the man with barnacles on his skin

old habits die hard
like a shellfish
on the moult
it¹s hard to
shed that skin
too many accretions
like the bescabbled
backs of barnacles
too heavy for liftoff
from the sticky
mud of planets
my greatest fear
is suffocation
sleazy death
in the mire of
samsara
do it again
and again
and again
the offspring
of a mudman
little mad mudmen
set loose in
high offices
speak in muffled
tones inside
their shells
grabble the puswork
for a city like
entrails and the
gallantry of underpants
organic growth
will stop the machine