No Sunni
No Shia
No head count
Just Islamic Reality
The Muslim Unity
Live and Let Live
Everyone born Free
Living as One Great Nation
India Indian
No more Disparity
Living Proud
No Global Charity
Hindu Muslims
On Parity
One Country One Flag
Human Equality
Terrorism Terrorist
Not Part of Our Humanity
Peace Love Hope Harmony
Mutual Coexistence
With a Sense of Sanity
Piercing my human soul
Shooting pictures
My inner angst
My inner sigh
Yes I am a Rafaee
Don’t ever ask me why
Chancawalli Sufis won’t deny
The chillum smoke not my high
I live let live soon I will die
My body a specimen for
Medical research
No Shia cemetery for me
Don’t ask me why
Yes I am a Rafaee
The best of me as a Blog
Blown up as an emotion
In a fish eye
A stylist sartorial complicity
hung by his own neck tie
this world is run
by a mullah , a priest
a pandit and a rabbi
man swatting mankind
as the rest of the world looks by
an ointment a death wish in her eye
my god is dead says the atheist
I was born as a accidental stand by
My words unblossoming flowers
On the posterior of a pin cushioned cacti
Hacked on my consciousness a nudity of a nation
Imperialistic hegemony ambushed humanity no outcry.
Even the United Nations a dying monolith has shut eye.
The air is free
The walk is free
At Carter Road Promenade
Love, oral love is free
Accidents road run free
The only hitch no place to pee
Titan arrow headed clock
No time to see
Bandra Residents Association
Stray dog menace also free
The sky the shitting suntanned bums
The open air toilet unsanitary
Basking in the Arabian Sea..
The odor the smell aah what
Perfumery
A road to Lord Ganesha
Fledgling temple on rocks
As the Kolis take dakshina as
Visiting free
The watchmen doze
Drinking beers
As folks on spree
Life so serene and carefree
To pee or not to pee
This my ode to
Carter Road Promenade
Piss potted Poetry
God called
His master plan
Man
To give him joy
Company
A woman
He did scan
A child later
Trouble began
Man fell in love
with a Blog Goddess
for sake of Mistaken Identity
lets call her Suzanne
from a blog fire
into a blog frying pan
beaten bruised this
picture taking man
joined Marys clan
she Mary Magdalene
to he a dwarf
Peter Pan
His camera fucked Nikon D70
The worst in Japan
Invented when the
Nikon developer
Screwed a garbage can
If you ask Ben Bell
He will say Dafur is the
Capital of Sudan
Tom
Do You Like it
Deleted me from her Heart
As he ran
Panasonic youth
Buzznet original
My dear rope trick man
Friar Tuck Yorrik Dread heading
Australian
Woolongong
picture mafia
Got rid of me through a secret plan
Funksteena Cosmos
Visiting my niece
Miss Photographerno1
Shayana Firdausovitch Shakirova
In Kazhakistan
Every picture you shoot and post is a thumbnail of a larger hidden picture that your minds eye did not want too see…in this picture is a man asleep day dreaming, perhaps thoughts of love, his thoughts have given life to the picture happening on the next bench that of a couple making puppy love as seen in my picture frame , hypothetical metaphor.
I am happy for once I don’t have to post my thoughts at three different places, those who want to read me will find me one day…My home site is a photo gallery , if I go to upgrade it I lose all the data that is what my son Asif Shakir told me ,so I shall continue posting here , I don’t have the stamina to have web site for the different topics close to my heart , even the Shia site my son is working on I wanted to abort it , do away with it, but I as a Shia feel I must give back what I got from my community , only a Shia photographer will understand the Shia ethos.. frankly the photojournalists are not interested in shooting blood and gore , it is Naga Sadhu cocks that bring in the loot, I know people who have tamer pictures of the Sadhus have sold their pictures at Rs 25000 bucks a piece.
I have no regrets I gave free what I got , even at times I was forced to pay for what I shot..
My French photographer friend Laurent Salesse who was shooting Ashura in Lucknow called me from Kerala . I have invited him to Mumbai,I told him he could stay at Lucky Hotel and have all his meals at my house free..
Accommodation in Mumbai is little tough, we live in pigeon holed cubicles..in my case it is the privacy factor at home..
I am sure when Buzznet folks hit India they wont have search for a needle in a haystack..
Photographerno1 lives in a few American women hearts too…
Dichotomy of love was my Doom…
I was a whisker away from becoming a bridegroom
An American Alaskan Fern living in a freezer in my room
My wife hit my bald head with a broom
Said your second marriage to the American Woman
Over my dead body her tomb..
No poison I won’t consume..or gas fume
I will give you a divorce
My maiden name I will assume
You can go to Alaska she said
Live with your Dichotomy of Love
In Northern Lit regions
New nom de plume
I agreed surrendered till I fell in a Venus Trap
This time A Blog Goddess .. in a Red Costume
Deleted blogs of my love for her
Buried in a cyber womb.,
divorce proceedings for a viking goddess that failed to mushrooom
At the Mahim Dargah one feature that misses people enwrapped in spirituality of the Holy Saints , is the misery but living life with a smile .. The underbelly of existence of the Little Masseur Boy.
His little fingers kneading the calves of man, he told me had come from Uttar Pradesh, he and his friend without ticket, but with plenty of peanuts and Hope.
This is Mumbai. Mother of all Destinations.
I am told my Dad Mohamed Shakir came here at the age of 14, to try out his luck , he could not take the suffocation of a decadent society of the city of his birth Lucknow. I don’t blame him, he was a self made man.
I sometimes wonder even the most underprivileged Maharashtrian will not leave his mother state..But I respect the migrant from the North an adventurer , with guts and the reason of making it big, becoming one as Marathi Manoos.
My wife used to pester me lets buy a small place in Lucknow , as she hails from this city, but I was not financially stable enough to acquiesce to her wish….
But I like I one thing about my wife Afshaan, she could read my inner feelings she told me one day I think you should get yourself a small place in Ajmer ..I was shocked as how she could reach the deep crevice of my soul..
I also know that she knew that though I do not adhere to Sufi beliefs.. I have a special regard for Ajmer Sharif a city of Hope Peace and Harmony.. A city you come in any color of your faith but go back as a cherished Indian.,.
Yes in a way my Indianess is the color of my inherent Faith..
When I spoke to Peersaab Fakhru Miya of Hujra No6 and told him my travails and my persecution at the hands of bigotry, he said just one word, come and do your Chehlum with us..
This is one reason that I love Ajmer.
I have till date never entered the Inner Sanctum of the Holy Saint .
Yes I am not a clean Man.
I also pray to the Almighty each time I get to see Karbala , I would want someone better and more devout to take my place.
My Karbala is in my Indian heart .
The one place that makes me shed tears and I would want to see it once before I die is Damascus.. Sham.
I would like to see the place where Islam was shamed.
I fail too understand why can a sinner not have words for what he loves more than his life., why have I to be a scholar , to understand my love for Ahle Bait and Allah.
I think the entire universe of wisdom in our Holy Book lies hidden in a Nukta.. or a full stop..
So now you know even a picture of a Masseur boy can throw you away miles away into
A world.. poetic nature of mans unending Prose…
little masseur boy
massaging the body of
tired evil man
rickety bones
shamed spirituality
penitence without poise
yes transported
into a forbidden world
on the dark mahim beach front
yes innocence has lost its voice
with just rs 50 for a full
body massage
there is nothing left
for the fleshy soul to rejoice..
Man is an island
On an urban street
Life’s traffic passes him by
Cold feet
His blanket
Quilted sorrow
His winding sheet
Palmistry
Astrology
But his bad luck
He cannot cheat
Good luck
Comes once
When he is dying
I repeat
Even death
Is ashamed
To see him
On his death beat
But death is in hurry
More souls to meet
Catch upwith misery in Iraq
Body parts Muslims
Americans unburied
Sectarian in life
Now just a casualty unclean
Killing fields that
Hate did wean
Man killed
By his own invented machine
Muslims killing Muslims
With Allah in between
Laillaha illalala
Alah ho Akbar
Empty throated words
Only a smoke screen
To kill without reason
The best of our teen
Insulting godliness
A future unseen
For such yazidiyat
There is no vaccine
If you don’t like
My human poetry
Report as obscene
For you sanctimonious
Saints of a belching society
All this is routine
After all Blogs are Truth
Truth you hate
But cant Delete
photo courtesy
www.stentorian.com/cartoons/klan.gif
R- Rabid
A-Agony
C-Chaos
I-Ignorance
S-Sectarian
T-Tragedy
Black man
White man
Dehumanized
Deriding
Destiny
Neither
Will be Free
Hate their
Legacy
To the Unborn Posterity
Man within the womb of sorrow
Born in captivity
Love Poetry Hate Racism
From a night mare
I just awoke
A hacker did his job
Lit a incendiary bomb
Beneath my ass
My faith did provoke
My blogs all gone up in smoke
A blog killed by a blog
Life sucks what a joke
Different people different stroke
Zrathushtra a wheel
Within which he spoke
A world hiding truth
Beneath a calico cloak
Wisdom like acid rain
In which you soak
Far away a yellow ribbon
On a California black oak
Peaceful coexistence
That among humans
Does not exist
We kill our own
As we add
Our friends
To our hate list
Destroy
The world
God’s words we twist
Like animals and birds
In an environment
We can’t coexist
We superimpose our
Hatredness
On others we persist
If they don’t tow the line
We get badly pissed
Paradise a disillusion
Revisited reminisced
Without satanic verses
We cant subsist
A palm of love
Giving way to a fist.
Signage
On a traffic signal
Guiding motorists
Vehicular discipline
Road Traffic plan
Beneath it sleeps
Humanity in the
Garb of a Man
Who cares a damn
Unfiltered
Word verification
Not required
Bad timing spam
Man born to sorrow
Sacrificial lamb
His alter ego a battering ram
Pedestrian poetry posing as slam
My world of picto - reality
Through a spy cam..
Wild domesticity
Child the father of man
Born and bred in captivity
Optical illusion
That he is free
A infested fruit
From a worm infected tree
Opulence ostentatiously
Taunting naked poverty
This happens only in India
Some may not agree
A song lyricless you see
gutterless toilets to pee
A new animal in the zoo
Colorful, unidiomatic
Dear sue
Rarest of rare in lieu
Pictorial platitudes
Imbue
Poetic panegyric silence
Eschew
Children love him
Its true
Decaffeinated heady
Heels over head brew
A talent gifted to a very few
Fragmented genius embedded
Bare feet fuck shoes
To live the life you want
The way you choose
Even a heaven encased in hell
That you lose..
Lynched by emotions
Renegade religiosity
Two side of the same coin
The wise man and the fool
If you can go to college directly
Why go to school.
Tongue in cheek
The spirit is willing
The legs are weak
As I walk
My soul does creak
A mute brick in the wall
Dictionary tainted
words that speak
naked emotions
wordless streak
racism in poetry
at its peek
the dark skinned man
a morsel of human hate
a multicolored freak
an insect
struggling for survival
on a white birds beak
photo digitalised by ppc,
his world of metaphoric dreams they
with their hate comments want to raze
finger fucking their keys boards as they laze
i am astonished at their devilish ways
who cares for false footnotes as praise
i have no more windmills to chase
quixotic. exotic my thoughts as they graze
fuck leave me an untouchable
in the sacrosanct archive of my mind space
some of you who born white
revengefully ancestrally
hate caste color creed and race
living in the guilt of your
nostalgic olden days
Apartheid your heritage
you who kept
slaves as prisoners in a cage
white mans gift to the black man
generations wont assuage
this world is a white mans stage
Hate filled your Golden Age
photo courtesy
www.pastaqueen.com/halfofme/images/vagina_muffins_01.jpg
I am sometimes left wondering at people who comment on me
as a poet, firstly must I appease the White Mans Guilt, must I write
to please the Bowens, Cars wells, Foulks, Dee Shaws..Angels of Lunacy
Are they the popular voice of Poem Hunter mouse pushers like me..
Why single me out? I write what I feel, I can’t write with your borrowed
feelings, your borrowed metaphors, and that you venomously attack me
makes you a racist nonetheless and it is about your hate, for a person who in spite of grammar debacles typos, is more widely read than you as a picture and as text all over the cyberspace….check out my home site
http: //www.photographerno1.com
8240 files in 57 albums and 1 category with 0 comments viewed 646099 times
since Nov2005…and I have discontinued posting here since almost 6 months completely as my homesite is Flickr.
http: //www.flickr.com/photos/firozeshakir/
12000 blogs in 5 months, , ,
Top 500 my Ass…
Blog stats and artificially pumped ratings is not for me, I write
if you don’t like it.. stay away go to the next or the next on the poem list..
Racism is not just color caste or creed, racism is trampling another mans freedom of speech.. and Truth hurts, it does.Please Mr Shaw continue your conversations with your White God,
You make me puke if what you write is poetry, I ‘d rather use that to wipe my small poxed sepia toned ass…anyway I use water..should not come as a surprise..
I think guys who come and hit me don’t get it enough from their wives, really
lackluster souls, hitting the keys even in their sleep on the monitor of their wives
asexual remorse..
I don’t blame her for her Vaginal Monologues..
While the husband at Poem hunter is Web logged..Wet logged bed bogged..
Allen James Saywell is a balloon filled with nitric acid of racist hate..
A comedian as Sherrie calls him.. makes me laugh at my own funeral…
From Women Poets I have no major issue or complaint..
Moon Goddess, Ice Goddess, Viking Goddess or anyother Goddess..
My Muse the Blog Goddess is beyond the realm of Poetry.. She is a inveterate Blogger..
firoze shakir photographerno1
photo courtesy
www.ocblog.net/photos/uncategorized/2007/04/08/resurrecti...
on the martryed grave
of the white supremacist racist whore
grow flowers of peace
yes she is finally laid to rest
her racist hatred buried with her
on the wet crease
wanton weariness of
hate filled breeze
she was born out of bigotry
she had no one to please
she serviced all men
her body on lease
a burnt out cok tease
her whiteness corroding
her soul filled
inherited disease
blue blood genetic
from English deportees
hate racism love poetry
she did predecease
tears from the dryness
of her soul she could not squeeze
Love Poetry Hate Racism
photo courtesy
www.anticouni.com/images/photos/discrimination.jpg
when a black man abuses his right
unduly with the white race fight
this is reverse racism alright
an excuse to vindicate himself
than he becomes a worst racist than white
using his color to dominate his might
yes at every stray remark he gets uptight
at the end of his dicolored soul
a terrorising tunnel
he sees no light
this is his agony
this is his unending plight
broken wings
ending his poetic flight
two wrongs dont make one right
This poem is dedicated to Mr Ray Lucero..without him I dont think I could have seen the world of racism as clearly as I do now..
even the word Reverse Racism.. is his coinage.. in a message to me this evening...
Love Poetry Hate Racism
the lord has no time to sleep
yes he guards his people as they sleep
promises of a better tomorrow he has to keep
he is already in trouble neck deep
scriptured sorrow
words out of context
that cause tragedy as they leap
what you dont sow how can you reap
man the only commodity
lives in dirt
dirt is expensive man is cheap.
The Old Lady of Chinchpokli sleeps guarded by Sai Baba of Shirdi, sometime back a youngster had driven his car over her leg, she survived, she walks without a limp as though nothing happened to her.
Chinchpokli is lane touching Bandra Hill road.
update
She died recently ... leaving behind her memories and my poem s ...in which she lives..
This is a little girl child her mother is dead , her father is wheel chair bound and she sells stuff on the road from morning to evening .. she does not got to school and she sells all this outside the Municipal School Wall..
Child labor
Girl child
Garrulous
Tragedy
Grave stricken
That does not exist
We pretend
We sanctimonious
Spewing venomous saints
No we don’t relent
A stream choked before
It will reach the river bend.
Even God is bombed by terrorists
In a kingdom he can’t defend
His little eyes
Windows to mans soul
Like a little tigers
Shining embers of coal
A part blossoming
From a part that it stole
There is spectral light
At the end of the whole
Shaad is my maid servants son he has the most mischievous glint and attitude to match,
He is a star performer… I shot a few frames I am astounded by his eyes and what I read in them.
He carries his
Baggage of woes
Breaking his back
On his frail toes
Responsibilities
Futuristic famine
Which life ploughs
A tree uladen
With its own weight bows
Shaad …in the courtyard
Of his childhood
Some maturity shows
Ashes to ashes Dust to Dust
Another one bites the crust
Blown up to smithereens
A world of cybernetic hate
Your own crooked shadow
You dare not trust
Libidinous lassitude
Passed away as second hand
Recyclable lust
Man sanctimonious slave
Born baptized accursed
What follows is a tragedy
unrehearsed
drowning in a watery grave
parched lips unquenchable thirst
poetic punishment as outburst
no more a poem hunter
just me in retrospection
my faith my thoughts encrust
the blasphemous balloon
empty aired sighing as it burst.
