I’m a writer, looking for inspiration

Hoping to avoid the grisly realisation,

That stark desperation

And impending frustration,

At my imagination’s constipation,

Which is blocking inspiration

So I try to find inspiration

By looking at the trees

Growing their leaves,

I listen to the breeze,

Only to hear a pensioner sneeze

And a kid cry mum please

All of these form a disease

When you’re looking for inspiration

In looking for inspiration

I’ve conspicuously taken,

To watching folk at the bus station

See that bloke looks Jamaican,

Though my narrative’s probably mistaken

Thoughts become wholly misshapen

When trying to gain inspiration

How about sources of inspiration?

Better formulate a plan;

Start by considering Marshall McLuhan

While I listen to Dylan or Cohen,

Or Luke Haines for a laugh,

Perhaps I’ll listen in the bath?

Where I can read some James Joyce

As I ponder a character’s voice,

Now I’m besieged. A victim of choice,

By stupidly looking for inspiration

Wondered about, seeking some inspiration

Felt good, open minded to explore,

But instead I found its metaphor;

That ugly sound of a seagull’s moaning,

Drowned out as a plane flew overhead,

My mind turns the living into the dead,

As I imagine its wing coming off

Schadenfreude is making me scoff

At the everyday. How it’s annoying,

And toying, with my creative probation,

That simplicity equals consternation

Oh, and Yeah, I’m still looking for inspiration

Fed up looking for inspiration

So I take a different tack,

I try to go back

To a time with no distractions,

Where things were shitter,

With no TV and no Twitter

Maybe their flawed interactions

Are why I’m mired?

And my thoughts tired?

Time to stop seeking inspiration

I try not looking for inspiration,

A bloke smokes, in-between a wheeze

Outside another bookies,

It’s next to the local Chinese,

With a window full of fortune cookies

None of it makes sense

As my brow begins to tense

Now there goes a man on a bike

While smoking a pipe?

Try as I might,

Noticing this oxymoronic shite

Is a serious blight,

To putting my mind right,

So I can get some inspiration

Then I had an idea while looking for inspiration

It’s a serial killer yarn,

But dystopian, like Animal Farm

Wait. That’s probably been done before

Okay. By day he’s a ballet dancer,

Who also raises money to cure cancer,

After midnight he’s a necromancer,

Like that Derek Acorah, a chancer

He could have a fetish for self harm,

And a tagline – third time’s a charm

Oh boy. By hook or by crook,

Can I finish just one book?

Christ, this is chore, and it’s sore

Being without inspiration

Will I ever find inspiration?

No. It doesn’t exist,

So stop looking for it

But I will persist

With this poetry for a bit,

Even if it’s tat

Well, I don’t mind that

As it stops me looking for inspiration