butterflies, sunshine, muses and Kerouac

I still think of butterflies and sunshine as the immediate associations of poetry. It does block the flow of thought...but it's kind of ingrained. Butterflies and sunshine were what poetry was for me (think two plaits, chubby cheeks, irrepressible whims)...it's irritating that the 'associations', for lack of a better word, are thrown at me still, sometimes.
What happens if you never experience a flow of thought? What exists is little balooning bubbles, present only because I verify their existence, and struggle to sustain them...before they effervesce.
I mean, where's the whole muse prodigy? Kerouac had it...no doubt...how else would one write incessantly, continually (as opposed to 'continuously'), in a car that dashes in full speed?
And me? No luck with the muses. Self-spawned muses? How do you wake them up?

Watch
Through shut-down lids;
Self-spawned Muses tugging at
The twisting branches of the
Sacrosanct recesses, prodding the
Rims until there swells,
Swells
Infinitesimal bubbles, slowly
Ballooning, ballooning...
And they burst.
The jammed lids flew open,
Muses flew.