On my ice, There is a pink cupcake. Or perhaps on the bench, I can't remember. Either way it was yelling at me. I Am still unsure of it's sex. It's a slut. I don't like it, it's yelling At me and its brown sprinkles growl. He or she(like I said the sex is uncertain, it perplexes me, like a dog or cat when it's under region is not valuable nor visible(valuable in the sense that if being a male it is small(invaluable))it strangulates my mysterious underdeveloped? (For lack of a better word) thoughts)chills my nerves) anyway as I was saying before impost train of tracks on my brain(loose track I think)( I apologize prior to other conjunctions for their rareness or originality) He or she is wearing very tight and almost thrifty clothing. It perturbs and frustrates me. I want to Hurt something when I fornicate or maybe duplicate these feelings. (fornicate in the sense of an offspring off a Terrible sin of fornicating(like I said I apologize Ahead of time) I hate this cupcake it yells so loud, so tormentingly loud. I want to lobotomize myself, or maybe exorcise myself.(I mean give myself an exorcism)( earlier maybe two sentences prior to this(I don't want to count, counting strains my limbic system)( I called the cupcake an "it" because I do not know it's sex) I think it was under the influence of drugs. It's eyes gleamed like a Thousand burning suns, staring wide staring eyes, almost to share or exemplify it's strong urge to fly. We all want to fly(and I mean not on a plane, I mean with ones own wings)(it would be graceful and unfathomable)(so really in can not say it is graceful if you consider it is unfathomable)

After running from that damned cupcake and boy, did I run(like spot)(see spot run)) it was like skating on the thin Ice of modern life. I dragged my silent reproach(like a million tear stained eyes) there was a crack in the ice(how could I be surprised) then I slipped out of my depth(perception on reality, maybe even visible perception of my autonomous limbic system(eyes)) and out of my mind with my fear flowing out behind me as I crawled the ice. I think then the ice killed me, the freezing water burned my skin like toast in a furnace toaster(or maybe bread in a furnace toaster) I stated or a questionable statement, hello? Is there anybody under here(here being the freezing dark pool of water) no one was. I was alone. All alone, I've built these modern walls of emotion around me. Keeping everyone out. Maybe I made this ice and I made this crack. I'm going to die, I do not mean physically but mentally, emotionally, and the death of my sanity. Well either way if you wanna find out what is behind these cold eyes you'll just have to claw your way through this disguise. I'm not conforming to this contemporary so so society. Why do so, to be a drone, a drone, just the way they want you to be. A drone or a sheep, they care for you like sheep. They being the dark figure that haunts are abysmal plains of thoughts and mind. Bare like a desert. They try to do what is in their best interest, but maybe what they think is their best interest even isn't their best interest(they are human after all, who could deny our natural greed and hate, our easy mistake, our easy assumptions, our premature judgments.) so their actions neither being their own best interest or even the drones best interest who benefits? No one does it's a lose lose scenario. Life being a drone and lose lose no matter what. Who could blame the drones who commit suicide? They are only doing so because this evil figure told them to. The giant undefeated media the giant television told them to do it. It's only what society told them to do. ( oh but they say there must have been some Aliment some disease or mental instability) well yes there was but it was cause by society and the drone makers, the drone fabricators, the devil himself.

For me i must say it is that god forsaken cupcake, that evil cupcake. That cupcake is my devil, my drone fabricator, the factory of sheep, and its growling brown sprinkles its demons that haunt my sorrowful lonely mind. Oh so how lonely and empty that aspect of my life is, there is no one under this modern thin ice of society. I need someone to wear my crown of sorrow to wear my handkerchief of pain. To share it with me day in and day out. It's getting only colder, only tighter, uncomfortably tight. And dry, so dry, like a funeral drum. It is necessity that someone join me in my cold dark abyss under my thin ice, in my walls of solitude, to help drown out the oppressive voice of the dark figure and to escape their cupcake yelling like a slut. Oh how that promiscuous cupcakes yells. I need someone to do it all with me. As much as I want someone to join me under the water, I think I would love them too much to have them join me under here. It's not fair to you. So as much as I need someone and as much as I want someone, I must contrast from my prior statements, stay away from me. Do not skate on my thin ice, you might just fall into my own Solid walls, my own prison to escape society, and I am uncertain of what it brings. I can do it alone. And if I can't, I am not committing suicide, I'm escaping this horrible existence under my modern Ice, my own Ice of life, my ice of thought and mind. It is too thin, do not skate

It's this time of the semester again
6 after class
You dodge hordes of brain dead students.
Shook your purse till the last coin
to buy those peddled
prick and go foods
brewed secretly with an unknown sauce
You stand at the dull corner.
Exhaling gray intoxication
hoping to find other ways to keep
yourself warm wearing a thin skirt
As the hours passed
the boulevard begins to freeze in amid suspension
Waiting for a signal
Finally it turns red
But it was a white cloth stuck on a car window
that got your attention to approach
Everyday you get to have a new handkerchief
A pair or two.
Usually with matching yellow paper.
Yet it wasn't white anymore the morning after.

Rain was forecast.
I saw pencil grey clouds
shove the blue to one side
from the window.

That day we had a picnic
for I'd never had one,
you lead the way
like a torch in a dark corridor.

We found a place
under an oak on top of a hill,
your body whispered
round my own.

Pink trainers on grass,
I heard the hush of the sea,
the flicker of bird's wings
as I sat against the bark.

Ham sandwiches
and blackcurrant juice,
young kids in the distance
tossed a white ball through the air.

But it came.
It hit the leaves,
the sound of a hundred
marathon runners.

We had no umbrella,
soaked blonde hair
and shiny spheres
on your face.

Thirty minutes passed,
my arms a link
around your waist,
cobalt smeared above the trees.

And then a tinge of yellow
climbed over a cloud,
a handkerchief handed to the sky,
deluge over.

The rainy season is at
The door once again,
And loneliness has
Brought me a new pillow,
But who is to defend
My repugnant soul?
Can it be the Gods?

Hear this! The rain has
Began knocking at my
Slammer door gradually,
Oh no, it is knocking
And wailing so heavily,
With his icy voice
Of storm and cold
Arresting my hearty dreams,
But I will retch at his smell
And hurry for my handkerchief,

Where is my lantern?
May be, the native doctor
Has the answer to the
Cylindrical jar containing
Her eternal juniper organs,
Indeed, it is my misfortune
To go about with the priest,
For even the child of
The priest even dies at noon,

Ah, I thought she was
Vigilant and ever-ready
To make the debtors
Chew the palm kernels,
But she became the
Portion of the exterior of
The pot that skin can cover,

I have lost my heaven,
Oh no, I have lost the
One whose neck is like a
Bunch of small-fingered plantain,
I have lost the whetstone
On which I sharpen
My thirsty sword to
Perform deeds of valour,

Let the Gods weep!
Let the ancestors wail!
Let the people of Africa,
Give me condolence of
The talking drums,
For their child is gone,
The wise woman who cut
Her thumb in order to get
A wise husband is dead,

Mother, the Okro full of
Seeds of children and literature,
Efua Sutherland, the queen,
The toad likes water, but not
When the water is boiling,
Send me something
When someone is coming,
Efua Sutherland, the queen,
You and I exchange gift.


© PRINCE NANA ANIN-AGYEI
Email: nanaspeaks@gmail.com

I''ve got my clothes packed into a handkerchief tied onto the end of a stick. I don't know where I'm going but I know it's far away.

The time is now upon us
where I, once more, see your face.
Yet of your wit and wisdom
I cannot detect a trace.
You makeup, carefully applied,
your lipstick, fever red,
but all of the embalmers art
can’t disguise the fact you’re dead.
Your mother who had nurtured you
And cared for you at birth
Was still alive to cradle you
the day you left this earth.
I take your husband’s hand in mine
but have no words to speak.
The handkerchief concession
will do very well this week.
For tears will flow in rivulets;
Unbidden, still they come.
Yet the sea we cannot fill.
There’s nothing new beneath the Sun.

Whispering to Mother saint texas addiction city
There is nothing here in Kansas
the walls are all blue
the streets are too clean
I cant seem to find my face
in all this snow
the snow is melting now
it is something like spring
Youth is in love
where does that leave the old
the beggars
the dogs with cold brown eyes
I am selfish
with a fishing pole
looking searching
heating
for Love
the tall and beautiful girl
is in a red Cherokee SUV
4 wheel drive

Can we get lost in the snow
the lake is frozen
I kiss your brow

Ah,
Dear lover,
I know I never wrote you that orange letter
but I have written many
poems
dedicated
fuelled
inspired
by your longless
by your destination
that left me sad
smoking a cigarettes underneath an american flag all tangled up in its own stripes

Even now I think of your face
and how your nose was corrupted and shifted up
you're making the coffee cold
I must get back to the poem
I must get back on the road
I must
leave
and tie up my boots and starve myself in the mountains of Zen Buddhism

There is something ambient
about this weather
even the animals have colds
I saw a goose in my neighbours yard
a cop chased me out of the closed off park

I just wanted to see the frozen lake
I just wanted to walk the prosthetic beach
I just wanted to climb a frosted tree
stand with the canopy
envision I as a bee
or a bird
or a wasp
or a fleet of geese
moving South

“are you heading to texas?”
I ask the sorrow'd by cold mother goose
but she only looked confused
and walked past
and took flight

I found a bug
crawling on my lips
as I slept on the carpet
all the lights were on
maybe God was looking for something

My mind
My mind
My mind
I am in love with the sea
I am in love with the idea of women
I am in love with
wisdom
and serenity
I am in love with the ambient mysteries of my own mind
knock knock
I rang the apartment bell too
no answer
I shall crawl through the bathroom window
of my subconscious mind

the dishes are dirty
and the small plastic thick television
is preaching God
and a large black man is sweating
waving his handkerchief

I wonder where God is
so I peeked underneath the diminishing green couch
with wooden spokes
sticking out
and I looked in the cabinets
and only found paper plates and wine glasses
then I climbed the roof
and checked under the moon
and I asked an angel
where nobility was
and she laughed
and finished painting her nails.

On Loss

We’re always losing something.
Seconds, days take some french exit.
Time quietly shuffles out the back door.
Doesn’t even say goodbye.

Once we realize
our moments are gone,
we want them back. Maybe we can replay
them and take a second look, but the record skips and the tape jumps
and the film is splotched and some teenager spilt
wine all over the keyboard
long ago;

So we jump
from memory to memory like patchwork
realizing we don’t even remember the important things.

We don’t even know why we thought what we thought.
We can’t even explain ourselves to ourselves.
Our consciousness can’t muddle through it’s own muck;
our mind doesn’t even know how the mind works.

It’s not just an existential crisis.
We lose the small things, too. We lose cellphones.
Wallets. Innocence. Virtue. We pass some
tests, we fail some tests, we replace and are replaced
we stop loving  and are no longer loved,
but eventually, bigger things. Friends. Family. Lovers.
Ourselves. Our potential.
Eventually, we slip away from the most important thing.

I’ve heard a bit about death. It’s a lot like sleep. You don’t even know it’s happening.
It’s a lot like
slipping into the unconscious;
it’s a lot like putting your head down; you don’t thrash about. You see the holy gates,
maybe. Maybe you’re pulled from your body
like a handkerchief. Maybe you don’t lose anything;
maybe you get found.

If this is melancholy, I’m sorry. I’m allowed to be melancholy. Likewise, you’re are allowed  to be melancholy.
You are allowed to question-
you are allowed to dance, sing, shout, cry
know, love, forget;
You are allowed to lose. You are allowed to remember. What’s stopping you?
Who’s holding you back? No floodgates; you aren’t a flood.
There’s no sweeping metaphor; no sweeping generalization. You aren’t
a path, you aren’t constrained, chained bound or gagged;
confess if you must;
drink wine if you have too;
do some metaphysical exercise; transport your mind to some realm
explode, manifest, conquer,

Prepare to lose it all. Or let it happen. It’s a choice.

If I could, I’d help you through your heartbreak. Guide you through
it all,
make you smile. Make you happy.
But I keep losing things.
I keep playing all the songs I used to enjoy.
I keep reading all the things that used to make me happy.

Moments come and go, hours gently float away
Night will wash the palate clean, clear-coat the day;
I will love, and I will hate;
I will sing, and I will dance
I will grieve, and celebrate
I will shout, and by some chance,
I cease to be.
I will not be me.
I will go somewhere;

a dark room.
Somewhere where I am safe.
Nowhere at all.

Somewhere, sometime, somehow, a vauge
mirror you cannot avoid

Once Love found Hate in her bedroom;
her breaths short her cheeks pale with gloom.
Her skin bruised wanly with despair;
her eyes redd'ning like a fire.

In front of her spread a suitcase;
th' wooden one with four blue wheels
She packed her clothes in a blank daze-
scarfs, tights, pants, coats, and pretty heels.

Love stormed swiftly into th' room
Begged her to explain her doings
She turned around with shades of gloom
and suddenly stopped her packing.

'Why might thou want to know?' she said.
'I am to mount a carriage,
next to th' sea and pebbled shores-
leaving thee and t'is parsonage,
as I canst but love thee no more.'

Love start'd to plead and kneel by her.
'Part with me not, o, my darling!
Life without thee is like graveyards,
wherein my soul'd lie like a stone-
soul t'at's fond'f thee innocently!'

Love grabbed Hate's white wrist and kissed it
Tried to distract her with his wit
She icily frowned and flitted
Ran to her suitcase and yanked it

Off th' bed 'till 'tis on th' floor.
Clenching it she walked off to th' door.
Yet she turned once more onto him.
Staring at his blue eyes, she seemed.

'Thy heart what has hath ruined thee.
Detest, thy plant with scrutiny.
When I suffereth thou wert here not.
Thou just want'd to share what I got!

'For her thou locked up my feelings,
for her thou mocked away my smiles.
On her name thou scyth'd my flowers-
and painted my cards with remorse.'

'For her thou tore 'way my kisses,
for her thou pushed away my hands.
Put astray the blush of my cheeks,
ran naked at night into her charms.'

'Thou dreamed of her with dear passion,
and glared at me with aversion.
Thou praised her grace and affection,
and cursed me into damnation.'

'Who says love is like a fountain?
I find it replete with hatred.
Who thinks love resembl's a mountain?
It's soul as wicked as a bastard!'

'Vileness t'at hath conquered my heart,
and torn my whole kindness apart!
I'm not an object of thy lies,
no more to watch thy sins and vice.'

'And I wish thee but one goodbye!
To 'nother world I shalt still fly
Like a bird or young butterfly
And seek thou not until I die.'

'But bless be with thee, o, darling!
Hope God still descends His mercy-
onto t'is happiness of thee-
And th' day of thy own wedding!'

'Invite me not, for Heaven's sake.
As in my moonlit den by t'en
Shalt I be writing my own fake
A story of fond childhood friends.'

'T'ey wert but I and thee, my dear,
before we becameth Love and Hate.
Within t'ose times I hath no fear;
of falling in love with my mate.'

'But I didst, eventually!
Thoughts of thee began to haunt me-
at my thirteenth birthday party.
T'at night of thee I wrote poetry!'

''Ah, t'is piece of writing t'at I loved,''
Hate pushed out a worn handkerchief
with breaths of an old deep relief.
"Keep it as thou dearest treasure!"

'On t'is blissful night of azure,
of her love thou still needst be sure.
Chain her to thee by'a happy knot,
have a wedding in one week short.'

'Saileth shall I deep into the sea,
a book and its poems be with me.
Littleness makes my heart merry,
abundance sends my nerves weary.'

'And by thy bliss shalt I hath gone,
when thy heart she'th finally won.
But it no more be of'a burden,
as thy joy makes my soul gladden.'

'And remember me not, whilst I'm none-
o thou who wert once my prince.
As I am just trivial like a stone,
when pain bites me still not I wince.'

'Cherish thy vic'try, o my love,
for today shan't be repeated,
like t'ose innocent young green groves-
who smile at th' wild, gusty winds.'

'And weep not, o, on my leaving,
for in death we'll be uniting.
As the heavens even howl not,
whenst I travel from dot to dot.'

'But pray to God, I canst tell thee
so thy sins shalt soon be atoned.
And from stains thy soul canst be free
as thy shoulders from pains t'ey'th borne.'

'And depart now I, o, my king!
Canst I watch now th' waves swirling
and th' virgin boat beside me-
wait for me to mount 'em in glee!'

With a grin on her faint red lips,
fall didst Hate on th' bed's blue sheets!
At first her eyes still bright, cheeks red and warm,
but minutes pass and her breaths fleet!

Sink didst Hate's head to her shoulder-
No matter how hard Love woke her!
And didst stop her heart from beating
Into silent death she's shrinking.

Love groaned and wailed 'till th' morn came,
but emptiness still frost'd th' streets.
No-one came in to bringst a flame;
except th' storm in graying fits!

Love sobbed 'till his eyes caught a knife
Laying nearby in th' kitchen.
Dart'd he forward in one long leap-
and seized it with his hands barren!

Stabbed it didst he into his chest,
with screams t'at pierced everyone's ears.
And fled they off from t'eir bed rest-
'fore thumping on into th' scene.

And th' two lovers nearly dead
Their heads laid straight by th' stabbed knife.
Despite his pain, Love smileth instead-
whispered 'I loveth Her' to his wife.

Wedded they wert at t'eir fun'ral
Amongst th' sobs of t'eir parents.
And even the lady, Hate's rival
was seen clearly 'midst th' currents.

"And blessed by Lord, is t'is couple"
Father Smith read his wan prayers.
"Both in their lives and now in death,
in t'eir Heaven walks and rambles."

And didst t'ey leave th' silent graves
'pon t'at farewell in th' churchyard
Where dwelleth th' lov'rs in t'eir new caves;
'nwhich no more love betrays t'eir hearts.

But on th' brown soil laid one poem!
Written fiercely by Love himself
Th' day beforeth Hate planned to move-
and showeth th' tale she wrote herself.

Th' tale t'at is now but buried;
with t'eir eternal love forever.
Beneath all th' soil and deadly stones;
of th' days t'at hath now been gone.

But how true words shalt never die;
and even in death still triumph.
So t'ere is no use of say'ng goodbye;
'fore winters to fading autumns.

'I love thee 'cos thou art my Hate-
th' devil side of my being.
Without thee incomplete my fate-
and mirthless is all my knowing.'

'I love thee 'cos of thee I'm made,
if I am King then thou art Queen.
Loving thee truly by my side,
I care no longer for her then.'

'I love thee 'cos thou art my breath,
if I'm anger then thou art wrath.
If I'm joy then thou shalt be glad,
when I'm angered thou shalt be mad.'

'But I love thee 'cos I just do!
And without thee my life is blue.
It's with thee I hath no more fears,
in joy and grief, in laughs and tears.'