Fascist Sandwiches By John Doyle

Traffic lights bled his least favourite colour -

crossing over -

protecting fascist sandwiches for fascist parents

expressing concern at a once proud nation's decline;

I revved up just for fun; spotting my Vladimir Lenin goatee

he eyeballed me, 

considering if he'd offer me fascist sandwiches

made from knuckle and bone - perhaps a little too much hair

I thought to myself, for me to digest,

fascist sandwiches awaiting their port of call

as boats of strange-fleshed unknowns trashed up and down

on oceans bloodied from butchers' aprons - their final port

not down this road -

but somewhere a little deeper and more vast 

than that pure-bred utopia

in his wasteland across the road; fascist sandwiches

trashing up and down in a plastic bag,

awaiting the colons of socio-cultural empathy

Half man, half creature of very odd habit, John Doyle dabbles in poetry when other forms of alchemy and whatnot just don't meet his creative needs. From County Kildare in Ireland, he is (let's just politely say) closer to 50 than 21.