Seeking inspiration in the wrong places

The blank page; the bane of a fledgling writer.
You stare in vain, willing your brain to dredge up an idea that lights up.
But nothing good comes.
So you sit there hollow and numb.
This part of the process?
The complete absence of fun.
When will that inspired concept strike?
As lurid day gives way to turgid night you stare out the window as birds take flight.
But still… nothing comes.
A strange rage begins to engage as you take in that hideous blank page.
What needs to change?
Your environment, yeah!
You need to get out and about.
The pub calls, so you head to the Hare & Trout.

Walking in, expecting a den of deviance laced in sin you’re greeted by tired old regulars slumped over their gin.
Somehow, you feel, this is not ideal.
No feast of inspiration but barely a meal.
So you down a few shots, turn heel and head back wobbly to the street.
Debauchery is needed.
You’re lost in thought as you walk straight into a Bobby on the beat.
In the collison you make a decision that bad things come to those that take definitive action.
So you steal his helmet in an instinctive reaction.
And perch it on your head in distinctive fashion.
The Bobby goes mad and loses his rag, much to your satisfaction.
He goes to give chase but he’s loathe to compete in your foolish race.
So he blows his whistle.

You stop, take aim, and launch the helmet like a guided missile.
It hits him full force, like a hammer and chisel.
You watch him hit the deck.
Imagining yourself the proud victor standing tall as you pin his neck.
He’s old this copper, you could take his gun and really finish this vet.
Dark thoughts swirl now and you’re drunk with power.
If this is the end then you should kick back and smoke some skunk in your final hour.
Then you snap to your senses.
In the street the Bobby gets to his feet, looking like he wants to swing you from the fences.
Like a rabbit in the headlights you’re rooted to the spot.
The image of your boot on his neck makes your survival instincts all but stop.
Then… something comes.

Inspiration blows you away like an awesome and beautiful tidal wave.
Your writer’s block caves and you’re overwhelmed, feeling brave.
The copper now advances as you flip him the bird.
You hurl abuse at him loud to make sure he’s flippin’ heard.
What a rebel.
Tonight was about inspiration and now you’re a red rag to a bull.
It’s like you’ve mainlined Red Bull.
Shots of tequila and nitrous oxide gives you cunning vision like fox eyes.
Chemicals flood your blood stream.
Feeling overloaded, like a mug you scream.
The copper looks nonplussed… as he pulls out his handcuffs.
And despite your bluster and bravado you muster the courage to follow him meekly when he says ‘Let’s go.’
And the next you know.. the cells doors slam.
But you don’t care.
The fire burns inside you, inspiration man. You’re a one-man clan.

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