I found I was inexperience the very day
I experienced my first experience,
So I decided to do wrong because
I was engaged in over righteousness,

I have sown a particular seed of truth
In the strange garden which I planted,
The seed must be allowed to germinate
And grow until it is ready for harvest,

It shall bear only one fruit,
The fruit shall contain only one seed,
This seed shall be the seed of crime,
Oh, some crimes brings much
Experience in liberty and justice,

We have been liberated in the
Mist of their inhumane crimes against us,
I wonder who really invented the name Africa,
They think we are poor and needy
But we are rich with excess
Untapped human and natural resources,
We are not lost
But have found the Black Star
Which is the compass for all mankind,

We never went to them,
They came to us,
They came to exploit us by cheating,
Deceiving and bringing confusion among us,
Oh, that old serpent, the devil,

They began colonizing us,
But with ***** on our side
None sustained into the twenty-first century,
They claim to be superior to the black man,
But this is just the beginning,

Within forty-years, we were able
To gain our independence
First with the spirit of Ghana
And finally crushed apartheid triumphantly,

We gave them a hospitable atmosphere
When they first arrived on our shores
As orphans and beggars,
Not knowing, they were looters and murderers,

They pride themselves as the introducers of
The Christian faith in the land of the Blacks,
They have no idea about Makeda, the Queen of Sheba,
Who later marriage King Solomon, the wise king,
No idea about the Ethiopian ******
Who was baptized by Philip in the name of Jesus,
No idea about Ras Kabutu Munhunutapa,
Was Jesus Christ not nursed in the Land of Blacks?

They realized the beauty in the
Black woman and had the gut
To propose to mother Africa (Sudan),
Upon refusal, they ***** and brutalized
Some of the daughters of mother Africa,
But the Almighty shall restore the excellence
And pride of Africa,
Like the excellence of the Garden of Eden,

Oh, what a devil with an attitude,
None of them speaks the truth,
They are full of injustice and deception,

Yes, Ethiopia is our home
And the Land of the Pharaohs is our pride,
We do not only boast in our ancient glory,
But we have a future glory of an Africa,
Which a future Mentuhotep II shall unite us with,
Yes, a future glory of black superiority,
Which a future Ras Kabutu will make us behold,

We are all pilgrims walking on the same
Road with different destinations,
Yet they are afraid of a united African force,
They shall surely give an account to Him
Who is ready to judge the living and the dead,

They sold us as slaves in order to
Steal our pride, depopulate and demoralize us,
So that, they can use their secondary
Intelligence to exploit our resources,
But they will not succeed for long,
For we know their ways of deception,
Yes, we are the prisoners of hope,
Very soon, we shall be like Jewels of a crown
Lifted like a banner over the earth and space,

Is it normal to be normal?
Oh, see how the Balance weighs down
The opportunist and the Group of Eight,
Inequalities have taking over the
Impartiality and fairness of man,
Who got away with the last hit?
The answer is always in the naive one
Who has purposed in his heart not to answer,

For they built themselves towers,
Heaped up our silver and diamond like dust,
And our gold and timber
Like the mire of the streets,
Behold, the Almighty will cast them out,
He will destroy their powers in the sea,
And they will be devoured by fire,
For we are the children of Tweaduampon,
The ones made from the richest part of the earth
The cradle of mankind,
The true descendant of Ras Kabutu,

We are the Africans
We are the survivors,
We seek a Heavenly Nation,

We keep our faith in the African Personality,
We keep our eyes on the road of African Unity,
Keep your head up on the Black star,
Keep on keeping on in the Black mentality,
Without defying the establishment!


© PRINCE NANA ANIN-AGYEI
Email: [email protected]

When I was a child, there was something mildly special about standing in the garden, late into the minutes leading up to my bed time. It was something about the thrill of disobedience, as if I were already an adult, making my own decisions.

This poem is about my testicles.

A thousand twinkling freckles gazed down at me. Joining the dots with a finger extended high as if gripping an imaginary pen, lines would appear. The celestial wrinkles of an old woman who wears these wrinkles with pride – the imprint left by a lifetime of smiles like how an old arm chair wears the imprint left by a lifetime of back-sides.

A singular eye governs the sky, and through what I interpret as a flirty act of desire, winks at me, through a thirty day cycle. I let out a giggle, and wink back.

On the horizon, trees sway in a purposeful and rhythmic way, as if conducting a symphony meant just for me; the delicate harmony of distant car horn beeps, the melody of crickets and bird tweets, and the gentle percussion of snapped twigs and crushed leaves.

Blades of wet grass become fingers seductively passing between my toes. A gust of wind blows and like a comb, massages out the knots in my hair, whispering through a foreign tongue pros into my ear.

And I can feel it inside, a connection with the night. As passion builds, a bird takes flight, and I let out a confident breath: I am in love with life! I’m in love with the Earth, warm days and clear skies. I’m in love with nature: the birds and mammals, snails, slugs, spiders and flies.

I await a reply.

Which doesn’t come.

Years go by.

And then, half way through my puberty, when the world was not so alien and new to me, I had the sad epiphany that maybe this symphony of car horns and bird tweets was not meant for me.

That, if I were not standing precisely here, or had tragically lost both my ears, the trees would continue to conduct their tune, unstirred by the news that their audience had disappeared.

And with this realisation, came an audible, synchronised plop, as – like a penny – my two ***** simultaneously dropped as if recoiling, paralysed in shock.

Then in the following silence, a tumbleweed drifted by as if to imply some kind of mockery to the thoughts going through my mind.

But of course, it was just a coincidence. The tumbleweed, in its oblivious innocence has no knowledge of the context of my thoughts, like a bolt of lightning can’t appreciate its momentary grasp of dominance over an angry sky. Like an atom doesn’t appreciate the burden of the service it provides, like a poem doesn’t appreciate the metaphors woven purposefully between every line.

And how could I sleep at night knowing that a hurricane could slip into existence, tear its way through a village of innocents then ******* in an instant leaving no form of apology or reason?

This is the dilemma of owning a conscious mind in a world of impartiality.

And if you don’t mind, I’m going to divide this audience into two sides: those who are matured and wise, and when they look at the night sky, see those wrinkles reflected in their own eyes – and those who are young and naïve, to whom this insight may come as a surprise.

To the wise and mature, I assure you that we are all in fact slowly dying. The only reason you’re alive is through generations of successful breeding and surviving. God is dead, and love is a chemical compound produced in your head.

And to the young and naïve, I’ll leave you with this line: despite the pessimistic undertones this poem implies, if you just don’t worry, you’ll turn out just fine.

As the growing world unraveled
And I began the dismal ascension of maturity
I stumbled out the  fog of childhood
And there you were:

Advice to head and educate
A Battlecry and a Mandate.

Faith; in things to happen yet
Strength in knowledge- hope in regret;

Stories expressing casually:
Evils impartiality. and
tales of golden fantasies

How no drug is ever stronger than me.

These few phrases I imagine, you see
Into dreams only I can keep.
from start until the seventh day
Waking hour's dreamless sleep.

Oh how you cushion the destruction-
the entrancement of seduction
to paint to play to grow to teach
Expression extending as I reach.

The artists impartiality
Of their craft's integrity
Is their profound gift
May it set us all free-
& Vanquish all anxiety.

When each page is blank, and book empty
Its full with potential's entierity.
Our real gift is sweet opportunity
To create and contrive
Fearlessly.

Its in our art we become who we wanted to be
With truthfull eyes we garentee
That you'll one day begin to see

The artist's impartiality.

Bright buds hang precarious on their limbs. Their hundreds of digits green and supple sway as the winds try gently at first to shake them from their perches. They snap back, their ties elastic, always bending.

The wind struck harder the third time. It caught them off guard, swinging back to face the sun. It barreled over them like a train, limbs snapped like bones under tons of industrial revolutionary steel, the cracking brings tears to the eyes of passersby.

They were so green, so verdant was their exuberant friendship, covered in rosy flesh and sturdy bark, ring after ring of tribulation and triumph, but it fractured like a wish bone. She, Persephone, prosecutor of Her, Demeter, was judge of them both, prisoner of herself.

Solitary confinement.

She tugged at her half, she needed the wish, She need for Demeter to see that She needed wishes just like the rest of us.

Demeter, jury. 12.

Her crime: attempted impartiality, balancing a utilitarian ideal that we can divide our attention based on who needs it most. She cannot be tried on account of her inability to read Braille ciphers in gestures, ****** expressions, and Tumblr posts.

Demeter tugged at her half, but only enough to show the other that she was there,
but consistently there.

It wasn’t enough.

Snap.

No marrow could be found.

Where flesh was meant to be dripped rot, an odor of resentment filled their nostrils, it choked Demeter, as Persephone had been choking for years.

This resentment, this cancer, this jealousy, it grew inside of Persephone like a tumor, days from metastasizing, the spread could have killed them.

Amputate.

You two are a tree. Bright buds dangling from every limb, they are still soft and green and supple at their ends.

You two are still growing.

Persephone will cut out this cancer, and She will heal herself, scar tissues covered by broadleafs.
You will soothe them for her. And you will see past the rosy flesh what pain it may hide.

And you two will grow. Roots firm, faces braced against the wind, and limbs always turned towards the sun.

A Tale of Two Cities, Marie Antoinette, Les Misérables,
Populaire and Jacqueline Boyer—
Van Gogh and Monet and all things the Louvre—
Louise Labé and Louis Aragon,
Camus, Voltaire, Baudelaire…
I’ve been breathing in pieces of France,
Eating baguettes,
Dreaming of their kisses,
Committing the curl of their words to memory,
To maybe find out just why they say the French love better.
Maybe if I’ve established the impartiality to the Eiffel tower and the familiarity of romantic cheek-and-cheek-kiss greets,
I will grin under the Parisian Moon, whispering with some curls of my own:
Je suis heureux.

I leave them behind, staring straight ahead despite their pleas. The starry night beckons me. It promises to set me free, so I leave. Cries of anguish echo in the nether realms, part past part hell, where the darkness instills itself.
Nighttime brings terrible dreams, but daylight is where true nightmares come from. My boots disturb the grey cement kicking up clouds of dust. Smoke obscures the empty spaces where ****** faces once laid. Scarred flesh painted red with life’s fluid.  Blood oozes and drips down the now cooling skin, then flows forming a small red river with tiny tributaries. All this is captured in a greyscale distortion.
I missed the moments of violent percussions. The sounds of man-made thunder crashing and smashing everything in sight. I was only here for the aftermath. Still, that is enough. Dark blue body bags hold the terror of two twins decimated. Gaping wounds appear as if something had been chewing itself free from their stomachs. Normal skin rolls into mangled and exposed muscle then becomes bone. What a sick alchemy of flesh.
Their faces follow the same empty stare. They almost look alive. Eyes open in accusation, pointing in a parallel direction. I can feel the full force of their claims as they silently scream “Why.”
I cry, but my tears come just upon the edge of numbness.  Anger, and sorrow so extreme that my mind cannot handle it. I disappear, pretending that these are merely photos. I immerse myself in the delusion that this is a thing of the past. I am not here. They are not there. With a digital click, the camera becomes my emotional filter.
I stumble, a step away from losing what is left of my sanity, then cross the threshold in reverse, till I am outside. A small woman cradles something in her arms. It is a charcoal baby doll. Tears streaming the woman screams, holding that incinerated thing, but it’s just a doll. Black flakes fall, baby doll’s clothing turns to dust. I cough it in and out choking on the musk. I am grateful that it is just a broken doll.
I feel fear bringing me to edge of insanity. Her screaming seems strange. Her eyes look deranged. The doll’s legs have little calcium protrusions. Do burnt bones blacken? It’s just a doll. Scorched porcelain doesn’t look like skin, but it’s just a doll. Please let it be just a doll.
I pull myself from the situation. Detach what is left of my impartiality from my sanity. This is just a picture. This is just a job. Auto pilot takes over as I keep clicking photos, leaving any sense of self in the past.

“Mistakes were made.”
I quote at least three recent former U.S. Presidents,
Who wrote or spoke infamously in the passive voice.
Here’s a bit of history:
The words spoken by automated phone systems,
Were code written by computer programmers.
Computer geeks, revered for their cold logic and impartiality;
Like scientists taught to maintain objectivity,
When studying fascinating subjects like Base-2 Binary Codes,
Disk partitioning and hard drive defragmentation.
Impersonal, the passive voice avoids sentiment,
Steers clear of pesky opinions unfounded on certainty or proof.
Unsurprisingly, the passive voice seeped quickly,
Into the language of politicians,
Our beloved rogues and rapscallions,
Hiding truth, avoiding accountability and culpability.
Practitioners of political science,
They bob and weave and spin.
Yes, mistakes were made.

I lack enthusiasm
sincerity
honesty
generosity
and impartiality

I like sleeping all day
and being up all night
getting drunk
kissing strangers
and getting a take away on the way home

I wish I had the qualities
that you possessed
like confidence
sprightliness
and the ability to get dressed

I feel a thousand pains
all pouring down the same drain
cold
aloof
and vain

Take me to another place
where I don't annihilate
my brain
my body
and my face

The struggle is futility
Patient people play the part
Of impartiality

The wiser are restraint
Castigated for their intelligence
Castrated by their class

A classless struggle we abide
Poor children barely manage
To survive and seldom thrive
Not given access to the tools
Of excellence

But we wield the sword of obsolescence
Antiquated ideas put on the same level as
Modern machines and moral philosophies

Broad language discarded for
The disinfected nature of stupidity

Our language is censored
And free thought is crippled

Thus to succeed we must
Write to their level of understanding
So they can understand it

Which means we do not expect grandness
From the masses
That we underrate what they are capable of

The papacy’s power is palatable but detrimental
The Popes presence sends his parishioners
In to servitude as they submit to the
Sublimation of their identity

Unable to identify the truth from the lie
Unable to separate the flock from the I
I become the villain
For stating these things

So I drop names like Darwin and Thomas Paine
I wear the scarlet letter of poet and philosopher
Of Supplicant to science, Of literate romantic

I the son of Percy Bysshe Shelley
The son of Twain and Poe
The Son of Shakespeare and Baudelaire  
The son of logic and poetry
The lost ******* of peace, love, and understanding

I leave the eve of man’s ill behavior
To see the seething corps of corpses
Rise in ignorance strive for pestilence
With hopeful hate in their eye
To perpetuate the self-fulfilling prophecies
Of all types of apocalypses

But in the end it will be I that am despised
Thus if I must be hated then at least
Favor me with this tiny justice

Like Galileo, Giordano Bruno, and Copernicus
I will wear chains well earned
There is so much knowledge to be had
So learn, live, love and then learn some more

Hey, Judge Kavanaugh,
What should people think
When they hear all about
How much you liked to drink?
You can play it down, of course,
But one thing's very clear:
When you went to school, your friends
Knew you liked your beer.

You showed up at your hearing with
All guns a blazing!
Your little friend Lindsey Graham
Thought you were amazing.
It doesn't really matter to him
If you're wrong or right.
People say that Graham has
Bigger goals in sight.

You are bound and determined to be
On our highest court.
You THINK you're qualified, but something
Tells us you fall short.
A judge-like character
Is ONE thing that's required.
But your impartiality
Leaves much to be desired.

Sure you have your fans who say
You are a decent man.
Republicans are using you
As part of their master plan.
Your shining record doesn't mean
That you weren't once a ****.
Now that you've cleaned up your act
You want to do "God's work."

Call your attacks a smear if you want,
But we have had enough.
America deserves a justice
Who is up to *****.
If up to par, what will further
Investigations show?
That you deserve to be a yes,
Or will you be a no?

-by Bob B (9-30-18)

One thing I know, one thing I wish for, one thing I would die for
One thing I pray for is that you die a horrible death
I wish … yeah that’s right...It’s just a wish!
If I had the choice to free you or the devil himself
If I had a choice between life and death
A route between heaven and hell… I would sure choose the latter for you
Trust me; I have acknowledged the fact that I am a biological error.
A constant remind of your foolish mistakes. Your own hell I suppose.
You made me make pain a hero, a friend and a **** father you never were.
Death was my mother that I desperately prayed to for her to take me home.
I was desperate for my own peace at my lonely grave
Desperation could not keep up with me; I guess I was beyond the poor thing.
I hope that someday life will serve you as a devil’s dish.
In my own world, in my own fantasy, my own deception of coping with reality, you do exist.
In my own world I am daddy’s little girl, with the pony tails and ****.
I am that girl that waits for you to come back from work.
You exist as a figment of my own imagination when people talk about their families.
I long for your embrace like the Sahara’s desert crave for water.
I long for freedom like a slave. My own emotions crucified me.
I stare down death everyday as though I was staring at you.
I guess the simple truth is that I want to see a friendly face in this empty crowd.
Dear father, I hope they have a special place for you in hell, were you will burn for eternity.
When I needed you, you needed a needle. I cried for you but you cried for some sick *****!
I cried for weeks and months until it hit me; you aren’t worth it.
You missed the first time I walked. The first time I talked. The first time I shined bright.
I bet you are going to run away from your own funeral! That’s what you are good at.
So dear father, wherever you are don’t die yet. You still have to see my success story.
Witness with your own eyes how life ****** you up on a good opportunity.
I hope your bottles, fake *** ****** and more babies keep you warm at night.
I hope a car doesn’t run over you anytime soon.
Abandonment looked at you and ran away; responsibility looked at you and committed suicide.
But do not worry, I am here to stay. Call me your worst nightmare if you must.
When I told the devil my story he quit running hell and went back to heaven.
He felt you deserved it more. You are hell. Can you hear the bell? Your ride is here.
I will give you a ride to your own little grave.  Your little own cave.  
I think if you do get this letter know that this is what the universe calls impartiality.

This isn't going to be
one of those pretentious poems
Induced by a wave of sadness.

I've written far too many
Of those.

And I won't let myself
Be miserable again.
There are too many
Numbing medications
For me to tolerate anything less than neutral.
Even that is uncomfortable:
indifference.
impartiality.

Makes me anxious.
Like I'm waiting.
Treading water.

Balance is a key word for you.
You give back what you've been given--
In relationships, that is.
You're a doer, creative and driven.

You lack passion, some people think.
But that is truly not the case.
A compromise between passion
And intellect must be in place.

You really need other people;
Your need to be liked must be fulfilled.
Though reluctant to face confrontation,
Sometimes you can be strong-willed.

You probably like to entertain.
Your grace and charm can make you flirty.
You want to make your surroundings pleasant
Without getting your hands very *****.

To achieve peace and harmony
You will go to amazing lengths.
Being an expert communicator
Is considered one of your strengths.

Regarding physical exercise,
You could have a lazy streak.
You need motivation since
The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak.

If you lack comfy surroundings,
You can easily be depressed.
Your stamina runs in cycles.
Be aware when you need rest.

Partnerships are important to you.
Just keep your head out of the clouds.
You relish being around other people,
But not necessarily crowds.

Diplomacy helps you succeed
As long as your wit and charm aren't obsessive.
When your wiles are ineffective,
Watch that you don't become aggressive.

If you try to please others too hard,
You lose your individuality.
It's crucial for you that others can see
Your kindness, fairness, and impartiality.

When you know it's time to move on,
You can do it with no hesitation.
Being knocked off balance can cause you
Emotional and mental frustration.

Your love of beauty in all forms
Is on an intellectual level.
You--with your social grace--
Could even charm the pants off the Devil.

- by Bob B

The struggle is futility
Patient people play the part
Of impartiality
The wiser are restraint
Castigated for their intelligence
Castrated by their class
A classless struggle we abide
Poor children barely manage
To survive and seldom thrive
Not given access to the tools
Of excellence
But we wield the sword of obsolescence
Antiquated ideas put on the same level as
Modern machines and moral philosophies
Broad language discarded for
The disinfected nature of stupidity
Our language is censored
And free thought is crippled
Thus to succeed we must
Write to their level of understanding
So they can understand it
Which means we do not expect grandness
From the masses
That we underrate what they are capable of
The papacy’s power is palatable but detrimental
The Popes presence sends his parishioners
In to servitude as they submit to the
Sublimation of their identity
Unable to identify the truth from the lie
Unable to separate the flock from the I
I become the villain
For stating these things
So I drop names like Darwin and Thomas Paine
I wear the scarlet letter of poet and philosopher
Of Supplicant to science, Of literate romantic
I the son of Percy Bysshe Shelley
The son of Twain and Poe
The Son of Shakespeare and Baudelaire  
The son of logic and poetry
The lost ******* of peace, love, and understanding
I leave the eve of man’s ill behavior
To see the seething corps of corpses
Rise in ignorance strive for pestilence
With hopeful hate in their eye
To perpetuate the self-fulfilling prophecies
Of all types of apocalypses
But in the end it will be I that am despised
Thus if I must be hated then at least
Favor me with this tiny justice
Like Galileo, Giordano Bruno, and Copernicus
I will wear chains well earned
There is so much knowledge to be had
So learn, live, love and then learn some more

Measure me
not by what I appear
but what I am

measure me
not by what I want
but what I reject

measure me
not by words I say
but my unknown deeds

measure me
not when I am in public
but in my privacy

measure me
not by my success
but my failure

measure me
not by what I know
but what I am ignorant of

measure me
not by what others say
but from our personal encounters

measure me
not out of sympathy
but with impartiality

measure me
not with the yardstick of bravery
but my vulnerability

measure me
not as among the selected company
but among the poor and needy

measure me
not when the world is for me
but when all things are against me

measure me
not by the approval of authority
but my desire to be free

measure me
not when I am in the pink of spring or summer
but when I am stricken by the harshness of winter


measure me
in my very frailty
that alone would make me happy.

Now comes the parade of litigators with degrees in hand. The legal counsel that works behind the scenes. Deals are cut and cases are shuffled around the court house as lives are taken apart unless you can afford the price of justice. The grist wheel turns grinding the bodies into the system like so much pulp. The poor are the victims of the injustice that purports to be blind, while in truth it rushes to judgement and has empty beds to fill in the prisons that dot the landscape. The police roam the streets like so many big game hunters, each looking to fill their quota. While politicians line their pockets with funds derived from the misery they sell, filling jail beds and taking kickbacks from their corporate overlords who profit off of the labor in the prison factories, where slavery is legalized and condoned by the system that says it is blind and fair. While a person fights for the right to be recognized as a person again, the victim is forgotten by the system that does little to console those who have lost so much, with loved ones torn away by violence and ****** into jails or the grave leaving poverty and want in the wake of the process, thus repeating a never ending cycle that no one really wants to end, lest the truth be told that justice is truly blind, but not to the impartiality as one would suppose, but by the gold and silver that is heaped at the feet of lady justice that will corrupt judgment and look the other way for a price.

You call it impartiality,

but is it the calculated coldness inside you
that creates that sense of misplaced fairness
which means you treat everyone in the same
negative way regardless of their circumstances?

I call it duplicity.

coldness
the absence of heat
so many lives lost
in such little time
needing video proof to show
it's validity
the absence of love
that manifests in our children and in
our children's children
repeating chapters in history books
blandness
the absence of flavor,
the cookie-cutter complexion-
thin but not too thin,
fair with straight hair,
but everyone wants a sprinkle of
brown sugar in they culture;
the braids, thick-lipped smiles,
the slang, the suave,
the culture is the thing to be in
this day in age but the people
aren't embraced as much as their ways are
darkness
the absence of light,
and we become greater
when we become more informed of
the ripple effect
our actions have and carrying such things out,
offering that person a seat near you,
making them feel welcome,
like they belong,
I don't want to have to be afraid if my grandpa
will be killed if he makes eye contact with the police
like Freddie Gray
or if my cousin will be killed for
walking home with a friend like Gregg Gunn
but we're here
fighting for natural rights
pleading to be treated unjustly
by those in power
fighting the same fight our great-grandparents fought
lifeless
the absence of heart
of joy, of impartiality,
we all came from a woman,
we all bleed red..

no justice..
no peace..

no tranquility..

The bias in your heart creates an elusive lens
Complete and utter impartiality never to attain
You love somebody so, that you never can be friends
No matter how hard you try, it always is a strain

Regret is the flawed scourge that causes you the pain
And makes it impossible for you to let it go
So you dwell in what ifs and try and try again
But I will tell you something, that you may not know

Isolation is a stingy experiment, robbing you of hope
The scourge you beat yourself with and the bias in your heart
Are the devil's way of making it very difficult to cope
If you lock your heart away then you'll be torn apart

Open it up wide with the ability to love all mankind
It sounds emotionally exhausting but this is what you do
If you only try to please God, and love Him, you will find
That you suddenly have the energy to love everyone else too

To forgive the ******* that broke you and thought they got away
To love those who ridiculed you, when you were just a child
To open your heart in friendship and love each and every day
And even to forgive yourself for all the years that you were wild