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god or Gary Busey

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Tracing angels’ beams like dreams,
Constant blinking constellations,
Paintings on the cracked dome of heaven
crumble and fall on the pristine,   pious perpetrators
It’s Gods and guns,
women and whiskey
The whole fucked up devils dance
echoes across the pavement of my city of Sodom
It’s a twisted time for sinners and saints,
Fighting fire with frankincense,
diluting vodka with holy water
while Sex parades as piety
Virgins blood drips from the lips of the man himself,
god…
Or Gary Busey
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