I used to have loads of ’em as ‘friends’ on Fakebooc.

I’d be scrollin’ down gerrin more and more depressed reading how fab they claimed their imaginations in ethno-corporate Aryeland were.

Someone who’d spent forty years learning the otherworldly chaunting skills and poetic rights of Tibetan Shaman Vocalizers, Persian Ghazal writers, Prose Poetry practitioners, scops, griots, slammers, bloggers, and makkars of the bardic arts.

Who’d memorized every single dactylic hexameter of the Iliad in its entirety in the original ancient Greek; learned from back to front each prose line and poetic rann in the remscéla, and indeed every tale and word of the Táin itself in Medieval Irish.

Ingested into memory each single solitary one of the two hundred and fifty prim-scela that made up the learning requirements of a literary Irish poet pre-Fakebooc.

Before the New & Improved Shinier Clappier Happier Rictus Grinners telling us how amazing it all is bein dem all special closed-mic invited guests at the entho-corporate state-backed masked-up bards with protected speech in the Fakebooc party, emoting the posture of a politically correct public virtue signal that is the neo-liberal personality personified.

And being the first to do so since the death of Dáibhí Ó Bruadair three hundred and twenty years ago; was led by the power of Her loving letters within spinning out from Tir na Og, to the one hundred fo-scela that were only ever handed down from ollamh to anruth, lip to ear.

Like Famous did with Aul Plumdoon when they were driving round the boreens of Fermanagh and Tyrone, back in the day when they were plotting their takeover of the Bloomsbury Movement squares.

And feeling unfairly excluded by all the energy vampires from the many delightfully thrilling luvvie projects they wuz involved wiv; jus coz a wuz berra than ’em at talkin a lorra bollocks spontaneously on social media and at the pubs we practiced in when the Loving WaR at Write and Recite was a regular come all ye weeknight fixture during those pre-Closed Mic special gig times at the tail end of the Celtic Tiger.

When there were no special guest superstars of the wow gosh thrilled and delighted plastic performance scene, no stalwart local heroes elevated to their status by some cut price bardic manque seeking the approval of a fat man in a pork pie hat, just a solitary page on which to print our names and create the open list administered as they appeared written down, by a democratic working-class Dub MC giving everyone the same go on a level playing field.

Avin te read the closed-mic special star guest vampires announcin ‘ow frilled thee wuz ti bae talking bollocks in a vegan cafe on a wet Monday afternoon with such a star selected for inclusion into a forthcoming anthology of Happy Clappy Faekbooc frauds from a groundbreaking gombeen corporate state partnership arts project for the tuatha de exclusionary wenkaz.

Delighted to inform us how moving such a poem was they’d been over the moon about being lucky enough to have an advance reading of, that was written by their mate they were beyond excited to be hosting a benefit gig for their own photo ops with.

In order to bring wider awareness to pictures of their own mugshots and practices that reminded the public of the fact that there was a lorra orphaned disabled depressed homeless terminally ill illiterate folk that never put pen to paper and whose lives the energy vampires were gonna bring a brief ray of joy to in their final breaths as they croaked their last.

Bitter unhappy and hastened to their demise with the energy vampires sucking out the last birra life-force from the dying drugged up edge of death strangers they’d just met. Not having a clue who the beaming luvvies beside em laughing and snapping selfies were. Sticking their heads right into the soon to be dead head space of hospice residents.

And then one night after feeling especially alone and low and down and depressed and unloved by anyone, I thought, fuck the vampires; and had a brief couple of bitter joyful hours going thru the Fakebooc friends list, looking at ’em and thinking, fuck you, fuck you, fuck you. Sparing nobody who’d had more than two poems published in anywhere more prestigious than the Ballybaloney Bugle and Offaly Nass Times.

In a foul mood. And for which I would like to apologize to the legions of luvvies who ended unfairly up a part of this experimental exercise in Self Pity from a mentally sick and aging lover of bardic Self and Same.

Looking at the vampires’ thumbnail faces, me medz kicking in, the high strength dose I was on back then, thinking to meself, what’s the real log enech ‘ere with this cnut, and then thinking fuck em, do one, ha ha ha.

Burra bitter laff, d’ye kno’ worra mean?

The laff of a working-class English lover of the Tuatha De Dannan people of the goddess art dedicated to the otherworldly craft, and not only gerrin fuck all psychic benefit from those that on the face of it you’d think would be only too delighted to listen to me talking spontaneous bollocks in letters on social media and boring ’em shitless all night, but gettin no likes no hearts or super hearts, and no emojinal transaction whatsoever.

Yeah, there was only one person I unfairly fucked off, who wasn’t an energy vampire, the very final one. I’d been working thru the list, culling loads, and I saw this face and I thought, fuck you, and then right as I’d clicked unfriend the words of Pythagoras came to mind, do not step beyond the beam of the balance.

And feeling I’d stepped over the line, that the one who’d just got it was not a vampire but some harmless person I had only met the once, the madness ended, and the staking of the vamps was over. They’d all gone.

Years later I re-connected with the one I unfairly binned off and now we are Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson solving the world’s ills.