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

ink dripped

drop .... 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.