Subconscious Hotel

by Jack Ohms

just took a room at the Subconscious Hotel
(bit like Elvis's place, only twice as swell)
pretty roomy
I'm going to get my bags sent up
(always have baggage, wherever I go)
shower off
room service stuff
then I'm going out for a stroll
see what's out there
it's after dark
but I've got a feeling I
might just bump into a few
old familiar's
IF YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN

postcards will be sent
believe me
postcards are always sent
from Subconscious Hotel

invoice

by Jack Ohms

at the so-called hospitality trade event;
a video of factory-produced chickens
churned on and on from a big screen;
the little trussed-up bodies
going past the camera like beads
on a counting machine:

10 - 20 - 30 - 40 - 50 -

beneath, a display of deep-sea fish,
on ice,
shells, creatures from God-only-knows-where

"is that a marlin?"

(some spirit of the sea)

"no, it’s a swordfish"

just lying there on its side
with it’s wide jelly eye on me
and the roof lights flickering there
like the surface of the ocean,

flickering while people do deals

and

deals – I’ve had my fill –

10 - 200 - 3,000 - 40,000 - 500,000

millions

- it never
never stops.

subject to availability at selected stores

by Jack Ohms

there is terror
in these shady streets
devoid of violence
and vandalism

somehow the silence
the peace
has feigned our
security

designed death
out of existence

the british rail

by Jack Ohms

glancing off
the fly-spattered head
of an engine
has always appealed
as a viable option

one afternoon
taken
by a single leaf on
Chesterfield Station (Platform 1)
I considered
rugby-tackling the train
over taking it to Sheffield
second class:
£5.35
return

Barber-pole off-cut

by Jack Ohms

“ - survival
just
seems like writhing
in a pit
of starving adders,
these days”,

I said,..

but everyone looked away
or took a sip,
fingered a rolled
cigarette.

me and my
big mouth

but I feel it

here

and it’s real

and the personally-executed
death sentence seems
too good for me
sometimes.

I know,

that’s why I’m still around

and something to do
with mercy

for the Hell balance of it all;

hence the white-wall backdrop;
the €12-a-day per patient
seven days-a-week.

quite cheap.


*(€ -- Euros)

Fair trade cigarettes

by Jack Ohms

The people I told
shed a certain side of their characters
before me
as I proceeded with the tale
as if just hearing about the whole process
was getting too close to
going through with it
themselves.

They stare at the ground
and assume the position
of one who hasn’t quite gone that far
yet;
it’s a wise and safe and
understanding look
they've cultivated alone for the occasion
and I immediately regret saying the words
knowing they will never understand
what I have understood by the words:

"One day, leaving this place will be like
getting on a number seven bus
and just not getting off again;
it’s as plain and simple as that."

And then they tell me “Smoking Kills”,
you know,
and ask if I’ve managed to stay off the booze.

I leave off at this point and go talk to
the friendly white tiles in the smoking room
and wait for the nurse with the bell;
those pills.

grave clothes

by Jack Ohms

hunkered
under the weight
of hard and dirty lies
I sit in a room
painted yellow
with cigarette smoke
three months behind
on the rent
a few hundred here and
elsewhere
owed

as the clock
staggers drunk
at all hours

what a glorious existence
what a beautiful career
my name; the first insult
my grave clothes
the last

I’ll see if we’ve got one in stock

by Jack Ohms

We drove over to the outskirts
trying to get the battery to charge in Maarit’s car
and stopped at a parts dealer
for a new one and other stuff that needed fixing;
indicators not working,
some fuses gone.

When we walked in there
two guys stood behind the desk
expressionless in the company colours,
as always; bright blue, yellow, white;
other guys leant over the counter, hips out, comfortable,
waiting for the print-out
in dust blue-coloured overalls covered in swarf,
tanned drivers' faces.

I looked around and felt strangely out of place again;
noticing the white wire racks full of replacement parts,
hanging there; bulbs, shock-absorbers, brake pads, wheel-trims,
racing car magazines
on a strangely unwelcoming table and four cheap chairs
in one corner, a coffee machine whirring and
a hundred different shades of spray paints
all good men stuff.

And I thought of all the millions and millions of cars and vans
and trucks and coaches and buses
using all these parts, turning, buzzing, whizzing, whirring
collecting grease and road dirt
up and down a million different roads
endlessly on and on, parts, parts, parts,
wearing out, spark-plugs firing a trillion trillion trillion
cylinders every millisecond
and I reeled and began to sweat.

Then other guys turned up - speeding up the short driveway
in flashy, shiny models, like the ones you see on telly
driving through rugged landscapes, alone -
enquiring after stereo’s, more wheel-trims,
accesories, additions, up-grades;
with the wife in tow looking uninterested;
people totally engaged in society.

Then I catch my open sores from the beating I got
the night before on the edge
of a cardboard cut-out man
in company overalls;
blue, yellow, white,
holding up an exhaust pipe and smiling
about something - I don't understand,
so I go outside
to get some air into my clogged up filter
while Maarit pays with her card
and waits an interminable time
for the damn print-out.

double six

by Jack Ohms

there aren’t any
‘drop-dead gorgeous’ ones in here,
mate, he said,

except of course for the staff
but they’re all sporto types
health freaks, professionals

then, there wouldn’t be
would there?

the beauties are off making the world
carving a niche
finding their place

while the ‘fat’ ones
and the ‘ugly’ ones
huddle together in the smoking room

knowing there was
only ever
one throw of the dice.
he put his cigarette out
and went back to his room
on the ward.

The Come-Back Kids

by Jack Ohms

someone turns on the T.V.
in the patients' lounge
while young Hanna sits
shaking violently
outside the nurses' lodge
with an open wrist;
she shuffles,
not quite knowing what to do,
then rushes back to her room,
slams the door
and wails high,
crying hysterically,
while we three sit and watch
some programme on MTV
about
old stars,
taking their clothes off,
going the bar circuit,
advertising weenies
and two-for-one
anything, anything
twenty years on
just anything
for another hit.

as if you could hear us speak

you silently slipped away
but I see you from time to time
looking without asking
a silhouette standing
large head haloed
and I have to turn away
ashamed
as the grief comes down
through the centre of my body
and charges my emotion
how can I apologise?
that we even spoke of abortion
in your holy presence
makes me suspect
you heard the guardsman at the gate
and knew the city
to be
hostile.
ah, it's conjecture,
but there's something tells me you knew
and in the kindness of your
sinless heart
you saw us here
and wished us no harm
and left.
how can a father-not-to-be apologise
to an unborn foetuschild
for not-bringing it into the world
in such a brutal way? or
was it that you were a fighter
who died by his own hand
rather than be taken
by the enemy?
one of these or all,
you are gone
and nameless
rot
and not
in paradise,
but alone,
shorn of grief, anger, jealousy,
love.
people tell me I am being sentimental
and not to think like this
and I wonder that I should ever
have been born.


by Jack Ohms