Imagine the earth as it spins through space,/ so fast you'd panic if you felt it move./ You don't. Your feet are rooted, here./ Move them. See landscapes shift round you. Speak. You'll make things come, and go./ It's easy: The grass. The firework-burst./ Think of a colour, any colour but red./ Instantly visualise: lipgloss. Blood. Read 'storms that scythe off rooftops/ start with the twitch of a butterfly's wings'/ Tape talk shows, game shows. News at Ten./ Rewind them. Watch them again. Again. Know language means nothing, in itself./ Signified sign. It's arbitrary./ What you're saying's conditioned by habit, power:/ The water's dark. The cat's on fire. Blackbirds are dinosaurs. This is true./ Evolution. There's fossil proof./ They strut the earth as if they own it still,/ croak feebly, mock you. Live on worms. Take all this too literally, personally./ Mix in the contents of one day's news./ Leave to stand in the way you live./ Think deeply, continually. Fall in love. Then eliminate prejudice, defences, lies,/ take a concept like Justice. The ABC./ Read history. Let the contrasts brew./ Take a walk, look around. And think it through.
Wayne Burrows’ “A Recipe for Insanity”, “The Forward Book of Poetry 2002″
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