Nothing like spitting at the wind of change that blows as a beaten blue-eyed harlot (google poem)

I. (gettin' home)
what ill wind blows the devil's agent
over the moorland

jesus is beaten, mocked, and spit upon
drunken monk to really spice up the day
the poor dumb corpse
but sunday's coming

there was nothing to be buried
but to leave to the hyena wind

looks like nothing's ever gonna change
everything still remains the same:

borderline albino
rode on camel
obtained a
golden lady
of grace and
loveliness

wind that blows
between the worlds
cut him like a knife
a drop into nothin'
beneath you as
straight as
a beggar
can spit
a flock
of sea-
gulls


II. (gettin' some)
on the grey sand beside the shallow stream
under your old wind-beaten tower

do you want to sleep with me
if you beat me up like your bloody child?

take those clothes off like any actor

i was talking to a woman i now realize
that i am talking to a harlot

change the laws to make it easier

only a person with a penis can teach
it lies deep-meadowed, happy
fair with orchard lawns

the wind howls like a hammer

our minds are at their best this night

verbal gymnastics
poems are like lovemaking pictures
i don’t like talking about them
my blond haired soldier

you just have a regular person
like those paper dolls
put on another outfit
and the character changes

like a bad tourist cancer
pushing in front of you
talking loudly and acting
like some raven like the muscle
that rots like the bones that crumble
like the flesh that turns to ashes
and blows in a film on the winds

this little bird was nothing like a knife