Friday, August 24, 2007

Hate filled Kettle calling the pot black

You have a new comment about your poem: Hey Moron AJS Allan James Shithead

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
Ass crack
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.

Cute Ass Poofter in the Mist ..Blue Blood

photo courtesy google images..

Allen James Saywell
This member is in your BANNED MEMBERS list.

A rabid dog bitten infected poet
Bored shitless
Down under defoliated dung hill
A true blue dinki di ridgy didge
Native Australian
Hydrophobic at Mumbai airport
Had his ass frisked
Smelling of amber colored
Foster beers
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
An ass
the kind custom
officer dressed like me
tried to assist he said
chin wag
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
crown jewels
hate filed sac and cyst
This honorable
warm greetings
Native of Australia
Breaking through
With more sultry colored Hate
To shit comments
On a poem hunters
“My banned list “

Moral of this story
Brother AJS
Larrikin of
Lucky country
Gutful of piss
Forget my Asss
Hard yakka
Repent Resist
Heart starter
Forum help Enlist
Don’t shoot comments
Write Poetry on Keats
Live let live Coexist
And fuck sake
Don’t skite
Don’t Persist
Spit the dummy
Silly bugger
You are no more
On my Mailing List
Hearing all this
Rumi Nuruddin
Case dismissed

Hey Moron AJS Allan James Shithead

Inspite of blocking Allan James Saywell from commenting on my poems, this Australian Racist poet manages to make a mockery of the administration of Poemhuter , and comes back like a virulent poison to attack me which is nothing but hate for me and my person.. this is an insult to me as a my poetry.
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



I don’t know about the man in the photograph
Being hemorrhoid
But you need to go to a shrink
You turning eunuch
At Poem Hunter
Writing drivel
Your mind going crazy
You Australian scumbag
Scurrilous spherozoid
Testicular tragedy
What little was there
All destroyed
You are suffering from penis envy
Psycho hysteria
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
Punishment devoid
Your comments on my poem
Not worthy of your
Stinking Australian sense
Of hatredness
Black humor
You bacterioid
Criminal genetic blue blood of a whore
Brainless head in a pyramidoid
Suffering from elephantiasis
Hyperbolic hypertension
A twat like thyroid
A tipsy gypsy outdated
Hey moron
Try pulling your head
Out of your arse
Scarlet Pimpoloid
fucked freakazoid

photo courtesy google images

The House Majlis

The House Majlis
Originally uploaded by flickr photographerno1
The single most important aspect of Moharam besides Ashura Chehlum or Athvi, is the annual house Majlis , held by thr Shia families, in memory of the Martyrdom of Imam Hussain. This can be held at home or in an Imambada or the local Shia Masjid.
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.
Ghame Hussain.

Man O Man The Weeping Weed

Photo courtesy
© 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
God Speed
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

Loaves and Fishes and Man and God

photo courtesy google images

trying to connect with god..
man and machine
man through machinations
could afford
being jesus
fishes and loaves
or attila the hun
with a sword
a bush with presidential
of a dehumanized fa├žade
imperialist hegemony
sovereignty of a nation
steal fuel
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
knightly pretensions
of a man and lord
man killing man
racism hatredness
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
Islamic world
gives a nod

dedicated to a brave heart called Da Vinca

The Half Man at Haji Ali

Photo courtesy
© 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
hearmophrodite 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

Big Brother Goody Goody Feeling

never underestimate your opponent
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
you thought
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


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

and dead

me worms

and post

coital bed

a pact renew

a pact renew
Originally uploaded by flickr photographerno1
photo courtesy

i prefer any thing

that is you..

each day

you look new..


wanting to date you

in queue..

thank you

me much

said unsaid

is untrue


as thoughts

of her


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

i pursue

her ethereal form

my soul bids

her soul adieu


spirit a pact





as wisdom

in an

indian brew

mind above

matter imbue


like smoke

that overflew

a pregnant

pause make

effect and cause

in this poem


Death is Camera Shy

Today 25th of July

Death is camera shy

does not like to be


or show its human cry

wants to be

elusive reclusive

in its final good bye


would turn its

truth into a naked lie

punctured pancreas

stolen heart

gouged eyes

snatched kidneys

any thing

you can buy

from the ward boy

on the sly..

the price

is not to high

at times I think

even death is too

ashamed to die

a god

with sleepy eyes

deaf ears

to sounds

of human cries.

Chaos reflected

From Mother Earth

To our

Father in the skies.

The Power of Love poem by waza

parents graves mohomed shakir and shamim shakir ar rehamatbad shia cemetry

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.

A Temple of Hope and a Dead poet

I was coming from Juhu and shot a set of pictures on flash,but it got badly messed , this one picture was the saving grace, but I went again this morning and shot a few more, as this temple excites me, the numerous bells, each has a story of an accomplished wish, and here I could feel the stirrings of a story, a wretched poet, comes to a temple and , while his head is in devotion to Lord Hanuman, and he is fervently praying , for his poems to be published , he has the entire lot in his satchel, in his utter haste and confusion , he forgets the satchel at the temple.

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.

Eternal Pain

Eternal Pain
Originally uploaded by flickr photographerno1
picture shot by afshaan firoze shakir


Eternal Pain

captured by my wife

Afshaan picto-reality

of her boatswain

a heart

that has no

bearings on brain

a marriage of


was it

all in vain

bound by a single


she loves me

i imagine

i dream

i love

the wife

of another


karmic chain

dharma drain


we remain









to the other


an eternal pain




on a window pane

medicine wheel

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

History wont forgive you Bush and Blair

google images

photo courtesy

Bush and Blair

A unique pair

Enjoined brothers


Weapons of mass


Of a New Warfare

Steal and Share

Divide and Tear

Human values


of a country

a fuck they care

Israel drops


governmental terrorism

death from air

war declare

Lebanese look up

In despair

to the heavens

in prayer

God don’t care

Fuck unfair




nelsons eye

to this affair

just watch and stare

broken limbs

swollen souls

wounds that

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

two sides

of an evil coin

fuck who cares

next election

empty hopes

empty stares


wont forgive you

Bush and Blair


among your wares

dedicated to a fallen man in the eyes of God

these are my older poems

Presidential Neck Rub

my old poems
photo courtesy

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