Poetry as Struggle

Force out creativity in blocks of earthy stone, onto the paper.
Unload your brain, all of it, in a tantrum Jackson Pollock mess with no boundaries except writer's cramp and sighings of existential fatigue.
A sick complaint of desks and empty bedrooms.
I decided to take the Muse and strangle her, till she vomited all of her beauties on the page.
All her nonsense and ugliness too, that just as relevant.
Trapped forever under stark, austere glass.
Poetry! Fuck it, almost kill or abuse it so that the muse herself either dies from shame or is driven mad with laughing.
Try and grasp reality, force it into sense and beauty, force it like a struggling animal into the cage of words and, before it can escape, pin it like a specimen onto the page.
Sheer poetry killed and hung up for spectators, all the exquisite poetry you ever dined on vomited back up, like Saturn vomited up his own children.
That bird of poetry becomes like a stuffed museum piece, poised forever in pretend flight inside the book covers, until the reader comes along, ignites it into life again with the power of his imagination, and it soars... and then falls, crashing, into oblivion.
Art or writing was to me then, some kind of awful struggle, a fight with myself to express some kind of beauty or meaning, to wring truth from madness, to take a zero and make it into a one.
Doing this I had to convulse, fatigue myself, loosen my wrists and grit my teeth, screw up my eyes to see more clearly.
Till some blasted, sudden, half-understood vision would force itself upon my mind, blooming vaguely into an explosion of words.
I had to become a godly creature striking jagged lightning into my own world of words, till it became ignited into quivering beauty.
It was ultimate focus intractably screwed down onto objects, all of the truth squeezed out of it in an instant, discarded like a flipping fish onto the page.