Stain Of Hatred

Daubed on skin
And words alike:

All the shades
So coloured.

Hued by burning finger
And anger’s pointed flame:

Projection hurled
As flying wounds inflicted.

The stain: not on pure black skin
Or brown, or pink, or lily white

But on the eye
And on the mind,

On the filter
Through which we look

At the world
In its richness.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2016

Brothers In Colour

There is something
Victorian
In his whiteness,
A correctness
Disciplining the rest
So regulation
Rules in dry doctrine.

And to his eye
His black skinned brother
Is carnal opposite
To the structure
Rigid in his self
And he fears
The hot power
Of a primitive.

And thus
The black man
Is subdued
For being
The outward heart
With body filled
With blood and vigour

And the white man
Gelds himself,
Separates from his pulse,
His inner fire,
Grows cold and stiff,
And with backstroke
Of his incising knife
Flays
His collateral brother,
So in neither
Is the life found flowing,
And in both
The cut
Equally deep.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015