On Saturday night she’ll surrender,
offer herself to the ritual of scant skirt,
face paint and long boots, bulbs
of mascara dripping from her lids.
The pandemonium of The Temple,
its constant purge of drum and bass.
Raised above them, the messiah
of the glass box, preaching his trance
gospel to a scagged out congregation,
all cocktails, glow sticks, stamps on the backs of hands.
She’ll be kissing ecstasy, tasting Apollo,
searching for The Tribe of Levi,
flying in the face of strobe light angels.
Twenty yokes down she’s repenting
behind an alabaster Ford Escort at the back
of a car park in Ballybricken.
Later on when she comes down,
she’ll realise that God is not a DJ,
find Jesus in her tears in the taxi home.
Clifton Redmond lives in Carlow, Ireland. He is a member of the Carlow Writer’s Co-operative and has had work published in Orbis, Antiphon, Three Drops from a Cauldron, Silver Apples and various other journals in Ireland, Britain and America. In 2015 he was long listed for the Over The Edge Poetry Contest and Shortlisted for the Fermoy International Poetry Prize. This year he was chosen to take part in W.I.S.P.A. (Welsh, Irish Spoken Word Alliance).