Every Writer’s Bane

I dream of magic lines but they elude me.
Well, sometimes.
Chapbook on acrylic tube  palette, janus-faced cave in at the crack of dawn,
crescent moonlight awnings turn to  circus of the  soul,
images that colour dullard pages leave furrows on my hayrick haggard brow. Backwater sonnet form leaning  towards some meadow compost rot.
Ghost written silhouettes, shatter  fragile eggs on loop pile Berber carpets,
yolk stain and pale brown chicken hash tags.
Tipping point elation found in tripod camera verse,
cliff edge heart-stop paen is just another blue-sky  canon over billed by birds of prey.
Poetic licence pointer to a
learner permit doggerel,
aspiring metre patchwork  but a tapered column lost in grey day whimper,  Guangdong province text in lychee pink for window glaze.
Fleeting notions dangle at the sparrow hawk crossroads,
while grazing skinny red ballon formations overhead.
Mother of invention, please shine your convex beam
upon this wellspring drought abandonment I swim in.
Sudden brain cell drafts a Jack-o’-lantern  of disjointed phases,
stretcher bear the legless phrases that leave me
wheelchaired and infirmed In woolly states.
Timeline mainstream woofer whose lagging jacket hemline falls apart,
areole reduced branch slowly bleeds its cactus juice of inspiration.
A rush, a fever, quotidian fever,
no greater longing can us writers have.