The name of the game

Sometime between the exact moment an Orange
mobile drowned in a glass of water and the second
the bike waiting for its owner outside was
finally retrieved,
a lone and Holy Condom on the stinking ground wondered
the exact number of contacts that were being kept.
Sacred, Highest condom, but also a complete one;
completely full of holes. Holy shit.
Holey the list of unfinished business.

The Pope left it there for the Happy Little "Africuns", so they lead
a Wholly Holy life
and give birth to swarms of content and insignificant
African termites.
He made the latex holey, which means their tits will be
sucked dry
before they are infested with rabbies
and she-"Africuns" herpes.
Virulent anger.
Their offspring will kill your Holiness, sucking blood from the Sacred dick and bringing puss out of Thine Warts before anyone can draw a comparison between Their Roundnesses The Warts and Google's Earth.
La terre selon Google.
La crise selon L'Arbuste.
What do I try to convey by such anaphora?

I've been in this joint before, 'tis mine Old History. I'm not here just out of friendship, but also out of principle. I'm here because I believe this joint doth not have to smell of Thee, nor Thou of the freaking joint. Nor the frigging ground of piss, around the Holy condom. It's not that I don't like it, mind you. I'm just a horny animal. Let's not pretend we're all as Holy, happy little "Africuns".

You have to give it to me, that I'll be fair and Libra. I'm here...
I'm here just in case. No need to justify my presence; you needed help.
I'm here to provide a balance, not the ingredients
-one cannot weigh this joint's darkness
against the clouds of smoke.
Who the hell signed me up for the job as counterfan?
Even my blouse proclaims I'm a Holy, Wholly Mum.
I'm someone's mother though not hers.
My tits are like your auntie's cow's.
I will wake up at seven, finish the thesis, get a permanent job, a pension and three children with amalgamated names whose initials will match the bilingual schools where they'll be taught "them out-of-date principles" which will be wholly-holey-but-Wholly-Holy.

Their father skypes every day.
Don't you dare judge me, don't you dare
cast a glance upon Thine lady's blouse, now, thus unprotected.
Principles are also contagious.