your back curves like a creeping vine with the answers in the fluid in the stem of the spine in the black-coffee bowl of your eye why do you overestimate the size of the lie? i've seen the dangers of your rising sign but i swear i'd like to drink the fuel straight from your lighter it's all inside the wrist, it's all inside the way you time it i resent the way you make me like myself my nerves jump like a boiling pan like a sk**et full of oil spits, rattling on the burner when i stumble onto the thought of the match you lit and dropped and set the dial to slow yearn can i spell it out? should i spell it out?