If I got married and had a husband who cheated on me I would chop him into tiny pieces and feed him to stray dogs ..these were her words in subtlety of anger I heard word to word this she said to a parrot in the cage full of lovebirds ,a beggar poet a midnight cybernetic nerd..who with love poems her soul had failed to stir ..her last exclamatory poetic pause ap chup karen sir...when a part of me lusted for her... a poet going from bad to verse...haleem made from his chopped heart liver spleen a culinary curse..to make matters worse.,,unquenchable thirst was it words or his poetry what came first...filled with air nitrogen the balloon of romance that burst..roles reversed...ashes to ashes durst to dust ..along with his poems whatever remained unburnt in the Ganges she immersed..a reader of his works more than his poetry she was well versed ..h…
I have a very special karmic relationship with these beggar hijras this is the only hijra group I have shot continuously for many years since the time I met them at Carter Road , they had come for baksheesh at Nivediya the new bungalow of Abhiash soon after they got married , they were shown the door they were high too and I shot them in their sadness and dejection..
And I met them yesterday buying country hooch, I was on my way home, they were pleasingly surprised and I asked the hooch guy owners friend to take a few of shots.. and this is the outcome.
And shooting the hijras brings me good luck as I believe , and for several days I had not seen them . later in the evening I shot another set of hijras too. and so my life in a strange way unblinkingly , unknowingly is connected to the karmic ethos and being of t…
"I am leaving you with a gift -- peace of mind and heart. And the peace I give is a gift the world cannot give. So don't be troubled or afraid." John 14:27
a cosmic chance bought me here on the soul of death i dance breathtakingly my doomed destiny through the peephole of my mind i glance my last gasp my last defiance my last stance my footprints on the sands of time from here into the unknown an eternity spans i am a soul of god i am a husk called Man a coward a superman uncouth selfish proud also a gentleman humble kind polite arrogant self assertive i gave birth in a womb of mystery i a mystic an ascetic a castrated cumbersome fulsome crab i am a silhouette predestined doom of the rise the fall of a Mad Man in love with a Princess an ice maiden hotblooded Afghan from the fires of lust into the ignominy of a frying pan
mother fucker two timing son of a bitch he used me he abused me fucked raped sodomized me raw and dry in a church niche the only hitch he got me pregnant ran away with a Persian fluffy cat rich leaving me without a stitch a tom cat horny as hell a stud a sexual maniac who wanted nothing but too be super rich syphilitic gonorrheal HIV aids infected son of a sea cook he and his super bitch he and his sales pitch his cursed sexual urges his sexual itch his neck in the ass of a donkey ass the mother freaking fucking ostrich my bad karma dharma that one night on a poets rooftop he serenaded me hopeless screamingly seemingly bewitched my lust my soul for a split of a second he enriched leaving behind a pregnant poem in my belly a fucked twitch
on the altar of doomed love slaughtered sacrificed pyar ki kurbani bleeding profusely at the door of the woman he loves on the wayside god love poetry a woman's pride chopped pieces of his heart liver spleen rawhide when she made haleem roasted and fried page cannot be displayed how she lied betrayed found guilty unduly tried false promises false hopes false interior false exterior her poet cries rest in peace premature demise deleted erased a silent inbox at facebook a void hides a single tear glistening a kick she planted on his backside sent him in exile time and tide chup karen i am not ready yet she replied if wishes were horses on a poets back she would be astride kicking his flanks his bleeding sides heartless pashtunwali princess of orkazai
Street Photographer Mumbai About firoze shakir Firoze Shakir Photographerno1..is a Shia mystic..they don't make like this any more.. he walks on fire,self flagellates,cuts his forehead each Moharam.. he is sane as sane as you or the guy next door,.. HE WALKS BARE FEET..MOCKING AND KISSING THE GROUND WITH HIS FEAT.. THEY SHED TEARS TOO..SOAKED IN BLOOD OF PAIN
I feel the winds as they blow the golden sunset glow like a little paper boat into the waters of an ocean I flow my destiny not yet ready to kiss dollar littered American shores I am happy shooting hijra beggars eunuch kids hijra whores my karma my dharma my bare feet my diabetic sores my camera like vision to a deaf and dumb god above implores when it rains it really pours man two legged animal crawling on all fours open windows of my mind my future stares at me a shut door a whimper held to this leopards roar a chant of my faith blood swe…
beggars cant be choosers a few beggar poets are born losers but come what may he wont use her libidinous in a poetic way her wont seduce her or abuse her a thought that might amuse her a gentleman he cant refuse her magically one day from the womb of his poetry he will transducer ,,soulfully spruce her