Paul Andrew Sneddon

Midnight is Gone

Midnight. Midnight is gone. Deep into the heart of the night. Just speeding through the nighttime, past where the streetlights end. The road is quiet.

Got to get home.

Police cars burling past me down the dual carriageway. Lights flashing as I slow down a little.

Stop at the petrol station and fill up. The lady behind the screen is reading the paper, she looks tired but offers a smile. The air is cold and clean; the silence of the night is weighing down the world.

Smell of petrol.

Advertisement for a new radio station on the back of the paper.

I can’t go the radio these days, man. There are no gospel stations singing tired travellers home tonight. No local stations at all. It’s just a voice beamed in from the home of empire, reading out the latest catastrophes.

Or a 100-sound alike stations.

Same songs from Ayrshire to Aberdeen to London to Paris to Kansas fucking city. I can’t tell if that’s a real human voice anymore.

This is my resistance. While I’m still breathing. You can get yourself to fuck.

I can hear the ghosts of late-night Ayrshire.

I’ve got a coffee, got some kind of microwave food. Is it a burger? Is it a pie? It’s something in between. I can’t decide if it smells of death or heaven.

I’m back on the road. Sun coming up in the rearview mirror, calling my missus. I’m coming home.

They got me working late. Night shift, late shift, midnight ramble.

The world gives you nothing. It will strip away everything that matters if it can.

Make your own music.

Build your own story.

We’re still building.

Tree

Sometimes it’s nice to be up before the world.
Sitting at the back door till the daylight returns.
Rain falling softly.
Jason Isbell playing.
Cup of tea in hand.

The thing that always struck me about town, compared to the city,
is a different kind of quiet.
I swear my voice can travel for miles in this town.
Like I can hear folk from over in the park,
or across town.

The city’s different.
I love them both,
but this is where I chose.
This is home.

Even that old tree out back,
the one I don’t want to chop down,
but keeps growing toward the wires.
Every summer I’m out there pruning like a fool.

I’m like a tree barber.

Putting a cloth round it to gather the branches.
Asking it, “How’s the family?”
“Any tips on the horses today?”

Chop it down they say
and get the space.

Nah.

I’m sitting in its shade here,
sipping on a drink.

Some things are worth the effort.

Pale Horse

Pale horse,
running through the woods at night,
down the old trails where they never built the houses.
Where we played as kids.

Am I dreaming?

Sitting at that kitchen table,
or maybe that old wooden table,
where I wrote so many songs when I was starting out.

Trying to scrape meaning
from three chords,
and a life as yet unlived.

Cup of coffee,
maybe a tea,
or something stronger.

Looking into my father’s eyes,
gone now,
but back for just a moment.

I wonder if he would still be disappointed in me.
I wonder if he would see me, for who I am,
for what I’ve made,
my struggles.

Would it really matter?
Would we just sit,
for a moment,
and understand each other,
just a little better now?

A nod of the head,
and we part.

Pale horse,
running through the woods at night,
down the old trails where they never built the houses.
Disappearing, back into the night.

Context

**** Trigger Warning **** Contains Swearing

Two friends talking about a mutual pal.
Someone you can rely on.
Says, “Aye, that cunt’s sound.”

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

Crowd trying to stop 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 “bastardfuckingcuntareshole.”

There’s a woman I know,
Hear her chatting,
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.

Work Ethic

Work ethic, work ethic, work ethic.

Isn’t any good sitting round,
Crying,
Moaning,
Hiding.

On the couch,
With a duvet and a pillow,
Like life’s a storm to wait out.

Work ethic.
Get to working,
Get to creating.
Make something.
Don’t apologize for it.
Make it breathe.
Work ethic.

Get your hands dirty.
Give yourself to the work.

No one has a ladder for you,
So build your own.
With sweat,
Blood.

Work ethic.

The only person between you and the void,
Is you.

Work ethic.

Now fucking get to it.