Paul Andrew Sneddon

Shore

Looking down on the water. My car parked by the wall.

Two weeks since I moved into this hotel down by the shore. It’s seen better days, but it’s still standing.

Kind of like me.

Swanky resorts are for accountants and bloodless retreats. Here, I’m meeting ghosts.

The guy smoking on the step with his pal. Or the lassie playing guitar in the bar.

I talk to them in the hallway.
I hear them crying in the night.
You are not forgotten.

I wonder if they say the same about me.

The breeze drifting through the open window.

I’ve got pages and time.

So far, I’ve scratched out a poem like a map back home. Hangovers and rolling stones. The place where rock and soul and country tear up the town.

Saturday nights.
Sunday mornings.

The water rolls in.
The water rolls out.

Life.

It doesn't give a fuck for plans.
Or my hangover.

But fuck it.

What are you going to do?

I’ve seen saint Christopher this morning. Asked if I was leaving today. Wished me well and disappeared down to the the bar playing pool, or out the back with the woman from room 402.

Its time to be travelling on.

But when I go to hand in my key.
Something changes my mind.

I hear the piano player, sounds like he was in a drinking competition with the piano and lost.

I walk through.
A little crowd is watching.

His woman sitting beside him on the piano stool. Two alley cats singing about a street fight. But when they get their shit together the lights are blinding and it sounds like the angels sing along.

Sing one.
One for me.
For you.
For the ghosts.
The ones who didn't have a chance.

Until we fall from the light.
And back to earth.

The crowd roars.
We’re all standing.

The piano player and his lady nod.
And smile

I wonder why they are here and not playing to a sold out concert hall.

So, I’m stepping through the door.
Different now.
Out to the street.

The sun disappearing behind the horizon. The beach cast in purple and orange and blue.

The sand smooth, like ice. The water breaking at the shore and the tide going out.

Like the day is in retreat.

The night is coming on.
Put some music on.

The drums.
The beat.
The heart.

I'm travelling.

Away from the coast. Up over the hill, the rain starts and I see the city before me, where the night comes falling.

We Can Change Your Life

I got an email the other day.

”Listen man, we can help.
We can change your life.

You need to:
Curate.
Curate.
Curate.

I read on.

Remember:

Stay on brand.
Run your pictures by us.
Try to write something cheery.

We’ve got some new friends for you.
New haunts.
New life.

And while you are at it, you could smarten up:

New haircut.
New clothes.
New shoes.

We know a stylist in the city.
You’ll be a whole new person.
You’re writing will change
Just turning the volume down a little
So much easier
Smooth out the edges.
Sand them down.

Then you’ll fit in so much better.

Get in touch.

I thought to myself,
‘I am creating.’

I put it in the bin.

Rain

Rain. Rain. The endless rain.
I couldn’t sleep for the rain.


Falling on the window, on the door.
Leaking through the roof,
dripping in pots in the hallway.
I had to move the bed, cos it was below a leak.


The water mark on the ceiling getting bigger as the days run on,
and sleep doesn’t come,
and the whole world feels tilted.


Sit up and watch the rain.
Watch the people walking up the street,
waiting to see someone go by in a homemade boat,
or a duck in an upside‑down umbrella
sailing down the street.


Did I see that?


Pull the curtains and let it be.
Sitting in the bedroom,
with an orchestra
of dripping water into pots.


A crash.
Like the house giving up.
And the sound of rushing water.


The ceiling in the hallway is gone.
Water flooding down, like at Rouken Glen.


Grab my hat and the suitcase.
Jump into the raging torrent.
And I’m down the hall,
sitting in the suitcase.


Through the doorway,
past the postie,
and down the hill
with a hatful of rain.


Feet soaked,
wind in my hair.


Under the railway bridge
and into town.


Finally stopped outside the local,
and I went in for a beer.

No clouds in here.

I hope.

Context (Version 2)

Someone messaged me:
“I like your writing, but do you need to swear so much?”

It just comes fucking naturally. We’re Scottish. It's who we are.

I told them:

Two friends talking about a mutual pal, someone you can rely on, says,
“Aye, he’s a good cunt.”

See two folk on the bus, a few beers to the wind. One guy shouts to the other,
“Why are you acting the cunt?”

Police got called to a couple arguing in the street.
“Aye well, she’s a fucking cunt.”

She nearly knocked him out when she heard that. Calling him a
“bastard-fucking-cunt-arsehole.”

There's a woman I know.
Every second word she says is cunt.
Like a full stop.
Or an exclamation mark.

But some others don’t say the word.
They’ll just call you a C U Next Tuesday.

In Scotland, we are fluent in swearing. You've just got to get the fucking context.

It’s been quieter since.
Rain spitting on the window.
Do it or don’t.

Commit or fuck off.

Put on some music.

Funny how you can make a place for yourself with drums, bass, guitars, and something to sing.

Same thing with the page.

I remember when I was younger, walking through Glasgow in the rain, the sun fading, the city lighting up. Going home to my guitar in a bedsit by the river.

“Burn” tumbling out.

Fuck. Time flies.

Sometimes my mind lets itself out into the night, into the city. Sometimes I find it again down by the beach, having a smoke, new tattoo in the sunshine. Looking at me, like, fucking loosen up big man.

Put some fucking songs on and have a smoke.

I’m sharper than I look.
Yeah, I know, that’s not difficult.

But the writing remains.
It keeps me out of trouble, or it gets me into trouble. I can’t remember.

My soul is intact.
Maybe I’ll sharpen up.
But I doubt it.
But who knows?
There’s still time.

Ayrshire Light

I was dreaming last night.
About you.
And me.
We were walking to our house, under the Scottish sun.
Its warmth.
Light.

Ayrshire light.
Leading us home.

We walked hand in hand.

The house sat on its own.
In a clear, empty field.
An endless sky above, clouds rolling across its deep blue.
A gravel path.
A garden alive with colours.
Up the step.

The door open, we crossed the threshold together.

The house is warm.
A fire burning.
I poured us a drink.
We sat together.
Smiles, Laughter.
The music played.
You ran your hands through my hair.

We kissed.

Your lips.
Your touch.
Your heart.