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 skillet 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 