You are the reflection of your parental heritage , my parents were god fearing god loving but not bigots what they put in me as a seed bloomed into the fruits of their labor of love.
My parents never told me to hate Hindus , my parents did not tell me to hate Parsis or Christians , they never had thought for hate such was their struggle in life , starting our migrant roots at Kurla slums called bakhar and than assimilating a place of our lifes destination Khatau Bhuvan Wodehouse Road now Jony Castle, and this was my dad as my mom was very young, I was perhaps a year old in 1955.
As this is not a biographical blog all I want to say I am what my parents made me no venomous hate for other peoples religiosity , I dont know my attachment with this quaint laid back secluded Hanuman Mandir where the form of Hanumanji was discovered from under the ground this was al…
Every frame you capture is a revelation! Thanks for sharing.
i shoot what he shows from a picture the essence of a poem grows which he shot first on my soul he froze from my heart into your heart overflows inundating poetry passion pathos reflected sorrow in repose this world an inn what comes one day must go on to an untoward journey of the mind only god knows cosmic catharsis holistically healing the seed that god sows
a poet a blogger photographer doomed destiny of firoze carrying the burden of his original sin creating calisthenics of cybernetic chaos up close a path that he chose in deathly throes her wet dripping body a rain goddess with his parched tongue of desire he licks her heavenly toes
his untimely fate his bad luck he fell in love accidentally with the wrong chick gazelle like neck cleopatra nose dewy eyes kohl laden heart made of brick on the whole artistic the fucked doomed love of a parrot prick an accidental poet cosmic in her booby trap accidentally tricked incomplete poems orgasmic princess centric a princess egocentric a parrot poet old sagely eccentric respected revered like a drum stick hindu shia ethnic cartoon comic she did pick head like a candle wick love one sided catastrophic karmic across the border a love tragic held in the grasp of her power her cryptic magic she nurtured his pathos his passion his poetry barefeet mawkish melodramtic mystic he made her laugh he made her cry he made her shy he made he nervous he made her scared in her singular life he caused panic her pendulous girdle her poetic pelvic her nubile body draped in a silky fabr…
And when the heart doesn't want something, no amount of rationale or reason can or should change otherwise.
And when the heart hurts, it hurts
love precariously like Icarus with broken wings stuck to a poets waist plunges hits the dirt mother earth what is death but a beautiful cosmic rebirth her memories her tears her pain her sufferings were they worth hope that suffocated in the womb of mystery unwritten poem died in childbirth
it was not in my hands to be what you want me to be fuck dont you understand broken wings broken dreams marshy wastelands i walk barfeet crutches of pain despair away from your restricted dreamland blogging on the soul of your innocence a poem a drama of my life with a clawed damaged right hand a furnace a fire you accidentally fanned poetry sweet heart is not a one night stand nor supply or demand what happened had to happen neither you nor i planned hand of god he wrote what you nor i could metaphorically expand you in your corner me in my homeland
These are images shot by a very dear friend ,the hand covering known as tanzeb were in pure antique silver I sold along with a lot of other stuff as I was plumb broke and I have no regrets what has to go will go, but what hurts is I sold it when silver rates were low what I gave for Rs 10000 is today 60000 , I had rare book collections old antique cameras all picked up from the flea market I collected with passion , all went the same way, and I never profited as I sold it in distress under duress.
I never collected anything for gain , or for making a profit, it came lived with me went away I was a transit point of loss and retrospection.
I stopped collecting old stuff I completely stopped going to the flea market, going to the flea market is self induced drug and it can make you rich man or a pauper in no time..all those memories are part of my Flickr sets and …
distinctively chopped pieces ruminatively diced pieces of a poets heart liver and spleen with nitric acid thoroughly washed clean great hygiene she who keeps the house clean the mixture of raw emotions marinated serene coriander cumin onions garlic added some freshly boiled french beans tomato paste 'lime juice pathani cuisine minced and ground with soaked wheat pure pristine pressure cooked till the poets mutton turns soft and lean served piping hot from a tureen to all three brothers by an afghan queen
Clean and marinate mutton with half of ground paste of ginger, garlic, green chillies and salt for 1 hour. Pressure cook the soaked wheat and marinated meat for about 45 minutes. •Mince and grind to a fine paste. •In a Pan heat oil, add the finely sliced onions, fry till brown, add the garam masala. •Add the ground paste and keep stirring on slow flame, till the mixture leaves the sides…
The man sitting next to Da Mir Pan is a fruit vendor , he sells fruits from house to house and he comes every day to Bandra from a far of place , I respect him because hard work too is a poem of life that connects with God and his Godliness , we are cosmically connected to each other through our individual souls caste color religion or nationality is much lower in the order in terms of our collective ethos of Humanity.
I am a beggar poet , life has come to me in a cosmic beggar bowl, moments precious semi precious fall in this bowl of existence ..and existence is subjective different to different people.
My camera makes even the unhidden come alive and like a vital chord connect with others too.
Pain is what I shoot and pain keeps me alive as much as it keeps you alive too.
The umbilical cord of life connects man with God through pain.
Today my dear Croatian friend Damir visited my workplace I had not seen him or Zlatko since the time I shot them at Carter Road.
They left St Peter Church and are lodging with Ollie brother of Al the Tattoo Artist of Bandra Hill Road.
Damir is a nice bloke sincere and genuine he told me Firoze what you did for us cannot be bought by money, and as an aside what I did was zilch, I had money I would have given to them but I have been going through bad troubled times emotionally financially.
I had spoken to Ollie to help them he did he is bigger in his generosity hospitality than I am.
The person sitting with us is a Bhaiyya house to house fruit vendor a nice guy too and I made him part of our world our story.
From my work space I took Damir to my house to show him the pictures I have posted on the internet via Flickr, they dont h…
Although I am not comfortable discussing the content of my mail on the internet owing to lots of unsolicited/Spam mails on the net these days.Anyway my message is that I have made up my mind to WILL my late Husband's funds to you so that you can use it for charity duties and good work to humanity in your country. The amount is 4million Dollars. Please get back to me on my personal and secured email address for further information.My secured email is:firstname.lastname@example.org Mrs. Christine Katz Paul.