"mullahs" poems
In the orchard and rose garden
I long to see your face.
In the taste of Sweetness
I long to kiss your lips.
In the shadows of passion
I long for your love.
Oh! Supreme Lover!
Let me leave aside my worries.
The flowers are blooming
with the exultation of your Spirit.
By Allah!
I long to escape the prison of my ego
and lose myself
in the mountains and the desert.
These sad and lonely people tire me.
I long to revel in the drunken frenzy of your love
and feel the strength of Rustam in my hands.
I’m sick of mortal kings.
I long to see your light.
With lamps in hand
the sheiks and mullahs roam
the dark alleys of these towns
not finding what they seek.
You are the Essence of the Essence,
The intoxication of Love.
I long to sing your praises
but stand mute
with the agony of wishing in my heart.
24.5k
I came to a town on the road to you,
and by chance the day was Eid al Fitr.
The was much music and dancing and rejoicing in life's fullness;
I too was swept away in the simple ecstasies.
But the old Mullahs had heard of my travels
and bid come unto them to discuss heavy matters.
"How can one break the Law and remain beloved of Allah?"
"Because God created the Law out of Love,
thus the Love of Allah is above and beyond it's precepts.
God will Love whom He chooses."
Outrage. Insult. Blasphemy.
The music outside drew my soul away, and I joined
the common people, my brothers and sisters,
while the old men argued without us.
Wordlessly, we danced.
Jul 14, 2013
Jul 14, 2013 at 3:03 PM UTC
“Humankind: be kind – be One!
I am appalled at what’s been done.
Benign intentions must restrain us.
Hate should never entertain us.”
The toad comedian Ban Ki-Moon
croaked a pitiful One-World tune
while gunmen paused, reloaded, armed
checked that they had no comrades harmed –
and then prepared for further battle
against the clueless kuffar cattle.
Ban stood upright to intervene;
surveyed the terrorific scene…
muezzins chanted, mullahs chuckled
swords were sharpened, bomb-vests buckled.
Dhimmi dim-wits went on shopping.
(Are heads in sand less prone to chopping ?)
Hesitating, he cleared his throat,
raised his pitch by a quarter note:
“These acts are most undemocratic
We are saddened; yet emphatic – “
(no one heard his discourse further
drowned by the sound of massive ******
So let’s consider what is meant
by rolling heads and bodies splattered…
time for Truth to represent
(as if such inconvenience mattered…)
Such events disturb our sleep
and force us to compose, on waking,
lullabies for drowsy sheep
as predators are overtaking.
Flags of doom and holy slaughter,
sons of Ishmael filled with rage
are coming for your wife and daughter
and yourself. You turn the page.
Rising now to storm your tower
(7th century back to bite you),
Allah brings satanic power
to convert you or to smite you.
****** dhimmis would have us think
such rage is due to unemployment;
pure confusion on the brink
of funding further troop deployment.
Meanwhile, mullahs sip their tea
while tenured academics prattle
watching MSNBC
as soldiers die in battle.
Sep 9, 2015
Sep 9, 2015 at 8:31 PM UTC
ººº
*Beware lest anyone cheat you through philosophy and empty deceit,
according to the tradition of men, according to the basic principles of the world,
and not according to Christ.*
Colossians 2:4-8 (NKJV)
His Nietzschean trip moved from Comic toward Tragic:
Deleuze’s delusions flew out the fenêtre
Airborne and ****** on philosphy’s magic
(the nihilist suicide’s raison d’être…)
Propelled from the window, transcending the Ontic,
his organless body in textual flight,
a schiz-flow beyond on a voyage turned frantic.
His thought – a nomadic adornment for speed,
multiplicitly viewing a thousand plateaux
was a force for unhinging the doorways of light
and a plea for postmodern decoding indeed.
His frame soon encountered pure striated space
in the form of the pavement caressing his face.
He joins other smokers of Gallic tabac,
other esotericians of cognitive frenzy
(those mullahs of madness, those sultans of Whack…)
Sorely missed by his victims, disciples and friends
he is mourned, misinterpreted, copied, dismissed
– but for semioticians he heads up the list.
Another brave Frenchman, some guy named Debord
a bespectacled Marxist (who missed all the marks)
made the mediums’ message a radical bore
dialectically fading the lights into darks.
Indirectly disrupting pop-culture with Punk
and other anarchic phenomena-junk,
he too chose to leave with a nihilist bang –
while we whimper and suffer down here with the gang.
The old situationist’s last situation:
an agit-prop funeral short on elation…
So to French de-constructor-philosopher-ravers
and all who rejoice while society wavers
I offer these lines, like a quick coup-de-grace
and be warned – they’re now viewing the Good Lord en face.
Sep 11, 2015
Sep 11, 2015 at 10:16 PM UTC
As militant Mullahs mutter and pray
And plan their Mosque near ground Zero
Protesters march and people say:
“This isn't right! They'll have to go.”
But let's demur and make no noise
No tears, no threats, no signs approve.
It would profane our civic faith
To tell the Mullah he must move.
The Towers’ fall brought harm and fear
Men reckon what that did and meant;
But building a “cultural Center” near
Though demonized, is innocent.
Dull couch potatoes of the Right
Those ditto heads who can't admit
Tolerance, cause it doth reprove
Those thoughts that have them in a snit.
But we, my love, are so refined
that we ourselves don't care one whit.
Let them build it, come what may
But build a brothel next to it.
Two buildings place there, cheek to cheek:
the Mosque and “Annie’s House of Pain”.
One dealing with things spiritual,
The other deals with things profane.
In both, salvation is for sale
It seems to me a perfect fit.
For do not both invoke God's name?
-and both, I fear, use whips a bit.
students at the Madrasah may
hear the cries of Joy next door
on her mattress, hard at play
While they use prayer mats on the floor.
.
Will they too prove as tolerant?
Live and let live, for now- they say
When they enforce Sharia law,
The folks next door will learn to pray.
Nov 30, 2011
Nov 30, 2011 at 8:54 PM UTC
I watch stymied
laughters of the world.
They are momentary tragedies.
Halting
Hindi laugh,
silent
Asian laugh.
Poking each other in ribs
infused with ****** morrow.
Why do I surreptitiously laugh, aloud on paper?
Each diseased curtain
of sawed-pulp wafts gently on
my breath, through ink, away--
contained in incense clouds
from sandalwood shrubs
which rustled once
beside a child
whose mother
dipped in Ganges
her ceremonial robe
whet, with tears,
the appetite you have
tonight
from laughing.
Downtown, outside
my cordoned hallway,
other people cackle;
they laugh like Sheikhs.
They laugh like Mullahs,
rolling copies of Qur'ans
held next to black cloth,
who ask us
"Have you heard the one?"
The bishops,
priests and
generals
lean over their broaching bellies
to hear described:
Crackling yellow flames cast shadows
on maps for weary pilgrims
with questions inside their heads
suspended on the moon-tides.
They sang in a circle, one.
Motives for allegiance
unraveled on the ground of man's
passion, now rotting, beside the
carcasses of camels
too meatless to eat.
In the once cloudless sky,
separated from the stars eternally,
they conceived of
pangs as great as loneliness
which laughter disguises.
Love, a painful, confusing torment.
of which
laughter never inquires
"Have you the time for me?"
although, every few days,
it should.
Running fingers through our lover's hair,
laughter tempts the intellect eternity to
conceive.
Constant fascination is
more bearable than death,
we dream.
We all need more
persuasion
to let go,
let leather reins pulled
taut behind vocal chords
snap free from our hands
in empathy for what
can't be said
and move our tongues aside
to shout
"Again! Again!"
through laughter.
No need.
It repeats, despite encouragement.
Arriving in self-addressed envelopes in your receptacle
each year
on your birthday
waiting in the dark, crying:
“Open up!
Climb down
out of your body.
Come laugh with me,
between the stars."
May 11, 2012
May 11, 2012 at 2:34 AM UTC
So let’s consider what is meant
by rolling heads and bodies splattered…
time for Truth to represent
(as if such inconvenience mattered…)
Such events disturb our sleep
and force us to compose, on waking,
lullabies for drowsy sheep
as predators are overtaking.
Flags of doom and holy slaughter,
sons of Ishmael filled with rage
are coming for your wife and daughter
and yourself. You turn the page.
Rising now to storm your tower
(7th century back to bite you),
Allah brings satanic power
to convert you or to smite you.
****** dhimmis would have us think
such rage is due to unemployment;
pure confusion on the brink
of funding further troop deployment.
Meanwhile, mullahs sip their tea
while tenured academics prattle
watching MSNBC
as soldiers die in battle.
Mar 23, 2016
Mar 23, 2016 at 7:30 PM UTC
In your name, my country, I write today
For all the voices that cannot speak
For all the voices that are silenced
For all the wailing children unheard
For the mullahs and the pandits and the priests
For the politicians and the newsmakers
For the consumers and sharers of “news”
For all the women who bleed onto to the dry earth
For all the animals who are tortured
For the weak who toil in the burning sun
For the strong who drive their air-conditioned SUVs
For the singers, poets and artists
For the farmers, masons and carpenters
For the babies who will know only this way
For the old who remember how things were
For the ones caught in between
For the children and women *****
For the rapists drunk on power
For the believers and the non-believers
For all of us and all of them
In your name, my country, I weep
In your name, my country, I hope
In your name, my country, I believe
Mar 16, 2016
Mar 16, 2016 at 2:49 AM UTC
My heart entwined into her Kangna …
They whisper to each other ,
through their twinkling murmurs and giggles.
As her perfect slender arms ,
sway across the mystical winding of her hips,
They rhythmically dance to her pulse being the tune.
Anware of her presence lost into boyish laughter ,
shes walking across me on sun parched streets,
Her Kangna summons me ,
and I wear my heart on my sleeve ,
My heart again entwined into her Kangna .
The sun has smeared the sky with crimson orange ,
I stand possessed by her kohl rimmed eyes,
and oh! she quickly lowers her gaze .
Every ray flirtingly kisses your Kangna goodbye,
as if to taunt me.
Its Friday filling my eyes with surma ,
I almost have bathed in athar comes the call for prayer .
pulling my saafa onto my shoulders after prayer I leave.
I find her choosing mirrors for her choli in the bazaar.
She blushes pink on seeing me gaping at her awestruck,
and the boys teasingly cheer my name “Marauf!”
As she shifts her hair to the back of her ear ,
her Kangna cast their spell again..
And my heart's entwined into her Kangna.
I once heard one of the mullahs saying,
"women are made of more jealousy than water"
i wonder thats true because as she walks to fetch water,
jealousy pours down in the womens eyes
for every mujnoon yearns for her glimpse.
Absently thinking you swirl your Kangna ,
the fragrance of your skin mesmerizes them.
They know your secrets and unveil them to me,
through their delicate minakari embossed in their glitter.
i wait drowned in impatience ,
my eyes searching traces of you in the street,
when you tap me out of my search,
i feel myself melting away on your touch,
as again my heart's entwined into your Kangna forever i guess ?
Jun 24, 2014
Jun 24, 2014 at 10:31 AM UTC
♗ ♗ ♗ ♗ ♗ ♗ ♗
Hopery, changery, stranger-than-strangery
tip the good vicar your hat—
as he sits with Obama, the global Gautama
indulging in neighborly chat.
Popery, popery, changery-hopery
grant the old Pontiff his wish.
Then summon a bishop to season and dish up
a kettle of catechized fish.
Changery, hopery—swing from the ropery,
garnish the Vatican stew.
The Cardinals compassed, the media rumpused
the Protestants joined in, too…
Fakery, changery, safety in dangery
lack of direction was lost
as it became clear that no concord was near
and the threshold of lunacy crossed.
Changery-hopery, soap-on-a-ropery,
buy the Obama a beer.
Let the Lord’s liberation enlighten our nation
as forums and quorums get queer.
Hopery, changery, babe-in-a-mangery
hail the immaculate mess;
until limbo is purged and repentance is urged
and the canonized con-men confess.
Babilo-mockery, roll with the rockery
kiss the pontificate ring;
til’ the old Argentinian wax Constantinian
causing Gods angels to sing.
Jiggery-pokery fooling the folkery
monkery second to none…
what was once sacrilegious is now a religious
conventional focus of fun.
Papacy, lunacy piping the tunacy
Father goose mothered the egg –
but it cracked in the nest while the stupefied West
lit a match to a gunpowder keg.
Yessiree/nopery—smoking the dopery
opiates dulling the masses
who bow genuflecting, with candles reflecting
the shine of their Latinate *****
Fakery funkery, pachyderm trunkery
hierophants never forget
but the clown and his trainer cut loose the restrainer
and cancelled the circus’s debt.
Piggery, smokery, tighten the chokery
offer the refugees bacon;
their mullahs may howl with a slaughterhouse scowl
but the empire’s free for the takin’…
Apr 11, 2016
Apr 11, 2016 at 1:51 PM UTC
Knife edged, this twisted world
Where men sit on their hands,
Despite the carnage, sanctified
Despite where outrage lands.
Blinkered to the massacre
Oblivious to death
Ukraine and in Gaza
Via Satan's filthy breath,
Carnage bleeds, unsated
Innocents now die
Dismembered in the rubble
Where little children cry.
We in distant nations
Sit remote and quite detached,
Unhindered by the distance
Untouched, unattached.
We wring our hands in anguish
What more can we do?
This smothered insignificance
A sad defense for you.
Whilst the Ogre in the Kremlin
And the Mullahs in Iran
Dispatch their lethal warfare
Eviscerating man.
Ego and the Caliphate
Combine to force the hand
With nuclear threat to NATO
In the ultimate demand.
China on the sideline,
Poised to hit Taiwan,
Awaiting the confusion
To join the battle song.
Extermination Israel
Taking Saudi's oil rich wells
And a settling of the score
In sending Infidels to Hell.
Here we sit in our seclusion
With a blue sky overhead,
Not a thought that our tomorrows
Possibilities....may be dead?
Not a thought that our inaction
At this point of time entails
The destruction of the order
Here on Earth, that now prevails?
Have you bitten hard the bullet,
Have you clenched your teeth in rage?
Have you stamped your foot in anger
To decide to turn the page?
Have you weighed the dreaded consequence
Of just blithely carrying on....
Or will you gather up your skirts
To Sing Our Planet's Battle Song?
[email protected]
9th March 2024
.
Mar 8, 2024
Mar 8, 2024 at 7:14 PM UTC
I am God!
But I guess you already figured it out!
Of course you did, you are intelligent!
And mine enlightened creature!
You know I am always right!
My millions of believers can't be wrong!
My priests, my monks and mullahs!
We truly are a happy holy family!
Sometimes we'll hang you in the nearest tree!
Only because of what you think of me!
You know I am too good and strong for you!
And if not, I will save you infamously!
I am fluid and I am light, I take and I give!
Sometimes a real cerebral brain damage!
I am God so do not try to reject me!
Or I'll **** and rip you into pieces!
Aug 7, 2014
Aug 7, 2014 at 8:30 AM UTC
When missiles fly
The Mullahs lie
They bide their time
To turn the tide
Their constant bluster
Now short of luster
For why we ask
No God sent task
To build a bomb
With feigned aplomb
Their word to spread
Among the dead
They have their place
To find God's grace
Not trample lives
Like stinging hives
Fear and temerity
No road to prosperity
But that's what they seek
Control of the meek
A proud nation with tales of old
A proud people who once were bold
A history where feats abound
A long lost empire to astound
Time for Iranians to now earn
That for which they clearly yearn
Freedoms tenuous flickering light
Now in their grasp in line of sight
Jun 22, 2025
Jun 22, 2025 at 10:33 AM UTC
© 2014 (Jim Sularz)
Two throws of tens and let the dice roll,
that some may live, and some may die,
and at death, are comforted by soul’s mantle light.
For deep beneath a vast ocean of lies,
that have always hailed a promised place -
where no righteous man or woman have ever been …
Is where bright stars never rise or fall,
and wide rivers that cease to ebb and flow,
where angel’s trumpets neither sound nor blow -
Is where blindness shadows endless tears,
and jihadist dreams that fall on deafened ears,
where lost Caliphates, Mullahs and prostrate Emirs …
Is where emptiness has no regrets,
a naked silence, shattered monuments,
where four seasons weep, and all Heaven ends -
for their faith’s reward - is abandonment.
Jun 29, 2014
Jun 29, 2014 at 5:59 PM UTC
razors in their hands
hangmen wanted to cut to bits our tongues
before our hearts
in the mid of the fires
while, hitting our logic to insanity chain
we guarded a red rose in our hearts
slave men
many of them -even- unknowing how they are
deceived by the lies
shared the pogrom
gravitated to Madımak Hotel on 1993
thoughts were in the spider's web
beards are white, hearts are black
feet ran for killing
and burned the flowers' blossoms
with their seeds
which are the future of their children
reverend mullahs!?
now, how the soup tastes at your tables?
after two, they were thirty five comrades
who drained life
from their souls
they were
who had pure love
in their thoughts
now, they will be the guests of our souls
till the eternity
they were proud, revolutionist and compassionate
and they are at the comrades bitter consolation
resting in our hearts
moon lights shining on their faces
that’s why
every second of July
songs are more sorrowful
consciousnesses are more rebellious!
my grudge sharpened -like a knife- day by day
aaaah aah ah!
at the yearn of the friendly smell
at the resistance, not to forget
my feelings
my feelings, remained orphan
Turgay Usanmaz
Jan 19, 2016
Jan 19, 2016 at 2:11 AM UTC