Pól Ó Lorcáin
Paul Larkin

Chroniclers are privileged to enter where they list, to come and go through keyholes, to ride upon the wind, to overcome in their soarings up and down, all obstacles of distance, time and place.
Charles Dickens - Barnaby Rudge, Chapter The Ninth

The Rabid Republic


I'm at the waterhole

Snow falling relentlessly


Gazing out the window

at the frozen self


My fellow species

crawling by in cars, bipeds,

a wing and a prayer


All must traverse this ancient trail

Like wildebeests



Rain, hail or faltering precipice


I'm at the waterhole

Gazing relentlessly

when the jackals descend en masse


Like theirs, my eyes swivel


Watch for the weakest link


It is a small black lynx

Shocked by the white


Stunned when the first

snow bomb hits his flanks

his sudden mob of face


Scenting the piss of fear

the jackals are joined by their mates

from a nearby estate


The beautifully formed ebony prince


Makes to run

Fends off


Semi escapes


Is tripped


And they are in


With punches and kicks


Slinking away in the sleet

Wired up and smirking

at this great feat


Devouring the heart of his pride

on which they will feast for a week




I'm at the waterhole


Stomach churning at this rabid Republic


The particular stench of rapine and avarice







@ Paul Larkin


Baile Átha Claith

Nollaig 2010


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