Care to Migrate?

Glass particles;
nine holes to peep through
I am at the place where they commission and condone high's,
in the form of little pocket books, saying where you are allowed to go,
and yet I am blue.

Token numbers displayed,
red halogen digits, but no beeps
beckoning the next object,
to be scrutinized,analysed,
 sometimes spat at

Like the bus driver next to your car,
spitting out chewed betel.

Immigration, emigration,
migration,bow down and lick my balls;
transmigration.
Bonafide this,declaration that,
asked to sit in a red chair;
the visa giver not there.

That's the ugly apathy,
shown to nameless faces.