Poems
by Dominik Slusarczyk

 

 

The Cook

 

His hot hands

Hold ham like

It will melt if

Left unattended.

He slaps it on

The counter with

A gay flick

Of his sane wrist.

The wet sound

Invades my ears

And sets up a campfire.

His knife shines like

Dancing at dawn.

He slices

Far more than

This bit of crowd

Will ever need.

They call him Chef.

He forces fire

Onto its knees.

 

 

 

 

 

Some People

 

Some people make

Other people cry.

They are red

Ribbons on

General’s jackets.

They are the

Right wing on

The right butterfly.

They will get

The last dance,

The last chance to

Gain glorious gold.

Some people make

Other people cry but

Other people make

Other people die.

 

 

 

 

 

A New Journey

 

My horse bounces along

The long wobbly path.

As I jiggle around on his

Bony back I wonder

Why cars cough

Foul air into failed lands.

 

We have escaped the

Other riders in our clan.

They are far too scared of significance.

They cannot catch us today.

Today we are the wind in the trees.

 

My ride clops over to

An apple tree and

Stretches for the reddest apple.

As he chomps I pat

His taut neck and

Feel furious life beating

Within him.

 

I gaze over the cliff edge.

The spectacular view overwhelms

A mind mangled by magic.

Clouds chatter, curious

As cats balancing on weathered fences.

 

When we resume our walk he

Is not so keen anymore.

I will not kick him like

The jockeys in coloured clothing.

I will stroke him like

He is a friend sent to

Silence solitude.

 

 

 

 

 

Bend

 

Bend.

Break.

Bend

Again.

 

 

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