The coward called our hero

Something drips from the clothes of power,
isn't blood or sap
No alcohol or opiate restores
This manner of memory
The sweat of an unbruised fight,encouraging another betrayal
takes no funk,nor poem
His food is hot,
no flies on god's shit stale.
It's a steady beat of the pulse close,and loose,against trees,and wax, and magazines,
The forehead hits a nail.
the saxophone in his meat plays beyond moments of rubble,failed visions,
and miracles.
In the teapot sounding like a baby,the kind artist hosts him,while
he's no cupid,no naughty boy,half make more than most of him.
He has soup between his knees,he balances his wings on his mouth,he balances his wings on his eyes alone
He flies into a medicine cabinet,singing about Home,there is phlegm
in his heart,and his warm feet honed
from daring to step into nicotine justice.