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by Mike Doughty
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?
The dangers of
Your rising sign
But i swear
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?