Bam : Part 5 of the Miserable Bastards Series

“Careful, there’s maybe life in this place yet.”

I check the clock on my old phone; you can still make out the time despite the crack on the screen. 11:58. Near noon. Bam time.

“Another drink, please, pal,” I motion to Frank.

He brings me one over, and I slide him a couple of coins.

“You expecting Bam today?”

“I’m always expecting Bam.”

I take a sip of my drink; there is a moment’s silence, and the door opens. A chink of daylight, then the full effect with Bam standing in the door. Shadow cast across the bar.

“Alright boys?” She smiles.

I blink and squint out to the door.

“You’re fucking late,” says Frank.

“Aye alright, I’m here now, eh?”

The door closes, and she walks across the floor and around the back of the bar. Black hair cropped, black jeans, not a classic beauty, but beautiful nonetheless. Five foot five of dynamite.

And she knows it.

“Al, fancy seeing you here,” she laughs and smiles as she walks by. “Christ, it’s like a fucking funeral in here. Put some fucking songs on.” she announces.

She’s behind the bar and suddenly Angel of Harlem starts blasting from the speakers.

“Fuck’s sake,” she moans. “Old guy music.”

There’s a brief pause, and suddenly Taylor Swift is blasting out. She’s making some moves and pulling some shapes before Frank appears behind her, and they have a little sidestep tango before he leans over and turns the music down.

She gives him a grumpy look.

“Okay, let’s compromise,” and she puts on some Rocket from the Crypt.

“On a rope, on a rope…”

I smile. “That’s some music I can drink to.”

Bam’s laughing and turns to Frank. “Careful, there’s maybe life in this place yet.”

(c) Paul Andrew Sneddon

Some Kind of Salvation

Photo by Derek Story on Unsplash
I don’t drink.
I think about drinking some times.
I think about disappearing into the city,
Into the night.

Into a rock and roll song.

The music.
The crowd.
The passion.

Sparks.

I’ve been lost.
I’ve been a fool.
But the music,
Is me.
And
I am the music.

Like a map,
Back to myself.

A pawn shop guitar man,
But a guitar man none the less.

Turn up the guitar.
Make it loud.

Connections

Lit up.

Me.
You.
Everybody.
Together.

Sometimes I forget myself.
Who I am.
Where I’ve been.

But in the moment.
Flick the switch.
The amps hum.
Fret Buzz.

Count it off.

1, 2, 3, 4.

I close my eyes,
And I’m flying,

I am alive.

© Paul Andrew Sneddon

Spirit

Photo by Paul Andrew Sneddon
Slept on the couch,
Slept in the bath tub,
Slept on the floor,
Slept in the graveyard,
But,

But it wasn’t my time.

Wrote a letter,
Wrote a song,
Wrote a message,
Put it in a bottle,
Smashed it,
Against the wall.

I wrote it down and burnt it.
Watched the smoke drift to the skies.

I walked the street,
People crossed the road,
To avoid me.
Wouldn’t look me in the eyes.
So I.
I kept walking.

This is my truth.
I am living proof.
I am alive.
My spirit reaches the sky.

They tried to kill me,
But I refused to die.

This is my truth,
I am living proof.
I am alive.
My spirit reaches the sky.

© Paul Andrew Sneddon

Sunset

Photo by Paul Andrew Sneddon


Take a walk,
The sun going down,
Shadows stretching across the ground,
Still a little heat in the sun,
A few folks looking lobster,
Peeling and undone.

Pizza delivery car crawling up the street,
Looking for the right house,
Hurry man, folk impatient to eat.

Couples going into town,
Dressed up for a date,
He says,
"Getting a hustle on, can’t be late."
She says,
"You try walking in these shoes ya prick."

Perfume and heels as the girl’s night crowd,
Singing songs and acting loud,
Make their way to town.

Some nurses at bus stop ready for a shift,
Hoping a pal will come by and
Give them a lift.

Two guys by the old petrol station smashing glass,
The old guy on the road,
Shouting he'll kick their arse.
They start laughing,
"Fuck off old yin,
Get to fuck."

He’s dodging the speeding ice-cream truck.

Sun making purples and oranges across the sky
As it disappears behind the hill.
Don’t hang your head with sorrow,
You know it will be back tomorrow.

Sunset never gets old for me,
Like taking another picture of the sea.

Round the corner,
Raised voices from an open window,
Two doors down
They are blasting out some soul.

The queue at chip shop,
Got to get your fix,
Maybe haggis, or fish and chips.

A few football fans heading to the game,
"Win today,
It'll be another victory Monday."

Past the dog walkers and I'm heading home,
Past the crowd at the corner shop,
"Will you get us a carry out?"
"Naw."


(c) Paul Andrew Sneddon