by Nick Gisburne
The wasted angel revels in his rum.
“Yeah, this is how to bring it. This is real.
A pretty, gilded garden for the numb
Has nothing that I need. No grit. No steel.
I stuck around for seven thousand years,
But then this wicked world began to buzz.
I’m free and fallen. No regrets. No tears.
What Heaven never gave me, this place does.
I’m not supposed to tell you this, y’know,
But God? He lost the plot when Jesus died.
The crucifixion? Faked it for the show,
A con the other angels all denied.
So when I called them out they took my wings,
And let me tell you, vivisection stings.”
