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Auguste Romain Nyecki Poem
At the cradle of my nightmares,
My future is a horror film,
I track my ghosts,
Like a junkie in withdrawal.
I am a true clandestine calamity,
A mass grave of silent suffering,
A candelabra of pain soothed by dirty money,
I hate the human race,
And I will never have a pet.
I am a loner addicted to silence.
I only write in the dark, to deathly sounds.
A mix of gloomy feelings,
I walk in the darkness of my imperfections,
My hands are no longer innocent,
Since I’ve handled weapons of war.
I am a child of the slums of the third world,
I know perfectly the orifices of misery.
Another damn sleepless night spent monologuing in the darkness of this cold room,
The devil covers his ears to the atrocities spilling from my confessions.
I’ve already used gunpowder
For a firework on the edge of legality.
I never agreed to sleep on an empty stomach,
I’ve risked my freedom since I was ten.
I’ve learned to walk among hungry beasts.
I’m already at war with my demons,
I know I’ll end up in the flames.
I know I have no right to trust a human being,
Being a slave to shine is impossible.
My enemies squat in my imperfect flesh.
I don’t smoke crack,
I don’t smoke cannabis,
I don’t snort cocaine,
I don’t drink alcohol,
I sometimes burn a few cigarettes.
I avoid psychotropics,
I’m not a poet,
Just a tormented mind,
Prisoner of infernal loops,
Where murder scenes repeat endlessly.
My tears stopped flowing down my cheeks
Since I saw my friend crushed by a logging truck.
I am an angry man with murderous impulses,
I commit suicide each time in this same nightmare that has repeated since my childhood.
I’m approaching fifty,
I’ve stopped meditating on the whims of the reaper,
I’ve stopped wandering in graveyards.
Let the universal force show mercy on my impure, tainted soul
By the poisons of lust,
I accumulate transgressions to have a throne in the furnaces of hell.
I don’t believe in paradise, but I know I’ll burn in the abyss’s celestial flames after my twilight.
A deep philosophical reflection in the ramblings of my delirium.
I hate the spotlights like those criminals on the run,
Too many regrets hidden in the closets,
A clean criminal record like the entrails of Christ’s mother.
I blaspheme to darken my divine fragment.
Copyright © Auguste Romain Nyecki | Year Posted 2025
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Auguste Romain Nyecki Poem
I walk through mass graves blessed by complicit priests.
Their chalices vomit oceans of bones.
Every psalm they chant tolls like a hangman’s rope.
Their angels, vultures, feast on the scorched flesh of the defeated.
They branded my ancestors with burning irons,
Then wrote their names in the ledgers of hell.
Prayers never extinguished the flames of the pyres,
They fed them with hypocritical blessings.
I am the offspring of a grave never sealed,
A pain trivialized in the throats of our dead.
My cradle, a mass grave,
My inheritance, a diabolical will smeared with dried blood.
They speak of humanity with lips coated in ashes,
But their hands still tremble from the chains they forged.
Their human rights are epitaphs carved on violated tombs.
Their racist stereotypes howl like shrouds in the wind.
I have no heaven to behold,
Only the soot of colonial furnaces.
I have no future to invoke,
Only wandering shadows in my fractured veins.
Let them pray to their cannibal gods,
I will pray to my scars.
Let them promise a deceitful paradise,
I will kneel before the darkness of my demons.
I am a standing specter,
An unburied revenant.
I live among the ruins of a world that never loved my skin,
And I breathe the tainted air of slaughtered centuries.
Copyright © Auguste Romain Nyecki | Year Posted 2025
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Auguste Romain Nyecki Poem
The charnel houses roar like famished beasts,
And I walk among their desecrated cemeteries.
The scent of ruin clings to my charred lungs,
My journey in this dimension is sold at the price of blood and iron.
My tainted hands tremble as I explore the memory of my ancestors' scars,
Their hatred of those *****-phobes shaped me.
I chase vertigoes of independence that other Blacks flee,
Pleasures that burn hotter than fear.
I know the value of gold, of pain,
I measure injustice through the hypocrisy of their human rights.
Survival is learned in grime and fire,
And forgiveness has never found a place in my grief-pierced heart.
I swallowed stars of my destiny,
I plunged into the trash heaps of human history,
To tear out fragments of fury,
To offer them to my oppressors like bolts of truth.
The sirens of negrophobia flail when I smile,
Impervious to the morals of these heirs of slavery,
My choices, an explosion of freedom in the silence of supremacist racists,
My victories, scars I wear with pride.
My ancestors weep through my dilated veins,
Their predatory chains are mine, yet I dance over the cruelty of these Christian slavers, without forgetting all those Arab-Muslim traffickers under a false pedophile prophet.
I expect nothing, regret nothing,
And in this chaos, I invented my own light from the darkness of these racialists’ alienation.
Copyright © Auguste Romain Nyecki | Year Posted 2025
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Auguste Romain Nyecki Poem
I wish death upon pedophiles and rapists.
Some privileged heirs of the Republic of Enlightenment slave-masters are pedophiles, sometimes rapists.
I dream of being the executioner of fanatic terrorists.
I cursed monotheism after reading the Code Noir and the papal bull of Nicholas V.
I blaspheme to honor the arrogance of Lucifer.
Promoter of absolute freedom, I despise the tyranny of religious morality.
I have read the Torah, the Bible, and the Qur’an in their entirety.
I would rather burn in the flames of their hell.
I do not believe in their imaginary paradise.
I have never needed their God to sanctify human life.
I will never again set foot in monotheistic places of worship,
Those cemeteries that bury the blessings of those who choose to embrace the alienation of their dogma.
Most criminals are believers, therefore sinners.
I have cursed the Catholic Church for its role in spreading the savagery of slavery and the barbarity of colonization.
I am a sub-Saharan African free from religious shackles.
Neither Jew, nor Christian, nor Muslim.
I will never be blindfolded in a temple.
No candle will burn on the candelabrum of those centuries of persecutions.
I am a rebellious Black man; I will never applaud the oppressors of my Africanness.
No compromise when digging into the black pages of their history.
I have acquired knowledge and confidence.
I will never need their recognition.
I walk the Earth with my convictions.
I curse Christianity, Judaism, and Islam with the insolence of lucid determination.
I will never bow to the dogmatic bestiality of their slave-making, colonizing, and negrophobic religions.
I do not believe in their so-called human rights.
They are the financiers of all the wars and genocides that massacre humanity.
These thieves violate the dignity of the peoples of the Third World.
Always a suspect, even with a crucifix around my neck.
These supremacists have hated the color of my skin for centuries.
I share the reflexes of those independence guerrillas
Who were beheaded by the soldiers of General de Gaulle’s colonial army.
Descendant of a people of rebels.
To prostitute my integrity—an ancestral prohibition.
The babbling of a drug-crazed psychopath for the filthy ears of those racists.
Slave markets still exist in Libya.
Before the eyes of the United Nations, ethnic cleansings unfold without interruption.
On this bewitched planet, atomic bombs tremble in their silos.
Most of the leaders of this anarchic microcosm are mentally ill.
Copyright © Auguste Romain Nyecki | Year Posted 2025
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Auguste Romain Nyecki Poem
I spit on the sermons of slaver prophets.
Their prayers fed the whips that tore my ancestors’ flesh.
They built cathedrals with the blood of captives,
And sanctified pain in the name of a carnivorous God.
I am the heir of the tormented of Gorée,
The cursed child of plantations watered with tears.
I have not forgotten the slave ships,
Nor the papal blessings that celebrated chained flesh.
They call me barbarian because I refuse their pardon,
Yet their libraries reek of the lies of civilization.
I have no need for their counterfeit paradise,
Their heavens are slave markets painted blue.
I stand upright like the brave rebels of Haiti,
Torn from the entrails of the earth by the wrath of volcanoes.
I speak with the broken jaws of my forefathers,
And I write with the black ink of smothered genocides.
Their flags are cloths stained with blood,
Their laws, chains polished by diplomacy.
They claim to distribute freedom,
But their satanic philanthropy cultivates misery as an eternal rent.
I have no god to crown my wounds.
My faith is the scar tattooed on my forehead.
I have no temple to prostitute my soul,
My truth feeds on the rage of the damned.
Let them keep calling me a wicked *****,
I will turn that insult into a scepter.
I have no need for their recognition,
For my dignity is not for sale.
I live in this world fractured by their bombs,
Yet my conscience remains undefeated.
A people does not die when it chooses to remember,
And my memory is a weapon loaded blank against their idols.
Copyright © Auguste Romain Nyecki | Year Posted 2025
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Auguste Romain Nyecki Poem
Born a Christian in the fertile womb of a blessed land,
A paradisiacal genesis for a continent chained to imperialism.
Genocides cascading beneath the crumbling altar of human rights.
They crucified my humanity
With demonic chimeras.
I have dragged my zinc coffin since birth
Across the minefields of these greedy philanthropists.
I carry the age-old weight of curses
Of my zombified people since the slave trades.
They do not want me to sanctify my traumatized Africanness
With the blessings of liberty, equality, and fraternity.
I am guilty like Jesus Christ
And innocent like the soiled hands of a child soldier.
I have never enjoyed the riches of my partitioned continent.
These scavengers have spread hatred in my people’s hearts for centuries.
My tormented mind is the vault of horrors
That the West has perpetrated in the cradle of my ancestors.
These criminals want me to curse Lucifer
As if he were responsible for centuries of dehumanization
Of my forebears in the Americas.
The devil will never be my enemy,
I have never met him.
Human savagery has nothing metaphysical about it.
My indelible scars are not fictitious remnants.
He called me a filthy *****,
He discovered the face of my love.
He will no longer have the courage to insult my genetic code.
I scourged him with the laws of the Code Noir
Of the Republic of slaveholding Enlightenment.
I share the same skin color as Osiris,
The same beauty as those colored pharaohs.
The journey is scarred,
The traumas, too silent.
I fight in the death row corridor
To remain a man of integrity.
To write the darkness of my feelings,
A liberating outlet for my demons.
I chose integrity in the meanders of precarity.
In another life, I would wield guitars
To escape the whims of misery.
Serenity, my only solution in this dimension.
I think of the reaper every day,
Like a man condemned to death.
Copyright © Auguste Romain Nyecki | Year Posted 2025
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Auguste Romain Nyecki Poem
In the twilight of my melancholy existence, love savors its bravery, like a vulture allergic to the suspicious aspects of ephemeral glamour, in a final macabre choreography.
On the edge of the precipice of my dramatic choices, my sacrifices reveal the artifices of their curses, but also the selfishness of their spiritual benefits in the face of the imposture of the supposed crucifixion of Jesus Christ.
The eloquence of my silence allowed my innocence to resist the violence of arrogance.
The tyranny of hegemony and the xenophobia of foreigners breed racial savagery and imperialist barbarism, while Western supremacy is transformed into a burlesque comedy trivializing negrophobia.
Suffering generates sentences, but sometimes repentance opens the way to independence, so that insolence can never turn into condescension.
Between the medals and the funerals, between the reunions and the reprisals, battles grip the rudder of my destiny, with a range of tortures.
My emotions oscillate between devotion to justice and the promotion of disbelief, urgently seeking remission of my transgressions, before the purification of the flames of hell plunges my divine spark into the furnaces of illumination.
The liberation of my ambitions contributed to the strengthening of my convictions, so that my determination unleashed the full extent of my potential.
My distance from dementia is minimal, even if the angel of death exempts me for the moment from the penances of the eternal abyss, my blasphemies sow the seeds of a new hope.
The history of my people is the memory of its victories and the grimoire of its disappointments,
Despite the decline of the pharaohs, the savagery of slavery and the barbarity of colonization, she taught me saving lessons so that my Africanness could flourish throughout the Earth.
In the permanent search for truth and sincerity, I aspire to freedom, equality and fraternity,
To a serenity, far from the vanities that humanity loves to adulate to forget its fragilities.
Between my feelings and their punishments, stands the sanctuary of the last judgment, their compliments obscure the lights of my cosmic atom.
In the quarrels of my past, the aftereffects persist, recalling the rebellious periods of my tormented soul.
I will never trust human beings, even if immortal love challenges my conscience.
Copyright © Auguste Romain Nyecki | Year Posted 2023
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Auguste Romain Nyecki Poem
A nightmare without terror,
A peaceful life without savor.
Voluble blasphemies
In the flames of a hell
Perfumed with the stench of lust.
A heart loaded with lugubrious memories,
My soul bellows in the darkness.
Running to die, for barren pleasures,
Insatiable are the sickles of the reaper.
Allergic to flashing lights, even with a spotless record,
I wander in the obscurity of their hatred.
Thirsty for bills of every color,
I sometimes gaze at my scars
So as never to lower my guard,
Always on alert like a fugitive terrorist.
A few victims etched on the clocks of my conscience,
I have lost liters of hemoglobin, scraps of flesh,
Worshipper of spontaneous shots of adrenaline.
I know the story of my genetic code,
I will never be ashamed of coming from a third-world country.
I have rummaged through the trash of my memory
Before scourging the arrogance of my oppressors.
Lamentation has never been scribbled
In the script of my existence.
Clairvoyant, I behold the world
With the eyes of the bearer of celestial lights.
Nothing but interests in my directory,
I have no time to scrutinize
The complexities of human nature.
I glean my elation
From the fears of my enemies.
I carry the stature of those slaves
Drugged by the peace pipe of liberty.
Copyright © Auguste Romain Nyecki | Year Posted 2025
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Auguste Romain Nyecki Poem
Their philosophers dehumanized our ancestors.
Their missionaries demonized their humanity.
Their merchants made them chattel.
Whippings, rapes, amputations,
For the training of wild ******* who can be forced to work at will.
The expression of barbarism in all its splendor for all these bodies soiled by oppression.
From Africa to the Americas, they crossed oceans of blood and tears.
They suffered the yoke of white masters, cruel and soulless.
They were sold like cattle, separated from their families and their land.
They were exploited, humiliated, tortured, without ever losing hope.
They sang, danced, prayed, to resist the hell of the slave trade.
They carried tons of cotton, sugar, coffee, on their bruised shoulders.
They forged the history, the culture, the wealth, of their greedy oppressors.
They created art, music, literature, with their souls dazzled by the nightmares of servitude.
They gave birth to heroes, martyrs, geniuses, despite their lives destroyed by negrophobia.
They fought for their freedom, against all odds.
They faced violence, hatred, racism, with courage and dignity.
They claimed their rights, their identity, their pride, with strength and solidarity.
They have inspired movements, struggles, revolutions throughout the world.
They are the sons and daughters of Africa, the cradle of humanity.
They are the brothers and sisters of America, land of diversity.
They are the fathers and mothers of the diaspora, symbols of fraternity.
They are the ancestors and descendants of negritude, the expression of beauty.
Black in skin, but not in heart, they knew how to love and forgive.
White with rage, but not with reason, they wanted to dominate and exterminate.
Black and white, but no gray, they had to live together and accept each other.
White and black, but without hatred, they were able to dialogue and respect each other.
Even if the demons of xenophobia are immortal.
They suffered, but not in vain, they left their mark on history.
They dreamed, but not for nothing, they changed the world with their mark.
They lived, but not like dogs, they honored life with their mark.
They loved, but not without restraint, they illuminated love with their imprint.
What can we say about these men and women, who have given so much and received so little?
What should we think of these executioners and these victims, who took so much and gave so little back?
Copyright © Auguste Romain Nyecki | Year Posted 2024
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Auguste Romain Nyecki Poem
A twilight full of bitterness,
A dull and gloomy existence,
A deadly routine on the highway to nothingness.
The dictatorship of time has bound my lamentations,
Condemned to follow the hands of my decline.
Face to face with my failures and my excesses,
No victory will ever be celebrated.
To walk straight to the gates of hell,
To endure trials to harden my convictions.
A spiritual language before proselyte unbelievers,
The universal force in the periscope of my fate.
To play the slave for scraps of fleeting vanities,
An impossibility for my divine spark.
My tears have dried before the flames of the abyss,
Flashes of horror embedded in my memories.
To sing the symphonies of my oppressors’ imposture,
Like those alienated, docile, servile sheep,
Will never turn my aptitudes into a celebration.
The sun still does not rise
In the sky of my destiny.
The train of my life will never have wagons,
I have always traveled very light.
The journey has had only one direction since the beginning.
My priorities are reduced to my well-being,
I will rebuild my world with the shreds of pain
That have transformed my weaknesses into weapons.
I still have no time to devote
To the victimized lamentations of my entourage.
The glossary is murderous,
For humanity swallows celestial magnificence
Only to spit cruelty upon the face of the universal force.
Copyright © Auguste Romain Nyecki | Year Posted 2025
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