got a schengen visa? and dare to want more from the wardens of law, the haphazard defenders of the nation’s limits? welcome to the deceptive mills of bureaucracy. the house of shame is run by fat assed half- and quarter-wits with their tiger print shirts and rhine stones pants they cover up their reptile skin holding their positions performing the same strike over and over again as they have been taught to do.
pleasuring themselves in the hallway maze of despair they inhale hair spray and smoke in between rejecting your applications and sending you back to what in their provincial minds arises as a miserable fleck from the obscurity of the globe, a parasite sipping from their countries blood inhabited by the likes of you: petitioners, who test their literacy and dare their rules by their existence. who are you anyhow, peoples of the rest of the world? and where do you dare to venture?
if you don’t feel like a beggar yet these paragraph slaves will make you feel like one. all they need to know is: do you plan to marry or get sick here, because your death would cost us and so would your offspring since you as an obtrusive petitioner would certainly not be able to maintain yourself or your foreign semen. this office bred creature demands to know in the shrill voice of an aged soprano: what if a bus runs you over on the way to the airport when we have finally managed to make you leave? you need to be insured, because otherwise we will have to pay for sweeping your strange smelling guts of our clean concrete roads reflecting the grey state of mind that we call peace.
the queen of hearts is rational against these harpies instantiated by the higher powers of the nation state. the state — this callous leviathan — has its obedient henchmen, its hostile hell hounds who with their polished nails and coffee stained teeth protect the borders that surround this greasy butter tub of wealth arising from the depth of the populous like tentacles to pull you under.
their instructions are few but instinctively they understand the xenophobic undertone of visa laws like dogs smelling fear they know that you and your siblings are not wanted here and if you defy their ideas of your poverty and neediness they resent you because you remind them of their own miserable lives licking from the ground what the Leviathan left undigested - some have become like this they claim they have not always been so demeaning and some still get a rash when you contradict them a last remnant of their own soul plastered on their skin like a peeling wall paper.
I see you all with your best smiles and in your ironed costumes entering their decorated cages with their dogged smell with your papers, pedantic forms dissecting your hopes into the facts that you are made of in the eyes of this country. nationality: unwanted, status: poor, papers: insufficient.
some leave with the stamp that guarantees a few more months of freedom, to share beds, to be close to those you love - others hit bottom fall hard onto the concrete of this house of laws like sparrows falling from the sky shot by malignant boys to whom your death is a one dimensional tableau of pleasure.
in the waiting room we wait for our number. 767 comes ashen faced out of room 31 and while 365 scans the other waiters for clues we all guess whose heads will roll, we don’t know which roads you will still take while you hold on to your dignity and quietly tell yourself that these small minded demons can’t harm you as you are diminished to your nationality. some go back to their well bred lives just like yours the hammering noise of bureaucratic stamps to them means no more than the buzzing of a fly on a hot afternoon, a minor irritation on a pleasurable day but others go under into the bellies of trucks and the basements of restaurants where they fry your food and their dreams of getting an unlimited permission to stay are glazed over by the grease of your next meal.