Nigerian blood tastes like 1978, strobe-
colored changing colors so blue is green is
yellow is gold is African-colored midnight
with pink flowers bursting and beauty and
red. Nigerian blood smells like afrobeat like
high as an Orisha political Elvis embroidered pantsuit
sort of life sort of worship in belts debauching
those legs that tell time. Nigerian blood feels like
fairytales and corrugated painted walls your father
said were lies and your mother inhabits 3 months alive
glowing smoke-white glowing black-light maddened
raving feathered dream sequence and American stairs.
Nigerian blood sounds like the newspaper headline from
the day after the next that no one will read at 5:32
in the bathroom words scrawled projected seamless
on the wall and blinking light clanging standing
silhouetted strong the queens have been
dethroned. Nigerian blood looks like the concrete
outside the scandal sexual shrine singing inside
midnight concert to dream an afternoon of
bottles and knives a second storey window
so clean and white and saying never
leave this place and don’t cross the street
lest you die forced to carry your coffin and
marry the week spirit boy believe what you will
die a Christian but awake bleeding Nigerian blood.