Scottish Writer from Ayrshire
Flick the lighter.
A familiar click.
Flame.
Warmth.
Close it,
Gone.
Look at the side:
Black.
Blue skull.
Life.
Death.
Old couch.
Empty house.
But the flame,
It’s still there.
Somewhere.
Flick it open.
It sparks back,
Burn brighter.
(c) Paul Andrew Sneddon
The clouds clear above our little quiet streets.
There’s songs in the bricks,
Stories in the air,
In the cracked pavement,
The number 11 bus.
In the silence, the air holds you differently,
it holds you close, but not too close,
lets you be you.
As I look into your summer eyes,
alive with sunshine and laughter and love,
the sweetest,
toughest love,
yours and mine together.
Front step vape.
I love this song; sing it with me.
Let it run on.
Holding hands.
Kiss me quick, kiss me slow.
Life won’t wait, and then it’s time to go:
to work,
to chores,
responsibilities.
But tomorrow we’ll be back,
you and me.
Maybe a disposable BBQ by the front step,
a couple of songs we haven’t found yet,
and the world rolls by,
fast and slow.
I’ll close my eyes and let it go.
I’ll close my eyes and let it go.
(c) Paul Andrew Sneddon
Miserable Bastards (Part One): A writer wakes up with a hangover, no plan and a ceiling that’s due to collapse.
One second,
Two seconds,
Three seconds,
Four seconds.
Time slips away.
I open my eyes.
The morning is bright.
Too bright.
Am I alive?
My mouth is dry.
My head hurts.
I can see the patch on the ceiling where the water has spread.
It used to be about the size of a 50p piece.
Now it’s more like the bottom of a bucket.
I rented this place from Jon Phillips with the last of the money from my book.
I flick through my phone, text messages to him.
No reply at all.
No reply from anyone.
I wonder if they can fix it before the roof comes in.
I run my hand through my shaggy beard and check the time.
8.50.
Ah, fuck it.
Why is it that you wake up early when you’ve got nothing to do?
No appointments.
No calls.
No agent.
No girl.
Nothing.
Ah, fuck, I’m awake now. I sit up in the bed.
The little computer by the side of the bed can barely run a word processor, but that’s all I need.
Well, I don’t really need that at the moment.
I look over last night’s files.
Nothing.
Coffee at 3am is not a great idea.
What’s worse than bad writing?
No writing.
Are you a writer if you don’t write?
I look in the mirror.
Used to be a writer.
Now I’m a,
Well now,
Now I’m nothing.
I stretch and yawn, feel the ache in my bones.
I feel the chill in the room.
Shit.
Did I fall asleep with the window open last night?
I pull back the curtain.
The window is shut, but I can feel the draft sweeping through.
Fuck’s sake.
To business.
I stand and stretch, walking across the worn carpet, past the little kitchen alcove. I put some songs on the little speaker.
Then to the shower.
And then.
Inevitably.
To the bar.
Thanks for reading. Part 2 to follow next week.
© Paul Andrew Sneddon
Bus stop in the gentle rain,
Waiting,
Waiting.
Old couple arguing about something, nipping at each other.
Dressed like they are on a hill-walking expedition in monsoon season for the trip down to the bingo.
Sharing a packet of Wotsits.
The wet grass.
Cars rolling by in the street,
Turn up the volume,
Ian Dury and the Blockheads
Burst through my headphones.
And I’m traveling,
Borneo,
Bordeaux,
Fantastique.
Feet tapping,
Moving,
Near ready to fly.
Suddenly, shoulders start going,
And the arms,
Like a dad dancing special at a wedding,
I’m moving.
The Missus is over the road walking a dog,
Chuckles and gives me a wave.
Saxophone solo hits,
I give her a wave back.
And I’m moving like Jagger,
Moving smooth like an old soul band,
Busting some moves like Sam and Dave,
Found the 46-year-old version of the splits,
I’m channelling James Brown.
The lights are on at the bus stop,
Like a late-night club.
Me and her are dancing together,
She always was a great dancer,
Natural rhythm,
Her perfume.
The dog’s the DJ,
Spinning the songs,
Looking at us like,
“You got this.”
The old couple are boogying together,
They used to do salsa,
They announce,
“You young ones are missing out,”
They laugh.
As me and my lady dance closer,
Slower,
As the beat hits,
And we are dancing down
The Champs-Élysées,
Santa Fe,
Troon Bay,
Roses and fireworks.
We hear the bus,
but it can wait.
At least a beat.
(c) Paul Andrew Sneddon
Sunday night in the setting sun,
front step sitting now the work is done.
The universe is in my veins,
I’ve got my phone playing some songs,
rock and soul all night long.
Close my eyes and breathe it in.
Every Sunday, you’ll find me here,
some songs and a couple of beers.
Take it easy, let it roll.
Life moves fast, so got to take some time,
going to rest my mind,
The stars above the moon revealed.
The fuss and fury of the day, let it go,
breathe out, and flow.
Sit back here against the door.
The streets are quiet now; the day will end,
and tomorrow we rise for work again.
But I don’t feel alone anymore.
Cheers.
(c) Paul Andrew Sneddon
Paul Andrew Sneddon 