Enjoy It While You Got It

I was young once,
Although I felt so old.
I should have been
More childish,
Soaking up the wild morn.

Now what am I?
Old and fat and bald.
Yet still younger
Than so many
Who only exist in the past.

Living In The Now

As we continue our slow destruction
Of the only planet
Where our species lives,
Remember to pause
To display a middle finger
To all of your neighbours
And every plant and animal you see.
Especially remember the little children
That still run and play.
Give them both barrels
And your cruelest laugh.
As for infants in bellies
All those yet to be born,
Bare your ass to their future.
Let them and others mourn.

Lost Again

With sorrow I looked
At the road ahead
And the road behind.

How did I get here,
This place that is
So other?

Ah well, what is life
Without mistakes?
Sometimes the best
Memories come
From bloody errors.

I will continue moving
One foot after another
Until I get to
Wherever I go,

Whether it is
A shining city,
A place not worth
Mentioning,
Or more of the same
That was and will be,

Regardless of
My best intentions
Or my failed sense
Of direction.

Hey Baby

Yes, I am your baby.
Goo goo goo goo.
I love it when you feed me
All your juicy stuff.

Yes, I am your baby.
Goo goo goo goo.
I love it when you hold me
And when you treat me rough.

Yes, I am your baby
You better not have another one.
If I find out you do
It will be the end of all your fun.

Yes, I am your baby.
Goo goo goo goo.
And I will always be your baby
So long as you stay true.

The Language Is Everything

A poem is a short story.
A short story is a poem.
This is not always known.
It shouldn’t be.

All these words,
merely outflow
From that lake of sewage
Deep inside.

Come and take a swim.
Dive in.
Practice your backstroke,
Doggy paddle, and crawl.

You may want to shower
After you climb out,
But you will never feel
Completely clean again.

Far From Home

In the world but not of it,
You are merely a tourist
Far from home.

You watch, you listen,
You taste all the flavours
Of good and evil.

You hope your credit card
Will pay for all your crimes
With a single swipe.

If not you may need
To wash dishes
Or go to prison

Until you are pardoned
Or a sufficient bribe
Of prayers and offerings

Set you free enough
To return home
To rest, recuperate,

Work and save
For another trip
To lands forbidden,

But so much better
Than more
Of the same.

Existing in the poem

These verses
And so many others
Seem hardly worth it,
Both to write and read,
But they come anyway,
And go where they go.

They are seen by eyes
Unprepared for
Such foolishness.
The reader howls
Before crumbling paper
And throwing it away.

Oh, to be a banker
Or a plumber
Instead of a poet.
That would be
A solid life,
More easily understood.

Unfortunately
I have this curse,
This infection
That will not go away.

Words are the life
Of a poet.
There is only
Their sound
And how they look
On the page.

The rest of life
Is an illusion,
A mirage
A hand might reach for,
But never grasp
Or comprehend.

Joseph Farley has had over 1350 poems and 140 short stories published. His 11 poetry collections include Suckers, Her Eyes, Longing For The Mother Tongue, and Yellow Brick Pilgrim. His fiction books include Labor Day, Once Upon A Time In Whitechapel, Farts and Daydreams, and For The Birds.

You can find more of Joseph’s work here on Ink Pantry.