Inspiration

Inspiration.  
 Where’d you expect me to find it?  
In smiling, laminated faces of college adverts?  
Gameshows?  
Waitrose cookbooks?  
 Life stories seasoned with cinematic appeal?  
Try a King’s Cross crackhead, crater-eyed, speed  
folded in a brochure for the Eight Noble Truths,  
 try seeing some strange man  
screaming ‘I just wanna end it’ on Blackfriars bridge  
 and feeling too awkward to approach,  
 try reaching through your soul and yanking on its ballsack,  
but wait,  
let the high pitched whine die before you write,  
 the feelings freeze til they stab like ice,  
 squirm, dice,  
 but don’t lie.  
 However,  
 if you must at least question why.  
 
Inspiration. I often wonder if mine could talk:  
Would it have multiple personality,  
or technicolour dreamcoat disorder?  
It can’t decide what shade it is. First it was dark red,  
 Jim Morrison’s shill cry,  
then charcoal as Big L highlights why he died.  
They fight over me til the  
Mac is multicoloured, the hallucinations  
 sampled to hardness.  
I want to be both,  
 but I’m neither.  
 It’s a bit ridiculous.  
Similarities? They both reek of a system defied  
 but  
to that I’ve grown wise,  
,you claim that you’re conscious and flout it,  
I’d rather ignore the system  
 than bitch about it, your defiant mind,  
futile and beautiful,  
 less poetically termed:  
Pissed up the wall.  
Reality realised, champagne on ice,  
 the undeniable thought:  
  ‘would it not just be nice’? to  
flail, fuck, dance and rhyme through character studies,  
If no one knew how to lie,  
to play hopscotch through personalities  
 with no one having the gall to notice’  
But alas.  
Morality is far too shiny these days.  
It has a voice  off Fox News and a Colgate smile,  
 teeth whiter than debauched ghosts
 gliding through legend and cautionary tales,  
seamless infusion.  
Yet it’s armpits stink,  
of butchered meat.