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

Hedgehog Salvation

Miserable Bastards (Part 4)

You can read part one here: https://paulandrewsneddon.com/2025/07/12/wake-up-juice/

And Part Two here: https://paulandrewsneddon.com/2025/07/23/the-price-of-books/

And Part Three here: https://paulandrewsneddon.com/2025/07/24/the-bar-is-sinking/

Mikey arrives a wee while later, looking like he had walked through a hedgerow and had a fight with a rampant badger.
    
    
Frank's eyebrow goes up as he looks from me to Mikey and back again. Mikey is wiping down his old suit jacket like it’s got a couple of crumbs on it and not three tears and a couple of highly questionable stains. I’m sure that’s the suit he bought for a funeral five years ago. He’s still a skinny bastard, but it looks like the suit has shrunk a bit, giving him a 1980s drainpipe effect.
    
    
He’s standing there with the confidence of Messi on the World Cup stage.
    
    
“Pint please, boss. The usual.”
    
    
Nothing beats the power of misplaced confidence. “On yourself, pal. How the fuck are you? Did you get into a spot of trouble?”
    
He looks briefly broken, punctured.
    
    
“Nothing I can’t handle, big man.” he says, putting his fists up like a super-mega-lightweight boxer.
    
"Frank, can you put this behind the bar for me, man, please?" he asks, pleading a little.
    
    
“What the fuck’s this, wee man?”
    
    
“Just my stuff, nothing dodgy, I promise.” he says, avoiding eye contact.
    
    
“I’ll need to have a look.”
    
    
“No, no, it’s alright, mate. I’ll just hang on to it.” he’s turning red.
    
    
Frank looks in the bag. Looks up. Looks back again.
    
    
“What the fuck…”
    
    
 Mikey goes to talk but doesn’t say anything.
    
    
 “Why in the fuck are you walking about with a dead hedgehog in a carrier bag?”
    
    
 “It’s, er, dead.” he mutters sheepishly.
    
    
 “Aye, I can see that…”
    
    
 “I saw it on the street. You can’t leave it out there; the seagulls were pecking out its eyes. I’m going to give it a proper burial up by the cathedral later on.”
    
    
“Up by the fucking cathedral, up by the cathedral…. Mikey, are you alright? Have you had a bump on the fucking head?”
    
    
“I’m… I’m fine.”
    
    
I’m sitting watching this unfold, like what the fuck is going on here.
    
    
Frank’s warmed up to it though.
    
    
“So you were going to just deposit Sonic here, were you, behind the bar, a dead hedgehog, while you had a few pints… stinking out the bar and then you’re going to make it through the tourists and the workies on the way to the cathedral?”
    
    
Mikey's face is turning redder and redder. “Well… aye.”
    
    
Frank throws the bag at him. “Go and leave it outside…” he says before shaking his head “or put it in the fucking bin.”
    
    
Mikey catches it.
    
    
“Should I flush it down the toilet?”
    
    
“What, like a goldfish? You are really ripping the piss today, pal.”
    
    
Mikey’s out the door, and Frank’s away to the other side of the bar to get Pat a drink.
    
    
I sink my drink; the whisky sours, making me wince a little.

(c) Paul Andrew Sneddon