Paul Andrew Sneddon

Me and the Page

I’m not afraid to tell people that I write.
In fact I’m not sure I give a fuck.

Sitting around worrying what people will think
will hollow you out,
steal the light from your eyes.

You can’t live that way. You shouldn’t live that way.

You are welcome to read.
If you like it then great.
If you don’t then that’s cool too.

But when the sun burns out,
and breathing isn’t easy,

it’s me and the page.

Why am I telling you this?
I’m not.
This is a reminder.
A reckoning.

130 Tonnes

The light in the darkness you walked towards.
A way out.
Safety.
That was the train rolling down the track,
130 tonnes that can’t turn back,
And you remember,
There are no saviours.
Just you.

The voice that you heard
Said it was on your side.
“Just send us £50,
We’ll make it alright.”
And you remember
There are no saviours.
Just you.

Early morning light,
Looking in my own eyes,
Lines on my face.
There are no saviours.
Just you.

Pulling on my shoes,
Ready or not.

Drive Home

One 

Some days she loves me. 
Some days she hates me. 
And some days she can't make up her mind.

I don't blame her,
I understand. 
Nobody is perfect. 
Least of all me. 

So I get up. 
Get dressed. 
Shirt and tie. 
Aftershave.
Paracetamol.

I go to work. 
The dealership on the corner. 
Clock in.
Clock out. 

"I'm buying." 
"I'm not buying." 
"Does this come with side cameras?" 

You like the car? 
You buy the car. 

I won't rip you off. 
Well, you know, we’ve all got to make a living.  

In the evening, 
I go to the pub. 
I drink. 
Just enough.

When I come home, 
we either sit down to dinner, 
like the old days. 

Or the house is dark. 
She's sleeping. 
So I drink.  
Lights out. 

I don't know what to do. 
So I just do. 

Two 

Some nights, 
I drive. 
Down into the city.
Past the crowds. 

I stop at the cinema,
and watch a film. 
No superheroes,
just life. 

I drive home. 
There's a note, 
she is staying at her sister's. 

She loves me. 
I love her too.

Three 

We’re not selling enough cars. 
Customers aren't spending, 
it's the economy. 

The dealership in town is doing well. 

I’m called to the office. 
I'm selling okay, but I look rough. 
Tired. 
Crumpled. 

Last warning. 

I drive home.
She's  gone. 
She's taken her stuff.

Gone. 

I just sit.
On the stairs.
I'm not sure how long.

Put on the TV, 
and flick through the channels.
Switch it off. 

Front step. 
6 years of mortgage payments. 
I don't see myself in the pictures from the day we moved in. 

Different person,
different life.

So I drive, 
to the shore. 

But when I get there, 
all there is 
is sea.

I sit by the water, 
an old tree washed ashore.
The wind stirring up a sandstorm.

A dog rushes by,
chasing a ball.
Stupid fucking dog.

He brings it to me.
What?
What do you want?
Big tongue hanging out.
He barks.
I throw it
and he runs off.
Splashing in the water.

He brings it back, 
Jumps up at me.
Oh fucks sake.
I throw the ball again,
and a woman rushes over.
"Oh I'm sorry" 
She's down the beach after him.

I sit there.
Watch the sun go down.
I drive home.

Lighting Fires

Walking through the station.
All human life is here.
Someone is playing piano.
Drawing a crowd.

Keep moving.

Gordon street,
Summer light.
People everywhere.

Music playing across the road.

Couple arguing on the corner.

Making my way through the crowd.
Light of the living.

Am I just getting older?

Time without reason.
Or purpose.

But the days that rust
Haven’t got me yet. 

The lonely spot, 
where you watched them walk away
is history.

Music playing from a basement bar.
Full band busking on Sauchiehall street.

Meeting some friends,
Going to the show.
Band counts it off.

The days that rust
Can fuck off.

Let’s light it up.

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.