Integration

Being an American in Australia isn’t easy, but I’m trying to integrate; I’m trying to fit in. Just one of the boys with all the right expressions under my belt, like: pasty glut cosmetic spring roll rut five o’clock shadow cigarette butt. I mean, I’m trying to integrate; I’m trying to fit in. I try to talk about the good ol’ U.S. of A., and I’ve never mentioned Uncle Sam once, except to suspect he lives inside Colonel Sanders who also gives me a big pain in the ass with his mysterious suppository herbs & spices; cos I’m trying to fit in, see? I’m trying to integrate. Okay, I can get nervous about women, and cover it up under muscle and toughness, O.K.! Say: “All sheilas are made fer ****in’!” while dreaming: leather cock thrust beer lubrication violet steak lips! Say: “All poets are poofs!” and beat my balls around fields of green with wooden sticks so stiff and clean, screaming semen icing power spread on scones of breasts! Bloody hell! Can’t ya see? I’m trying to integrate, trying to fit in. Like wearing high-heeled snow-shoes and roller-skater shirts; doing al the expected things, even tho’ my Balinese sarong trips me up occasionally. I’ve got a sun-tanned *******, and I’m keeping me nose to the ground, no bloody fear! I’m integrating, ya see? Trying to sit in. I’m a tough-fisted slow-sauntering grog-pissing knife balling tit watching ***** hating self-deceiving regular visionless mate of no matter: Swallowed by deserts and the fear of ******s; Tortured by sun and the freeze of lost passion; Murdered in business; resurrected in wages! Enslaved in the cities and imprisoned by FACTS that stretch from my body in steel rails of tracks I ride on, I hide on: I’ve lost where I’ve been. But I’m integrating (yeah, INTEGRATING!) I’m just fitting in.