I wish I could write poetry
In some new-invented style,
Where rhyme is not a necessity

To hand & head's creative force.
There needs must stay fixed rhythm,
Abolishment here comes not as bills

That gas & electricity
Create. Keep sending me those
Boring links with the big outer world,

And I will counteract thereto
And emphasize my pers'nal
Self designed & desired intertwi-

Ning of inner world with outer
World: the place that I call home.
Where books & paper cover table

Chair, & (of course) book-case that's
Given temporarily
By parents of my young extreme love.

If what now follows should become
A description of my cell,
I must not forget the long-dry clothes

All withered like a granny's face,
All sweet & nice of smell but
Sometimes just a small bit in the way,

The which at once I do forgive
For love's full will bears like a
Young pregnant girl expectations huge

And hindrance & annoyance &
Boredom to utter limits
Which at the moment-supreme vanish

As sugar in a nice cuppa
Tea that I made for me alone,
In a kitchen where the pile of used

Dishes grows & grows & so on,
Amidst a dirty fork &
Buttered knife & plate of cold spaghetti.

Alone & wilfully forlorn
I wait my tossed love's return;
A black telephone that seldom rings.

 (This poem was written when I was just twenty-one. It reflects me and the appartment I used to live in back then in a not so nice neighbourhood of Rotterdam.)