121,901 items / 837,149 views
shadows slithering
serpentine as they creep
a womans life
extra tears to weep
virginal expensive
but bought home cheap
trials tribulations
sorrows
neck deep
slaughtered sleep
promises
her man wont keep
dedicated to a master who taught me how to shoot a poem through the viewfinder of my soul .. the inimitable furious physician dr glenn losack md..
Thursday, April 1, 2010
Slaughtered Sleep
Homeless Despair
dark monotonous thoughts
that scare
cold pavement
a scarf
homeless despair
human life is recyclable
its rustic roads
with tiles that they repair
so your shoes dont outwear
your soles dont bare
Mans Best Friend
121,900 items / 837,137 views
A dog is a mans
best friend
till the very end
on him for his
faithfulness
you can depend
no broken fences
to mend
no hate
no animosity
to lend
no hearts to rend
man and canine
in godliness
as they blend
paradise
for dog lovers
round the bend
Yadein
121,899 items / 837,103 views
sote sote
rote rote
zindagi
guzar gai
ham
to sote rahe
woh
na jane kis
jahan
main kho gayi
katon se bhare
yadon ka
darakht
hamare dil
main bo gayi
Karmic Sorrow
121,898 items / 837,004 views
karmic sorrow
a dead yesterday
a dying today
no tomorrow
you have to
give back to
nature what
you stole
what you
borrowed
what was not
yours you
illicitly
swallowed
with you libido
the flesh
you hollowed
behind you
with a lasso
yama followed
The Ascetic
121,897 items / 837,000 views
he had decided
to renounce human life
with all its chaos
man killing man
pedestrian pathos
he is a man cub
walking back
to the jungles
moving across
no more
worldly grandeur
no more gloss
with nature
back to basics
back to his
original ethos
he has decided
fuck the system
he will be his
own boss
dedicated to assad dadan
The Dead Letter Box
life a stream of drunkenness
as the ship of human misery docks
battering the soul of remorseless rocks
time and tide endless ungratifying knocks
the story of man and the the story of a dead letter box
beauty arrogant paper thin misreads poems in english
as at flickr the best of a poet blocks
conservatism matriarchal moroseness
modern times and on the human soul as it shocks
rapunzel rapunzel let down your locks
bacterial blogging not for ladies only for varicose jocks
as it slithers and it mocks
pedestrian plethora poetic pathos
gives it free no socks no legs no feet
the poets soul
without the aid of crutches
as it walks
Imprisoned for Life
behind the cages
of doom and gloom
my home
on the wings
of misery
my misfortune
i roam
bald head
searching
for hair
a child s comb
Born in Captivity
condemned
for the sins
of her forefathers
a girl child
born in captivity
a worthless gem
seeking hope
a better life
through
a cosmic poem
uprooted agony
broken stem
old age bent back
vomiting blood
sputum phlegm
Living a Pipe Dream
cut
of
from the mainstream
a distant dream
a pledge of a pathos
god wont redeem
only gutter water
running
through his blood stream
Thirst
recycled
hopes
like
gutter pipes
of life
ready
too burst
a parched throat
never ending thirst
a girl childs birth
in the streets of despair
gets worst
unliving life
accursed
born head first
buried feet first
ashes to ashes
dust to dust
in the winds
dispersed
Fucking The Iron Walls Of Despair
she is neither here
nor there
although
i have deleted her
from my fucked
consciousness
unbridled passion
she bares
an inkling of a thought
perhaps sometimes
for this fucked
cosmic poet she cares
as for the cosmic poet
disillusioned fucking
the iron walls of despair
wondering
why on a mountain top
he got caught in her
vaginal snare
her apples
tasted like pear
blithe spirit
of voluptuousness
disappeared
in thin air
fuck knows where
Motherhood on the Streets
her rabbits womb
a manufacturing unit
she will keep on having
children as long as she is fit
her drunk husband
knows children bring
in money he is not a twit
either she spreads her legs
or gets a hit a swollen vagina
unmilking
dried up shriveled tits
a fucked
story of her life
to her daughter
she will transmit
at 14 she too will be
an unwed mother
to the city another
new child as gift
fucked fate
the only reality
you cant outwit
on the roads
you live
on the roads
you shit
fuck fornicate
spit
dont quit
Tehelka on the Streets
child labor lost..
covering
the soul
of newspapers cost
a traffic signal
of life
roads crisscrossed
the honking
the fumes
the exhaust
"Is Raj
the new Bal Thackeray ?"
boldly embossed
two generations
star crossed
The Heat The Humidity and The Pain
Sweltering Mumbai
the heat the humidity and the pain
monsoonal melancholy no rain
a harsh punishment for
those jam packed
traveling standing in the train
power bills hiked by reliance
causing an added strain
a government by the people
of the people for the people
now to whom do we complain
behrampada burns in bandra east
political leaders making mileage
to garner votes for the assembly polls
a renewed campaign
slumdog millionaires
all lost how can one explain
at the multiplexes
kal kisne dekha
to entertain
the sucked system
has you by the balls
and your jugular vein
bleeding your soul
your spirit to live
a cause in vain
mind over matter
floating through
cosmic oceans
on an orbital plane
Dead Indian-One for the Road
121,892 items / 836,750 views
I shot this at Khar SV Road, yes I focused on his hand, , and his hand with which he does his begging, wiping his ass, scratching his body parts.
His hand that is a major tool at work, he needs no change of clothes, no soap, no toothbrush, no he does not need to iron his clothes
He does not need to launder his clothes that single pair that has stuck to him like a second skin.
He braves the inclement weather, the winter chill, just a sheet that they will wrap him up in when he chokes .But he has taken an extension on his life , he wont die yet, he wont come under a car, even the cars are scared of touching him, they dont want to soil their tyres with his putrid blood.
He does not need insulin shots, no tonics, he drinks country made hooch, that is poison but yet it does not kill him.
This is Mee Mumbaikar..
No wait a bit he is Indian..
They day he cops it they will add a number to his toe..Dead Indian.
a dead indian never dies
the beggar dead indian
lives as another
beggar will come
take his place
as time goes by
a karmic circle cries
he came he saw
he left behind
his memories
on the sly
on a street called why
when where how
no reply
into the souls
of dead souls
as street photographers
we pry
bringing them
home on your
monitor screens
the beggars last sigh
india is incomplete
without the vibrant
soul of mumbai
you can create another delhi
kolkatta lucknow chennai
humanly possible as politicians
you can call it shanghai
mumbai the city of dreams
rags to riches demand and supply
poetizing the soul of photography
through shiva's third eye
Man is an Island of Despair
Man is an island of despair
his problems no one wants to share
Man
a coward
a brave man
a fool
a wise man
enters where angels
fear to dare
man a broken down mechanism
that even his creator cannot repair
Shooting Fucked Street Life is My Kind of Photography
Shooting Fucked Street Life is My Kind of Photography, originally uploaded by firoze shakir photographerno1.
121,892 items / 836,749 views
man lying
on an island
of despair
poetry of life
a circle
within a square
shooting
fucked street life
is my kind of photography
as is where is as is there
barefeet
fuck shoes
fuck footwear
the camera was willing
i had time to spare
people passed him by
who the fuck
really cares
a blogger is a whore
who gives it free
a fuck
without fanfare
what we like
we share
of life
as a living
nightmare
Photography is like a Woman
with spread legs
shooting
the soul of darkness
in a speck
seminal sorrow
on the shores
of misfortune
a shiprweck
kissing
the lobes
of her ears
eroticism
the nape
of her neck
the soul
of a woman
the soul of photography
you reach
after every peck
once you are
hooked to photography
or to a woman
you digital
zenitude
within a circle
of confusion
you bedeck
either way
henpecked
filling
empty spaces
without
intelligence
or intellect
till you
get the shot
right and prefect
you get what
you inject
fuck f stops
her aperture
is willing
provided
the decisive
moment
is erect
dedicated to bernie aguirre
The Woman and The Goat
both will be slaughtered
pretty soon
the woman for sex
to appease a mentally
fucked man
the goat to appease
a blood thirsty god
collective misfortune
dark side of the moon
eyes shut
on the face adversity
asking for a boon
man
the antagonist
the protagonist
of life's cartoon
an atomic bomb
born in a cocoon
man missing lyrics
in a funereal tune
man a spiritual trance
in a swoon
his world
with dead bodies
bestrewn
doing tandav
on the soul of
monsoon
Bad Times Last Forever
There was something in his facial gesture that made me shoot this picture...a kind of a fight back against his bad times..
bad times
are a grave reminder
of how human you are
broken strings
on a weeping sitar
as it lies unsold
at chor bazar
they come see
bargain
but wont buy it
looking at it from afar
bad times last forever
a blemish that overnight
became a scar
on the streets of despair
a forgotten memoir
Blind Womans Son
yes he has dreams
a silence
that silently screams
as sadness flows
like dead fish
in polluted streams
On Her Divine Blindness
she is lucky
she does not have to
see what we all see
but cant address
the nature of humanity
in a downward process
the only pain
is not being able
to see her little
princess
motherhood feels
but cannot access
only through sound
her motherly
awareness
the bastard
of her husband
from a street corner
watches her
a thought
to depress
muslims woman's
tragedy
how do i express
they call me anti-muslim
for showing muslims
in a bad light
you have rightly guessed
truth hurts i must confess
3 ibrahim rehmatullah street
a child's yearnings
a mothers largess
a world within a world
on her divine blindness
31 March 2010
Dead Eyes of Hope
outside the mosque
eyeless she pleads
in her hand
on the scooter
her children
victims
her husbands seed
like dying withering weeds
she begs
she too has needs
yes the human heart
has gone frozen
it no more bleeds
silent scriptures
that eyes cant read
muslim woman
in a muslim world
indeed
dedicated to dr glenn losack md
I shot this picture and several frames at Nawab Masjid Bhendi Bazar.
one child was asleep on the floor of the scooter
Waiting in Vain
living in a blind mans world
for a handful of grain
empty stomachs
crying needs
tears of pain
on a street corner
to see god face to face
waiting in vain
Man a Dead Zone
Man a dead zone
lives in society
but dies all alone
what is not his
he wants to own
diseased flesh
a phallic wish bone
a drop of a semen
dreams that wont clone
Lip Gloss
she watches from the corner of her eyes
with crimson red lip gloss
a rolling stone gathers no moss
life at a standstill
lifeless moments gone for a toss
The Wheels Within Wheels
wheels
all around
moving
the chakra
of pain
we pretend
we are human
satisfying
with our pretensions
another mans heart
another mans brain
our faces hidden
behind pretentious masks
we are petty conceited and vain
we are everything we are not
simple and plain fuck
whoever told you
we were humane
A street car called desire
he sleeps on a cart suspended in delirious pain
to his bad luck duly chained
man born of misery ingrained
disappointments delusions
his body his spirit all drained
his fate wounded maimed brutalized
completely blood stained..
mankind his battlefield
a foot soldier fodder
for the politicos totally untrained
The Whetting Stone Man Grieves
the whetting stone man
had cut off
rusty old blades dick
by mistake
no it was pseudo
original
slightly fake
a bit rubbery
like a snake
he told rusty
to forgive him
a broken bottle
he cant shake
what was left
in his hand
the cut off bit
he could hang
it round his neck
like a keep sake
unfortunately
a new dick
he could not make
but as a compensation
he could send him
to a harem
of a eunuch sheik
love poetry hate
racism returns
from the burning stake
break your balls
gnash your teeth
an unending nightmare
to keep you awake
Rusty Old Blades
rusty old blades
his woman's door
could not impale
so he bought
his decadent dick
to sharpen it
make it more
razor sharp male
pointed uncut
like a hobnail
but while
the whetting stone man
held it in his hand
he cut it off completely
the sad part of the tale
so fucked rusty old blades
has become from
a fucked male into a female
stands at street corners
his ass on sale
a missing detail
a poetic pause
pursued
by a black tail
love poetry hate racism
says the thumbnail
a racist poets
last stand
last wail
truth
shall
prevail
Love Poetry Hate Racism Returns From The Poets Grave
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