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
Generals 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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