I pressed the blue ink of hatred
in my hand
and didn't give the ink a chance
to screech like a magpie
when its spine breaks
to awaken the wily foxes in my mind
form their daydreaming.
Through the clutched bars of my fingers
drop ..... drop .....
and all the blotters of my office
sucked that blue spillage, were soaked in it
and my secretary who is ugly and lazy
painted her eyelid blue with it .
Too bad my hatred has no defines
around the desert of my hatred
with the help of my mistress , M.K.J.
but every time a hand
steals the mark-poles
and her favors, too.
Maybe the ice-cold room of a heart
hopes for the warm miracle of the mark- poles
Too bad my hatred has no definite boundary
the volume of my work
the whirring of the cooler
and the stench of wet blotters
distracts my desire to search.