The Racists Are Open But They Won'T Say What For Poem by Joshua SinclairThomson

I walked past a house today and saw a flickering neon OPEN sign in its window. Seeing this I wanted to know what exactly it was that was OPEN, but in my search for this information I failed. Instead I found a piece of A4 paper blue tacked near the bottom of the glass by the sill, it read: 'no dogs, no blacks, no irish...' but that's as far as I got before the place burst into flames, collapsed in on itself and disappeared through some vortex in time, probably returning to its home in the hoary depths of Nick Griffin's underpants draw. Where I've been told his congealed farts mix to make new starch white universes of racist perfection. Had I stepped inside the house, I would've probably found his utopia universe, which I have read is where you wait in a dust clustered and wood splintered lounge for white men in wife beaters to encircle you and rub their shaved and prickly heads up and down and over you until they sand you down to a beautiful tiny flinty stub of white boney nothingness.