Someone Else Who Can Fly

I had another spate with him today,
and I worry in our breaking hearts;
when asked if he could attract more flies
by honey or vinegar, he was repulsed
when I said I like the smell of the latter.

Here I am, embellished in porcelain,
emphasizing bulging neck veins and a mouth
cascading forth hammers, a mind pulsating
in blue notes over the idea that, maybe,
if I shout a sailor's shout long enough,
I might drown out his growing pleas
that I open my closet to the world
and give him free reign over my skeletons.

Who am I to be irrational, I wonder at times,
when, in sleepless nights, he beside me
where he hovers below a lamp light,
how he passes out his soul as a sandwich
what made moldy and with maggots, asking
why I can match him in body, but not in spirit.

These are my bones, I can only still cry,
and they will not be cast aside,
baked black and gray in a furnace;
as I am a man of dissolution,
and must have fears and secrets
to chew and stick on a gum sculpture
onto the lamp for a shade from reality
and the lack of its weight on my shoulders.