Poetry

Nostradamus: Poems by Udochukwu Ikwuagwu

Image: thierry ehrmann via Flickr

NOSTRADAMUS

Man is a triad of events, I must tell the story of the body

Every idle word comes back to haunt
they crawl out of the darkest regions of our minds;
growling and grubbing
searching with the vision of the night
To eat up our flesh; from within our deepest secrets,
they find a chunk for survival

She was the Phoenician queen bee
chased down the aisles of her kingdom,
A kingdom overthrown in a coup d’état

I confess: I saw this in her sultry eyes
those earthen balls of sight
rolled over his unsullied body;
the human Taj Mahal-
Many flocked to in dire need of adventure and
Pages of their temporal lives to be filled
with pictures of the mundane

Modern human on the store shelves of the Internet

“Nudes for sale”

His body, the temple of the Holiest one
Her honey, rubbed seductively over
such piece of flesh like a masseuse
in readiness for her pollination
Her proboscis stretched out in a manner
Henry Ford would have loved his assembly line,
in anticipation for her feast-
Her tongue was her proboscis
A virgin to deflower
and render a carcass for the beasts of the air-
Her splintering talons, in the form of acrylic nails,
occupied his two fresh petals
rushing beneath their stalk to find his young bud

Suck; her covetous mandibles satisfied her lust, once again

I’m a prophet and this is what I say
She’s a soothsayer tonight-
Her lips her only witness

Sex is spiritual
I shall tell another tale from this parchment

Man is a triad of events, I must tell the story of the soul

Unseen heart within the heart,
the fortune-tellers, poets, shrinks, and drunks named it
A pulse on the conscience signifies the breath of life-
The life of a commune, the heartbeat of law and reason

I shall tell the story of the soul, in the likeness of a prophecy

He shall roam the world with no rock to lay his head
or dust to stand his feet
He shall eat the past of mortals; their lies,
deceit, treachery, debauchery, amorality,
fickleness, tardiness and envy
He shall dine at the table of their hearts
a buffet of needs, wants, demand, insatiableness
He shall take up a journey, sauntering to the Antarctic;
finding love in a colony of penguins
They shall make his love cold
like leftover dinner before the bridegroom

The penguins are a metaphor
The Soul, a man

In his loneliness, the queen bee shall gift him her eyes
Through her eyes, he shall keep a journal; of body count
An erotic writer, he shall become
Sex symbol for men and women
to ogle like a young Hugh Hefner

Man is a triad of events, I must tell the story of the spirit

The spirit is like unto the former, a man

The chapter of endings begins with the spirit
He was the seed that others sprouted from
but he is no more-
He is dead!

Man is dead
Man shall be

===========

DEATH HAS GOOD TASTE

My love,
my soul belongs to Basquiat, Jimi Hendrix, Amy Winehouse
and the fellowship of the revered 27Club
But my heart belongs to you;
though my body is already divided among the vultures;
disguised in culture and religion

I’m not a preacher’s son
I’m not a purist
I’m not an atheist
I believe in love, depression, hate, and death

You must have heard the rumors;
I’m not agnostic
Granted, I have doubts
but I doubt we’d end up like our parents-
Their kisses were soiled
with tears and blood of a new born
An institutionalized lip-locking vanity
Marriage was their renewed chore,
love was the priest’s judgment inscribed on wedding vows

Let’s be the avant garde
Rebels and baptist;
for we shall be reborn in the seas of emotions-

Shall we die tonight?
For I’m a poor swimmer
Should I drown, hold on to your tears
and drown in memories
Don’t cry at my funeral, I’m not in the casket:
I’m in your heart
My heart is yours, yours is mine

We are baptist
baptized in death
The new life of lovers
Our scriptures are a requiem.

Your family is obsessed
Obsessed with weddings, aso-ebi, and bride price
They say it’s the cost on a beautiful grown woman

We shall honour them
We shall get wedded;
while your beloved grandparents witness-
They were custodians of this tradition
We shall get wedded beside their tombstones

And have our first naked-body dance
till your untainted blood rises
to celebrate the blanket of darkness
Under the moon

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© Udochukwu Ikwuagwu
Image: thierry ehrmann via Flickr

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