The good girl,
the 9-to-5 girl,
the one who has more skills
than she’ll ever admit,
the one who could take more responsibilities
if she’d only wish,
is on the floor,
lying half-naked,
Joy Division in the air,
writing poems that are bad
but that matter to her.
An Istrian liquor,
wild pear,
keeps the juices flowing,
nothing more to bear.
Scented candles are burning,
flickering little fires,
blinding lights
in this obscurity.
A refuge
from the scorching sun.
The floor has meaning.
The floor is freedom
to do
what you’re not supposed to,
what you shouldn’t,
but you want to.
Cosmic & Uneasy 