The writers gimp, disabled with distant broken furrow,
heavy plough, mud stuck rut, unable to flow,
cut down crisply, off-centred and blunt, red-muddied and wet,
deep and stuck, in buried sodden sticky furrow.

Unable to realise minds observations
and signs of collective thought,
strive and struggle to reveal creative rhyme,
prose without obvious tune, a noticed slang or sing along song.

Return to methods ****** taught,
but once which was true, undressed and white,
becomes blood rose pricked;
unwashed, grit stained and just common place.

Try fresh air path, the riverbank, a heathered coloured moor,
a damp well-trodden concrete slab;
cobwebs pleading to be blown, vision needs repair,  
need to be uplifted and clear of despair.

Return to boathouse to probe and ******
with fine black ink, on white woven cloth,  
but heavy flow returns its velvet weight,
and becomes stuck porridge spoon in over-oated mix.

Drink a little, consume a lot,
free that mind of that moth covered cloth,
stained and damp like a babies’ bib,
unwanted truth alongside persistent fear.

Fear rears up to knock you out
In ****** round a flat out cold,
comatose on that cold blood-stained canvas floor,
shut, shut, is that artistic opening door.

Roar… roar then scream, to rise the inner juices and flow,
but placid white cat's whimper returns your lion's roar,
prostrate now, scuff of knee, upwards glance, with fingers crossed while promises are made,
hoping for a golden path, of former converts, who are on a bended knee still.

I will, I will if imagination returns, dogma, dogs my last statement given,
realisation pokes at my weary weak side, aware of pennies spent on boatman's crossing,  
to carry me away, to nirvana places,
where literature is varied, raw and new, criticised and objective.

Beggar man now, no remorse,
I'll face hell gates and flame's black burnt bone,
just lease me, rent me, terms of fluidity
to promote words of the relevant and contemporary