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A Colourless Mind

A Colourless Mind

A Colourless Mind

Your hair is blond
your skin is white
your blood is red
your oriental eyes
suck in the light
to a black hole
in the middle
of your soul
that trembles a
paler shade of white,
the true colour of fright.

Do you really fear
black, brown or yellow?
Or is it just the coffee colour
of some Moroccan fellow
you hate?
Whose otherness
leaves a stain on your
prize Delft-blue plate?

Pouring vitriol on his kind,
may appeal to a feeble mind,
but you can’t bleach out the truth
it will always show through
like your hair’s black roots
exposing the lie
of your Coup de Soleil.

You’re no Bluebeard,
no thin white duke
just a mediocre man
in a dull grey suit
with prissy lips
and peevish eyes,
sneering at and bullying
those you despise.

In your monochrome world
the Dutch flag unfurls
in shades of grey and white.
At the end of your rainbow
drained of colour,
there’s no gold
but a crock of shite.

(The colouriess mind  in this poem is that of Geert Wilders, the peroxide-blond racist Dutch politician.)
Mark Edward Fuller – March 2017

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