I am of the Filidh

I am of the filidh
armed only with words
lead to more words
building, like bricks
one by one on top of each other.

A wall of words surrounding
like a butress.

I feel that galaxy of words out there
moving closer
edging nearer and nearer with every
passing moment, tumbling from the
mouths of genius and idiot alike

telling me
that some thing needs to be said.
Need to be articulated, before the tidal
wave of mediocrity
threatening to overwhelm the illusion
upon this tiny little complacent shore of safety
can be held back

kept in check
and tossed right off before the crucial moment is
upon us.

That pure indefinable moment which tips the balance
of all known existence to send us into a freefall
of questioning and collapse.

And let me tell you this friends, buddies, matey
boys and girls. Once that bubble's burst, there is
no going back.
No way
You're having a laugh, surely, if you think for a
second, a nanosecond, that there's any going back
once that moments gone.

It aint coming back sunshine, so wake up and smell
your life before bye-bye time is over and you're
spending the rest of eternity wondering on the brief
flash of life you once had.

You'll be in good company all right. What with Elvis
and Plato and everyone in between. You'll soon cop on
suss it out, get to know the score.

All those perplexing little questions you never found
the answers for whilst you were too busy cleaning
your teeth, wiping your arse or sitting on a bus stuck
in traffic with the grey concrete walls creeping in on

All those can be answered, when your hanging around like
a bad smell, waiting for the end of time to make an
appearance, like the ghost of your long gone Granny.

And when that happens you will know every single moment
of your time inside out, like the back of your proverbial
hand. And the wall you built brick by brick will be so
familiar, you'll be screaming so loudly, you'll drown in
the very voice your sick of constantly hearing.

And you won't be able to stop, because, after an infinity
of absolutely nothing at all, you will be, a thousand
million, trillion bits of little bitty bollocks shitting
your way through the eye of the tiniest, sharpest needle
in the history of eternal misery.

And there'll be no one there to be swapping your shopping
anecdotes with. No one there to be washing your dishes
or telling you to get right off. You will be all alone
like the fat, ugly spotty faced cripple kid stuck to the
wall at a Friday night dance in the middle of wide open

And no one'll be looking over because the wall you built
brick by brick
will be your own private monument to you and your shitty
little life.

But then, from somewhere, out of nowhere, you will find
yourself lying on soft sand under the milken sky of a
warm summer night, the gentle silken breeze caressing your
naked skin with the delicacy and delight of Romeo and
Juliet's first brush of each other's bodies.

And the sound of ocean crashing waves, soothing and sending
you off up in the air to drift asleep on a central heated
cloud, floating along to the land of tranquillity and smiles
like a sigh of sweet contentment. And Bingo. You're back

reborn, ready to start all over again. Give it another crack
of the whip, bite of the cherry, roll of the dice.

Come on, come on. Lets get moving. Grip your toothbrush, clean
your teeth, wipe your arse, push your way to the front of the bus

Fuck that old one she can stay stood up the exercise'll do her good.
Come on come on, lets get ready to rustle up the beat and rumble
and show the world, who's boss today Boyo.