Holding Chirac’s hand in Temple Bar

The angels have fallen.

They are not of God

And not of the Devil

Or of themselves

They are of neon

They are of strobelight

They are of ink and dye

They are of rubber and plastic and fur

Or they are simply here

Walking the cobbles

In Temple Bar

Drunk and stoned

On a Friday night

With gel and stillettos,

Tattoos and thigh-boots

Belly-tops and wonderbras

Wigs and masks.

Some have stuck-on tails

Some bunny ears

Some leprechaun hats

Some plastic arses

But their mouths have no faces

Their singing is senseless

And the cobbles absorb and forget

Their laughter and sighs

Their urine and vomit

While ould orators’ ghosts

Are beaten down and bleed

Into the cracks of the street.

Around the corner

On Dame Street Near the Green

I saw three Muslim girls

Wearing the hijab.

More power to them.