my arms
and my nose,
those are the weapons
and hoses I use
to gear up and bottle alone,
before the radio eats me,
and I play along with no men.
running late, running late again,
shoot an arrow through my heart,
off to drive a silly car, yes.
she don't like my tiered typer fingers,
but she don't know that every silly song
is about her.
my tattoos tell the story,
better than I will ever be able,
so I walk it off now,
because there is nothing but 1:01am
left of me,
fingernails long and weird,
just a dumb artist,
trying to resolve things
in between.