You slither through my body
like a snake
But i fear not
the tickle is stronger than the bite
And my soul,
already poisoned
by the nakedness that i behold
in this brothel windowed to sunlit
Now you twist round me,
give me that bite, i dare you!
infect me
with the reptile’s killer gall
i cannot die, not here
on the mountain of nowhere
At Idi, i toddle on all fours
on the hills of Akwuba…
i am he that danced to the jazz of Biafra
tuned to rocking triggers of Mark-4
Now you curve like a road
to my soul, walk me sexy to the grave…
It is a long road
we are both pilgrims
We will arrive, fear not
Only sing me lullabies
And if you must moan
Please make it a soft cry….
We are both pilgrims!
______________________
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Note:
* 1di—My ancestral home in Nigeria.
* Akwupa— A hill on my ancestral framland
* Biafra- Secessionist war in my native country during which period i was born.
deuce coupe 
I love this. It reads beautifully and I can see you in this.
Another Note: There is also a musician named Jello Biafra. That’s not his real name. He took that name as a sort of social commentary after the US dropped food boxes full of Jello Mix over war torn Biafra. Jello mix was, of course, perfectly useless to Biafra’s inhabitants. Jello Biafra is mostly associated with the punk band known as Dead Kennedys. Some of their songs sound pretty jazzy.
Check out “Night of the Living Rednecks” and “We’ve Got a Bigger Problem Now”
Re-reading this piece, i wonder loudly how every poem i write lead me by the hand like a child to my Idi root, my Anioma homeland,even poems inspired by the orgy of sex.Indeed when a man is making love to a woman he is traveling home!