Here?

Should I tear down the bricks of this rented pad to hunt you down, impossible poem of the present moment? Rip out the wires, take to the fittings with a sledgehammer? Search for you in the anger of an exploding boiler? Leave on for so long the bathroom heater, that flailing towels ignite as a line of flames? Cook a hob of oil on the highest heat, let the microwave smoke on metal coins? Then stand outside on the street, to seek out a first verse in the wisps of a deadly firework?

Or batter down the door of the rolling washing machine, and maximum all the taps, and lie back and bathe, as the flood spreads down through the flats, transforms anonymous strangers into nightmare neighbours? Then fish out a song from their shouts? Or net a sonnet from the sirens - streaming to here though the city like water snakes?

Or: I could open all the windows, and summon as if a minor god, stood naked and shouting, the blue ice winds of northern winters:

Bitter arctic weather! Pure and clear, come here, and with full whirl make a hurricane of all that is called mine, the CD sleeves and bills, stereo and TV, the books, newspapers and magazines, the lost receipt and stray shopping list, and the shelves of DVDs. Assault, assault this body with all that stuff in a vast swirl, like a fist!

- in the hope the random words of it all will unravel, to write out the story of my soul, or paper my nudity with a profound cloth of language, or print wizardrous words upon my eyes, so tomorrow I see this world as beautiful and true. Heh, if even one word might stick, or just draw blood, or just one little cut, then: Do it, breeze, do.

Impossible poem of the present moment. As closed as a concrete wardrobe. From old jeans the scent of past lovers already is washed. Female fingers no longer lift up jumpers from this old flesh, with that urgent touch. There is a cliché of cobwebs under the stairs. A remark is ready for the office lift; X is gaining in chins what he's losing in hairs. The lipstick on that white shirt is utterly lost. Frozen morning light makes it a grey ghost, collapsed on the bedroom floor. A cold city day yawns awake - and impossible poem of the present moment, even your dream will soon be no more.