye for the curious , I keep to myself without an iota of voyeuristic adventurism, I cannot change the perception of my wife towards Waza, but that is a kindered women feeling , I am not surprised by Indian women, they will call their husbands scums, what not, but will not share their almost dirty plate with another woman, but there are some magnanimous women, the soft hearted and acquiesing type of women , who realise the transistory nature of life and the games it plays on us, let emotions take its course and allow the other woman as part of a marital menagerie and live happily ever after.
I know an actor friend who has a wife and his wife has accepted the other woman.
The other woman is the most dreaded word in the lexicon of an Indian womans heart, my dad was snared balls and feet by the other woman, he bought her a house behind Taj Mahal Hotel, he was told that her two kids were fathered by him, but later she confessed it was the work of the house mason.
Such can be the other woman, my mom went through periods of self guilt and when my kid brother Firdaus was born in 1975 I was at my mothers bedside, and the nurses thought I was her youngest brother, such was my devotion for my mother, my dad was in the bower of the other woman.
And he was far gone in love for this woman with a commercial background and a commercial bent of mind, my dad realised all this far too late , when he discovered the nature of her various liasons , when he came across evidence pictorial and in writing , that hinted at misplaced fatherhood of her children when she was at her home town , dad I believe was seaching for a bottle of Vicks Vaporub.And Hell broke loose.
And Dad finally moved away , bequeathing the house on the 5th floor in a building behind Taj Mahal, the irony of Betrayal and Love cloisterd as sin and repentance behind Taj Mahal.
But my Dad never forgot the two children , whom at one time he had loved more than us.
My Dad died a broken hearted man, he was far too good looking, he took refuge in God , he parayed the Namaaz , like I have never seen a human pray, he begged for forgiveness and invoked God to save him and his family.
My mother by now had lost the battle and a nice woman she did not appreciate Gods divine interpretation, she became nasty, for the years of sufferings and would hit back, and the usual, "Did I not tell you she would throw you out "kind of tantrum.. Dad died in pain, he died several times, his breathing would stop , my brother Shakil who really sacrificed his entire life for us , he is younger and more responsible than I am, would rush him to the clinic next door for cleaning his congested and suffocated lungs.
But one final attack on a Friday when I was at the flea market , he breathed his last at Thawanis Nursing Home behind Taj Mahal Hotel.
My mom died soon after , now they lie side by side at the Shia cemetry at Rehmatabad, here I must mention that when Dad died I was broke and he was buried in a normal mound kind of grave called Kacchi Kabar , when my mom died I had abour RS 50000, with me , a night before I had got this money , had collected it from a client and bought it home, she was alive and asked me for whom it was.. I jokingly said it was for her.. she smiled, I paid Rs 5000 each month to my mom so when she was to be buried the Maulana Waqar Mehndi told me that we would have to bury her at another end, I lost my cool and threw a wad of money on the face of the grave digger in anger and disgust, the Maulana fearing my wrath told the gravedigger to dig the empty place next to my Dad, and this is no fairy tale, while digging he came across bones of a female body, here there was a relgious technical problem, I told the Maulana to let her bones lie by the feet of my Mom, thus lie buried my mom my dad and another woman.
And I utilised the entire Rs 50000 on the granite mausoleum I built for them.. also paid the money for making the graves permanent, and all of us brothers and sisters got together and called each other United Seven Shakirs , a month later and this is not a property issue but some religious faux pas of a funereal ritual on the part of my wife instigated by a conniving cousin from Lucknow , my verbal fight with my brother Shakil, and we parted , all of us, and we have the same blood flowing in our veins... we behave as step siblings, and this is the dreadful part of Humanity.
And the greater hurt is that even our kids dont recognize each others kids.
And I write this for my unborn grandchild.
the moral of this story ... power of love in death..and after death.
He rushes home and , realises his folly , he immediately takes the train back to the temple, as was his bad luck , while crossing the railway tracks ,his foot slips and he is crushed to death, no next of kin, an accidental death, a mere number... soon forgotten like all other deaths that takes place on railway tracks.
In the meantime the satchel is found by the daughter of the priest, she is mesmerized by the deathly thoughts that form the nerve centre of the poems.
She dare not tell her father, for within the dark thoughts is a lingering light of Hope, a hope that had many a times decieved our dead poet, the stark reality of the satchel , there was no hint of an address, only sheaves of crumpled paper, every part of the paper had been utilised to the maximum, the satchel had a train ticket to Mira Road return, a little crumpled paper bag of uneaten peanuts.
The priest s daughter kept the satchel of poems for quite some time hoping the poet would return ,time passed one day a few days before she was to get married, she went to the Gateway of India and placing a few heavy rocks in the satchel, she placed it into the waters... never looked back once..
Life is prose that reverberates the rythm and pain of an orphaned poetry , words flowing away ... from the shores of Gateway of India to another distant world to lash the walls that surround the nothingmess of her soul.
I went and placed a little bell for the accomplishment of this story at Ghanteshwar Temple and for the soul of the dead poet.
captured by my wife
of her boatswain
that has no
bearings on brain
a marriage of
all in vain
bound by a single
she loves me
to the other
an eternal pain
on a window pane
with a broken
a life time
in a single grain
a heart blasted
on a moving train
dedicated to a brainless art of a poet
Bush and Blair
A unique pair
Weapons of mass
Of a New Warfare
Steal and Share
Divide and Tear
of a country
a fuck they care
death from air
Lebanese look up
to the heavens
God don’t care
to this affair
just watch and stare
will out wear
fuck don’t care
man a machine
will self repair
a medalled general
of a terrorist lair
all the clues
in an Indian snare
lashkare e tauba
fuck who cares
Bush and Blair
of an evil coin
fuck who cares
wont forgive you
Bush and Blair
among your wares
dedicated to a fallen man in the eyes of God
these are my older poems
At the G8 Political Masseur club
In St Petersburg
Angela Merckel a flowering shrub
Gave the world a hands raised snub
That no Isreaeli bombing can drub
A Hezbollah like feely touchy neck rub
From the Prez of America a single spoke
As a prominent Nub
To all the Wars Of the World
That have him as a hub.
Man superman and cub
Ya Rub (god)
My poem dedicated as a rubbed in political thought
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