For a moment
Like a blind man
I deliberately
Shut my eyes
Monochromatic
Moodiness
Morbidity
And no color
Or disguise
Astride
a passage
A dark tunnel
Winding
Through
her thighs
a torch
a single eye
lit a clitoral sigh
phallic pride
her mound
did glide
cock eyed
tongue tied
bursting on her
petalled shores
for her passions
to subside
like moses
parting the waters
a great divide
buried myself to hide
reside
I opened my eyes
realized
part of me
part of her
Still lay inside.
Love
Thy name is
Suicide
Saturday, August 18, 2007
Love thy Name is Suicide
For a moment
Like a blind man
I deliberately
Shut my eyes
Monochromatic
Moodiness
Morbidity
And no color
Or disguise
Astride
a passage
A dark tunnel
Winding
Through
her thighs
a torch
a single eye
lit a clitoral sigh
phallic pride
her mound
did glide
cock eyed
tongue tied
bursting on her
petalled shores
for her passions
to subside
like moses
parting the waters
a great divide
buried myself to hide
reside
I opened my eyes
realized
part of me
part of her
Still lay inside.
Love
Thy name is
Suicide
Like a blind man
I deliberately
Shut my eyes
Monochromatic
Moodiness
Morbidity
And no color
Or disguise
Astride
a passage
A dark tunnel
Winding
Through
her thighs
a torch
a single eye
lit a clitoral sigh
phallic pride
her mound
did glide
cock eyed
tongue tied
bursting on her
petalled shores
for her passions
to subside
like moses
parting the waters
a great divide
buried myself to hide
reside
I opened my eyes
realized
part of me
part of her
Still lay inside.
Love
Thy name is
Suicide
Do We Really Need Eyes ?
Do we really need eyes
To see truth get fucked by lies
To see hate love sodomize
To see hypocrisy desensitize
To see bombed barbarity
And not realize
That we are blind
with or without eyes
crushed metal
blowing device
headless cries
dismembered limbs
blessings
of death from the skies
exploding trains
Israeli warplanes
inhuman surprise
A story of a soulless God
of man and mice
Leave a drowning ship
Before death comes and dies
dedicated to my wife afshaan...
To see truth get fucked by lies
To see hate love sodomize
To see hypocrisy desensitize
To see bombed barbarity
And not realize
That we are blind
with or without eyes
crushed metal
blowing device
headless cries
dismembered limbs
blessings
of death from the skies
exploding trains
Israeli warplanes
inhuman surprise
A story of a soulless God
of man and mice
Leave a drowning ship
Before death comes and dies
dedicated to my wife afshaan...
Online News
Man
Paper weighed man
Asleep
Newsprint
Old News of Yesterday
Thrown away in a trash can
online news
breaking all-time plan
will live
beyond his life span
Google search
keeps dead man walking
dead man talking ..
a thought
main stream media
wont understand
Paper weighed man
Asleep
Newsprint
Old News of Yesterday
Thrown away in a trash can
online news
breaking all-time plan
will live
beyond his life span
Google search
keeps dead man walking
dead man talking ..
a thought
main stream media
wont understand
Eunuched Euthanasia
The world beyond my working desk, Tai Chi Italy my English Critic is angry with me for not giving up on C words, for those who don’t know what a C word is, it is possession of Mans god made missile called Cock,this is an old poem, but Tai changed my poetic destination no more Cocks for me .
Cock a Doodle do
Yes only a Cock can do
A Knob and a Screw
To make your
pregnant dreams come true
a little bit of an adhesive glue
life is hell , life sucks
much more than you can chew
in poems at poem hunter
C word is a blasphemy
too bad mouthed to review
a stigma and a taboo
a cuckoo that flew
over a poems nest
much ado
clipped wings
later
no rescue
I shall write
cockless poems
eunuched euthanasia
much overdue
bad mouthed
indeed
thank you.
Cock a Doodle do
Yes only a Cock can do
A Knob and a Screw
To make your
pregnant dreams come true
a little bit of an adhesive glue
life is hell , life sucks
much more than you can chew
in poems at poem hunter
C word is a blasphemy
too bad mouthed to review
a stigma and a taboo
a cuckoo that flew
over a poems nest
much ado
clipped wings
later
no rescue
I shall write
cockless poems
eunuched euthanasia
much overdue
bad mouthed
indeed
thank you.
Dont Touch Me
This is shot from a rickshaw, and ‘Don’t Touch Me’ is inscribed on all the fare meters.
And the irony, its pathetically inscribed on her girlish soul too, I did not want to shoot this picture, the girl child mother had covered the face of the new born baby with the end of her saree , that was the picture transparent infancy,, but I disallowed the artistry , not the metaphor with which I wanted to share the picture with you, I hate manipulating real life, placing a rose near a bomb blast and shooting the extensive depth is a distorting a decisive moment.
I shoot pictures, don’t touch or disturb the underlying pain, I shoot blood , but its only an invitation for you to see the layer beneath the blood, I cut my self severely , not only because of allying with my faith , but to understand the sound of gushing blood, musical tones and as it gurgled and warmed the slopes of my cheek, I was crying and my tears purifying and diluting the sanguinity of Moharam ritual.
And once you start hearing voices pushing you to press the trigger, once you start seeing reality in dense pictorial undergrowths you have matured as a photographer.
And its a very William Blakish kind of feeling, sometimes I saw it in Tom Do You Like Its Pictures... even Scarlet Larks bench picture, some pictures grow, keep on growing in your mind till they become a part of your unthinking mechanism.
I can understand the confusion my poems cause at Poem Hunter.com, half of the idiomatic essence of my poetry lies at Flickr in the form of a pictures , the Poem hunter critic only sees the wall the windows but not what I see through a closed door.
And a poet honestly has no time or love for poetry, poetry is words that transform as pictures... if Poem hunter had an option for posting pictures, my poetry would not sound the same as I conceptualize it first as a picture.
A Flickr page is my pond, my word like fishes, my commas like little tailless tadpoles, my full stops like little snails kissing the beginning of another sentence, my insert link what connects me to her soul, than the image, the crowning glory of my webpage, tags, that brag and with a touch will open another world beyond a technocrati redemption.
And the cock teasing on the insides of my webpage, feverishly pulling at the undergarments of my soul, private or public.
And Fuck am I really a poet, poets are people made of greater specter like quality , I don’t possess, I don’t want to a be a poet like that, I am a conversationalist poet, I am a talkative poet, a padlocked pedestrian poet.
I am a multi colored poet .
And the juvenile delinquency, irritatingly underscoring my seriousness, post to My Space.
And that lady with a silver chromed mask who knighted me Sir Lancelot Journaler.
And I shall post this at Poem Hunter as a Prose Sounding Poem ,someone will tell me to tighten my prose, loosen my poetry.
From the rickshah I did see
A girl child mother hiding her new born child’s face with the end of her dappled saree..
Begging a thought that seamlessly said to be or not to be
A thought that did touch me
She was the same girl dimpled cheeks sold flags on Independence day
Now she was a mother herself fourteen years out blown in agony
A Fare meter ticking away that said Don’t Touch me
I wonder without offending God or his dark humor
Are we really born free an umbilical cord connecting us
With someone else’s destiny..
To be gang raped a few seconds agonizing pain
A Mother soon to be none to blame
But a child fucking sucked up society..
An oceanless depth that scares and bares
Our wounds that we call reality..
And the irony, its pathetically inscribed on her girlish soul too, I did not want to shoot this picture, the girl child mother had covered the face of the new born baby with the end of her saree , that was the picture transparent infancy,, but I disallowed the artistry , not the metaphor with which I wanted to share the picture with you, I hate manipulating real life, placing a rose near a bomb blast and shooting the extensive depth is a distorting a decisive moment.
I shoot pictures, don’t touch or disturb the underlying pain, I shoot blood , but its only an invitation for you to see the layer beneath the blood, I cut my self severely , not only because of allying with my faith , but to understand the sound of gushing blood, musical tones and as it gurgled and warmed the slopes of my cheek, I was crying and my tears purifying and diluting the sanguinity of Moharam ritual.
And once you start hearing voices pushing you to press the trigger, once you start seeing reality in dense pictorial undergrowths you have matured as a photographer.
And its a very William Blakish kind of feeling, sometimes I saw it in Tom Do You Like Its Pictures... even Scarlet Larks bench picture, some pictures grow, keep on growing in your mind till they become a part of your unthinking mechanism.
I can understand the confusion my poems cause at Poem Hunter.com, half of the idiomatic essence of my poetry lies at Flickr in the form of a pictures , the Poem hunter critic only sees the wall the windows but not what I see through a closed door.
And a poet honestly has no time or love for poetry, poetry is words that transform as pictures... if Poem hunter had an option for posting pictures, my poetry would not sound the same as I conceptualize it first as a picture.
A Flickr page is my pond, my word like fishes, my commas like little tailless tadpoles, my full stops like little snails kissing the beginning of another sentence, my insert link what connects me to her soul, than the image, the crowning glory of my webpage, tags, that brag and with a touch will open another world beyond a technocrati redemption.
And the cock teasing on the insides of my webpage, feverishly pulling at the undergarments of my soul, private or public.
And Fuck am I really a poet, poets are people made of greater specter like quality , I don’t possess, I don’t want to a be a poet like that, I am a conversationalist poet, I am a talkative poet, a padlocked pedestrian poet.
I am a multi colored poet .
And the juvenile delinquency, irritatingly underscoring my seriousness, post to My Space.
And that lady with a silver chromed mask who knighted me Sir Lancelot Journaler.
And I shall post this at Poem Hunter as a Prose Sounding Poem ,someone will tell me to tighten my prose, loosen my poetry.
From the rickshah I did see
A girl child mother hiding her new born child’s face with the end of her dappled saree..
Begging a thought that seamlessly said to be or not to be
A thought that did touch me
She was the same girl dimpled cheeks sold flags on Independence day
Now she was a mother herself fourteen years out blown in agony
A Fare meter ticking away that said Don’t Touch me
I wonder without offending God or his dark humor
Are we really born free an umbilical cord connecting us
With someone else’s destiny..
To be gang raped a few seconds agonizing pain
A Mother soon to be none to blame
But a child fucking sucked up society..
An oceanless depth that scares and bares
Our wounds that we call reality..
White Man Gods Gift To Earth
God is White
racially discriminates
his chosen tribe all white
brown black chinky eyed he hates
spirtual apartheid
teary eyed waits
in a white mans world
multi colored misgivings
as unfortunate traits
our gods our religion
our idols our beliefs
before christ predates
manacled chained
enslaved searching
for his roots
his future debates
the multi colored man
at st peters gates
rights of admission reserved
as he translates for
indians and dogs as it dictates
whether it is australia uk
europe or united states
white mans superiority as it relates
this very thought global disharmony creates
at poem hunter some poets made me aware of the burning color of my skin..I dedicate this poem to the Blaines , Arsewells, Saywells, Fuc***d Foulks ...Coats of Arms..
racially discriminates
his chosen tribe all white
brown black chinky eyed he hates
spirtual apartheid
teary eyed waits
in a white mans world
multi colored misgivings
as unfortunate traits
our gods our religion
our idols our beliefs
before christ predates
manacled chained
enslaved searching
for his roots
his future debates
the multi colored man
at st peters gates
rights of admission reserved
as he translates for
indians and dogs as it dictates
whether it is australia uk
europe or united states
white mans superiority as it relates
this very thought global disharmony creates
at poem hunter some poets made me aware of the burning color of my skin..I dedicate this poem to the Blaines , Arsewells, Saywells, Fuc***d Foulks ...Coats of Arms..
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