Rotterdamse vingeroefening

This again is not a poem but kind of a contract.

The first month of my first hour here went like this: small molecules of wind started tingling my skin, sometimes atoms extremely dry.

They smelled like the seagull element.

I saw the best bicycles of my generation locked by locks. I saw very ambitious pannier bags. I wondered which could be the most extravagant one: two small kangaroos fastened to each side of the rear wheel?

At the blue train station I was offered a Brandbier. I prefered to have some milk of explosion instead.

I didn’t see any seamen, nowhere, I saw cloud guys with oceans in mind.

My wallet got heavier from getting lighter.

Probably I’d ordered too much of “so much depends upon a red wheel barrow.” And the like.

Though I don’t understand it, I’m still seaching for a shop selling the flavour of the river nearby.

Not a single moron shared a maroon with me.

Maybe the people are as orange as they feel.

I hope the poems I heard will start to exist. But I won’t hope as hard as a pope.