Edward Laine

things & stuff, or something

May 22, 2012 at 3:06pm

An ongoing post to be sent to publishers(at some point).


by Edward Laine

Chapter one:

  The strange entanglement of the sun, twisted in kooky bedlam with The Great King Moon in winter.

Have you ever looked down at yr feet on the long walk home & wondered if you’re really moving forward any more or if all your really doing is just moving the ground? You think you’re moving in the right direction, following the north star or the compass in your brain or maybe just your nose or your thumb and fore finger. You  believe that you’re gonna make it somewhere, you have to believe. What else is there. The truth is, you’re going nowhere, we are all going nowhere, we just spin on the slanted axis & never really go anywhere. We have been conditioned to believe that this is the way the world works but I’m here to tell you that it doesn’t, you gotta buck up, fuck up or fuck off ‘cus let me tell you, yr ‘dreams’don’t mean nothing to nobody ‘cus living, real living is not connected to REM.That’s all just more bullshit you’re gonna have to put up with people trying to sell you. Lick the boot, get over the barrel & bite down on your watch strap. That’s all there is to it. The mind is a magnet. If you find yourself staring in to the abyss: Jump right in. Swan dive. Hold your breath & wait. Everything will be OK. I promise(muhah).

I’m writing, ah writing! Writing this worthless piece of vomit// manuscript of means for you. For me, for the future, for love, for lust, for hatred of all things hating, for your mother & father, for my friends, my beautiful angelic, clinically insane friends, for time, for the soles of my shoes with hundreds of miles under their laces, for your fat greedy pockets, for the moon, for the sun to spit on, for the wind to taunt, as he does like the great cowardly, perverted invisible fiend that he is, for nothing, for not quite everything, for your aching lovers, for your broken hearts, for the worlds water, may you always be clean & run free, for the great biblical liars, for the sorrowful wonder of the great homeless & may all their wants come to be wanted, for fucking, for fumbling, for the vast oaken heavy doors of bars that keep us safe from the  horrors outside, for guilt, for sugar-blue smoke, for all the kids sitting in piss stained squat houses with half a horse embedded in their face, for my schools that gave up on a bored child, for warmth & fire & woollen clothing, for Paris where I can fulfil my great dream of becoming a sullen cliché, for the gravel-mounted marching marvel, may you never lose your way, for the Parthenon, for Aubergine, for The Firefly, the swan, bleeding,for growing up, for all the music makers,all people should play all instruments to any degree(rather than just, age & shrivel), for Howl for Carl Solomon, for every down & out that ever clawed his way up the street & through the yellow door, for all the animals that gave their lives to keep me fat & red faced, for Christ sake, for the invisible man in the sky, causing all war & so much death-thank you, for the wild west, for Bert & John, for the great literary mastodon to look down his reset nose at & ask me why. Why?

The way that old dial telephones look & feel. The questions that need no answers. Feeling down, down & out, upside down & inside out,upside in & downside out on the pavement at five am. Waking up in unknown beds & crawling down drain pipes. Getting lost in a place you have lived your whole life. Being in the woods simply to be in the woods. Drinking coffee even though you hate the taste. Never telling a stranger the truth. Living under a false name. Drinking yourself to death in the dark lonely-crowded corners of vomit stained wood floor warehouse floors. Feeling solid-sterling-gold for feeling so terribly horrifically half-corpse-like the only way you can really feel is completely statuesquely angelically magnificent and the only way is down(you really have no idea how far I fell that morning) , Only going out when it rains. Only going out in the dark. Staying up all night dreaming and sleeping all day. Remembering to forget, forgetting to remember to remember to be forgetful. Understanding that you and no one else understands nothing but eat-drink-sleep-fuck-death. Smoking until yr tongue bleeds and yr eyes burn like that fire in the sky in the fearful month of June. Wishing you knew how to tie a noose & writing ”suicide” on yr calender on a day you have no planned engagements. Shooting to the moon & back in the bee-bop-bo-bo-batter-batter-chitter-chatter like jazz on the neon streets of the earths mother. Crawling in to a stone cold bed after walking for six days & feeling bored & lonely again in ten minutes. 

That’s why, I’m glad you asked. If I’m going out, then I’m out going with some steeze in a cloud of smoke, yr wife & I’m not taking you with me.

For all these things & more is the reason I write. To write for the sake of writing. For, some people write, just to write & they are truly the the lost meaning of it all.

Automatic travel rambles to plug up the holes in yr lonesome pockets. Blues.

Chapter two:   

Creeping moss-stick under-flowering the useless but grateful Tuesday poet, Jim Gravestone Sr.

The ghost of the monorail, living only in upturned memory sits slow & smooth/low against the Sunday evening rapture. You gotta know which way is down. Down is the way down…look down, that is down. The dew on the grass & the creamy-green residue of the night before is just too close to a real drama. Absolute dahma. Down in the cold rising damp & the stain on your shirt. 

He sits , sits like you, like me & like old Tom Mooney the prison king. If you ever saw such a sad sight as he, I do believe you would roll out your tongue on the pavement right there & then & wait for the road sweeper & all his secret, early morning charms & the great wolf man, pork chop sideburns (lupine dreams)to clean you up & clean you out. I do declare!

For he knows-for he has seen. Seen the sun rise from his pearly throne up on the dark side of the moon, the very face of Bowie, right there in the eye socket. He sees all. You can live your life, & you do, & you should, but he, O’ he, he has really been there & where & back again. You carry on with your sleepy routine of mule-back coffee office doom death jobs(you sleepy Bohemian, you)  & in you spare time trying to keep your nose from filling up with water & your private parts entwined with somebody else’s most private of parts, & on the side lines of you spare time you can deal with your family & all the friends that you’re sick of but hold on to, only for the fear of being left alone in the dark with nothing but all of the above& no i dont wanna be left alone to die alone & lonely & all alone & people gotta fuck something, dont you know & then again you always have your studies(STDS)all of the ologies, of course.

Sleepology, cocaineology,rainolgy, sunology, lonleyology, depressionology, suicideology, talkology,empypocketsology, meaninglessology, masterbationology, coutntingyourmoneyinpintsology,walkology, onenightstandology, jumpthetaxiology, begology, borrowology, stealology,feelology, upallnightology, sleepalldayology, Xology, ologyology, etcology etc…ology etc.

Just find something you can care for ‘cus [insert atheist god/idol] knows that nobody is going to do your caring for you, even I they do in fact care FOR you.

&&&I have been beginning to notice,that I(and I may not be alone)

always look at the past through a marigold monocle.

This, meaning nothing now ever seems to be joyous or gay or splendiferous until it is a past memory.

A cobweb. A rafter. A leaf on the ground.

 …I guess. 

         Chapter three:

I know you know it but people that you don’t know, really are a funny, funny thing…

I stand outside the rain & watch the people passing by; really the most depressing experience of my ever increasing years. Un-jolly fat men with whiskey-nose & scuffle-feet stanzas of gibberish, talking gibberish & gibberish being their inner most self. Pre-war women with Arctic-blue hair, faces melting, everything pointing down, shuffle. Kids pushing prams full of ugly babies towards a house of who-gives-a-shit & fuck you & I’m-gonna-die-here and what of it. Is there really no more to life. Listen to the top 40 on the radio, clueless, oblivious. Cogs. All cogs. Military troglodytes following them back in a dead eyed daze, dreaming of killing in the real and virtual. No you may not have a cigarette. Leave me alone, please. Let me listen to my watch ticking in peace & at least pretend that you don’t exist. 

The human body is comprised of several ‘substances’



hydrogen hydroxide,

fountain pens,

the lost dates of calenders,

various small woodland animals,



rabbits & field mice.

Other such things as…

Misplaced birthmarks(of the brain)

feelings of remorse and regret,

the stolen trinkets of past lovers,

and of course,

white blood cells,


and the second hand

from a 1956 ’Hamilton Rail road’ pocket watch.

E.L August 7th

           Chapter four:

Last night, last night was the last night it was the night last

Picasso raincoat. Imagelessness. Bottomlessness. I lost my umbrella & my Holden Caulfield head-wear, again. I was skipping on a rain cloud, corduroy boy and scarecrow girl, reunited in a soft entanglement sticky in the senses. Hoof! The only way is up when you walk down these stairs, snakes and blisters, but you’ll sweat it all out in babble cream conversation and love in your eyes. Tell me a story, tell me a story, tell me something to prop my chin up in this brown tunnel. Your name it is something I cant care to remember but of course I never really had a name of my own either, so we shall be the great wonder of the nameless masses, the ones born to no name and never wanted one anyway. A name is nothing but a label, a calling card, call me anything, call me king Charles II just as long as you do call me, the sound of a voice, your voice, any voice reeling off a comprised anagram of the alphabet is enough to get my short attentive ears to perk up and twist my noggin backwards towards the direction of my inbuilt gypsy sonar. So anyway, I was going to talk about something, something great… but now its gone and all I have is bloodshot eyes and sweaty liars palms to prove to the world that I had an idea once, I swear I did. 

Here’s an idea for you to dig you heels into:

The world keeps making mistakes, everybody makes mistakes, its natural, nothing to fear, it happens all day every day. BUT, with every mistake we make, we then proceed to learn from that mistake, so.. stay with me here… Once the world, the whole world meaning everyone in it, has made every mistake they can make and of course and one would hope of course, that they have also learned from all of these mistakes; once this has happened, there will be no more mistakes to make, right? Therefore leaving the world perfect as a whole, no mistakes to make, learnt their lessons on every lesson and we can all go on with living a perfect existence, yes?… 


I’ve really thought long and hard about it -could never happen, people are not perfect, they never will be, if they were I wouldn’t want to know any of them, and the world, well the world is an imperfect place, and the same rule applies.

But let me hit you with another bit of knowledge to round things off and maybe put a positive spin on things. Hoist ye marrow-thumbs around this;

One of the many few early times that my legs forgot how to use them selves, I was sitting on the pavement, trying for one to reattach these two now useless appendages stuck like butter to my lower torso, but foremost trying to light a cigarette with my useless cold hands and equally useless matches, fearful of the sneaky clear coward, invisible old Mr wind, when a kindly stranger, half my size, red my hair, opposite my sex and now opposite my broken legs appeared like a person will appear when you mind is in other minds, a smile, a sympathetic look and two working hands to fire up the stick in my mouth. I said my thanks, babbled about babble and the generation of gibberish and im sure many other things inconceivable to the sober ear of a dame such as she, the bringer of flame and enlightenment, not of the smoke but of the simple mind, an idea is what she left with me and it never left. She stopped my rambling typewriter of a tongue and said ‘shush’ she held my head in her hands, looked at me straight,so I thought she might be death or god or that I was passing out,she all green eyed and like the woods, looked at my eyes like they were tethered together and dropped the bomb on me, she said ”if you are looking at the moon, then everything is alright” kissed my warm on frozen forehead and was gone into the night, never to be seen again.

That’s all the advice you will ever need, & so ll I will leave you with.

You never left a name, but I never wanted one anyway.

Midnight moment

beautiful rags

midnight joy.

Nevermind your little light,

set apart your golden dreams 

that offen break,

& come to play.

Chapter five: There are things I want to write but I am not going to write them.

Chapter six: insert title

Ride your bike at night with no breaks & no lights

no street lamps in the country & PEDAL

as fast as you can so everything is a deadly blur 


believe that the road knows where are you are going

& that it loves you & that it is soft & that 

'pain is just weakness leaving the body'

//meat-head bull shit//blah

I no longer wish to write like jazz

but to only be honest

alas, once again my hands are a opaque swizzle 

of pink flesh & I find myself wanting to voice my

words with my bones & scream GALLEEB SHIMB CRANK ROARR-

EEEEEE like I always do

Friday night I danced in the dark with great humiliation 

& not caring(much)drank down brown ale & talked to no girls

I realised that music was dying just like all the greats soon will be & what then but eatsleepdrinkfuckdeath again&again&again&again

spoke of films I knew nothing about but nodded anyway

like I always do 

once again attempting to walk the 25 miles home for lack of pockets & broke in to the train station where we slept & smoked under the milky light of no glasses.














Chapter seven: December & a bit of January

Observations & conversations, written the the shallow heights of the sinister winter.

The year that the would ended, successfully, unsuccessfully 

”who were forced to open antique stores where they thought they were growing old & cried”(AG)

The same year we lost Bert & nobody cared & as a mark of respect, all of my guitars were given away as

parting gifts & so the songs did not cease to be written but only written now on key-junk & toy-scramble

& far as my plans are planned this is the way I will stay, & no, your’re right, it’s true I haven’t played  show in  months. My fingers now smooth & twice as yellow, just like when I was older than I was tomorrow & you ask me if I have ever been forever & the notebook brimmed over full of eavesdropping & secret secrets I expose in writing that you’ll never read  & long walks home & Picasso pictures of strangers that I’ve never seen (gasp!) The great mythological hat flapped, low heeled, opaque smoke covered goon of the night, only to be seen propping up lamp posts for a light to scribble by  & then gone in to the night again like Jack The Shadow when he was young & always one eye open when the cars drive by, to save the blind eye, in one eye anyway & now & then blind in both by text message of newfangled but out of date technobabble & uncool is the new cool. Tired, writing. 

The gravel mounted marching marvel, which never really made any sense to begin with  but(have you ever read Tender buttons?) nothing else really ever makes sense too, just like when I discovered that time doesn’t exist, but O’ the contradiction of the clock ticking. simultaneously asking favours from the moon, saying ”come on, please, tonight could really be the night, one more, anything,  anyone will do” praying, but only in jest & grand sarcasm just like the day that Chaplin died(although, yes it’s true I do enjoy the merriment, but in the end it only brings me down once again to think how its only once a year that people stop hating each other & then only for the want of THINGS) & now birthdays too have fallen through the holes in the floor in a see-no-evil-hear-no-evil attempt to keep from aging & even now I feel a little older(tick tick tick). Always fearful of change, constantly fumbling for more change in futile empty pockets in the back bar to keep from being seen & then back around the river again to sleep & dream only the most mundane of dreams to wake up scared that you have no ideas left & your creativity, which was all you ever had has finally dried up before you really got to use it, & the pain in your nut-box, maybe you’ve really gone too far this time & maybe you really have woken up dead this time & woe is everything & you never got to be a cliche & move to Paris & write & starve  & drink with Hem & Fitz & watch Fitz faint & work in a hotel with Orwell & all the Russians & be treated like shit by Strickland(even he was fictional & if he wasnt he died a leaper any-who).

you know you’ve always been a leth-wretch & a glutton for sorrow, but who cares about happiness, all things temporary etc etc. & I remember saying ” I think to make any great art, you first need to die a little” when I was drunk & the next day feeling a fool, but ”better a witty fool than a foolish wit” etc etc. when I got the beermares & the flashbacks of secret hand holding under the table & us(I), waiting until we were alone & never spoke of it again(again)& now the standard issue of time apart before we forget again & the whole thing will unravel again with shocking to the detail similarity as before & the time before also similar, for which I wont go into details for fear of you reading this & having probably already written it yourself, you being a much greater writer than I & we both know it, but still you would never say it & I only babble about myself in a chain smoking, nonsensical, bending on a loop, only ever thinking out loud fuzzy feedback ash tipping of the mind but still I wouldn’t give away any secrets. I’m still surprised I gave you my real name, but my oh my, isn’t hard being a spy.

The good old days…

      The good old days…

I miss ”The good old days.”

            I really do.

Chapter eight: The Golden Glow #2 Vs The Downtrodden & The Incredible Hipness of Being

Ground flesh, stumble-grins, arguments without anything pertaining to anything else, only downside down-slide, grumble, rumble & spiff.

If you ever take out a loan at this bank you better not take down any trees ‘cus they’ll chop you back down, believe me.

Only the fire may burn in yellow & gold, you gotta burn in black,

horrid gold, horrid shtuck, never take a trip too soon, never ride in a car with a man in a green fedora or a 8-ball on the gear stick.

When I fell down the stairs you caught me and said ‘dont you know that you can die?’

'no, no, whats that?'

'never mind' 

and you were gone.

I think I’m really going crazy, I’m losing my hair and my teeth feel loose, soon I’ll be nothing but a shell of hollow bones & ideas that never made it to fruition.

The world is really crumbling all around me, the people are melting, the babies are crying, the cats are singing songs of doom & the birds have all forgotten how to fly.

I have the answer, I have the solution, I can be the savior of manki…

..ooh look, donuts/sex/television/THINGS

The gravel mounted marching marvel

sits upside his un-flowered garment tree-tower

like a garbage man, empty in hand. 

Cross-legged and lonely in the southen south sea starred sea-line.

The mongrel-boy only lives in the world of the momentary scene.

Split-peeping Tom of the latch-key life style.

Under-wired by a foul contempt for self doubt & self pity


If you ever saw me eat a lemon you would make that face too,

you undercover she-wolf, you.

All you ever do is sit around and ask me questions about Eden Phillpotts

and I just dont have the answers, I’m sorry,

but I’m not sorry that im sorry.. sorry.

You sorry sonnabitch.

How can I ever be expected to build this chimney with you breathing down my neck

like some great mythical vomit producing factory worker?

All the pills in the pile will never fill the hole in your vast empty belly

and all the powders in the pill box will never amount to a mound large enough

to fill the crater in your pasty face.

Shoot from the hip.

The Boogaloo plays on the rin-tin, tin-can speakers at my Mexican hang out.  

Spinsters smile in sun-glow, while I cower in the shadow, 

being not buzzed but bothered by some sort of flying ant; 

floating around the purple flowers on the sill in which I sit. 

I am waiting for the autumn. 

The sun has got his mace out. The sun has got his Cat-O-Nine-Tails out,

and he is whipping me without a whisper of mercy. 

I will feel fine when the night falls,

when sun becomes moon, when sun kills moon, 

when the old man dying in his ship with the great fish strapped to the bow dreams about the lions once more and how it is a good thing that man does not have to fight the moon each night. 

Today is the day they said that the world would end. 

I am waiting, waiting patient, still, like some great stone Buddha,

for the rapture, or the four horsemen or the stargate,

the end all of the be all.

People around me seem calm. 

I am calm too.                                                             ­                                                                 ­  

The lizard people are coming!! 

later we drank and smoked and drank some more; running in the rain and falling off of buildings like nothing had ever happened.

”Just one more step”

Friday 7th October

Taking photos of my reflection in darkened windows.

Drinking a strange brown liquid deep, down in the mines.

Fresh air//cigarettes//stale air//dried sweat on my brow

Back in to the mine shaft.

There are pictures of Marilyn Monroe on the walls

& the mine-sweeping, bulldog-faced girl makes for quite a contrast.

We toasted to toast, toasting, toasters, bread, butter,

Clifford Raymond Bliss and the female orgasm.

























Chapter Nine: Phloop.

It was another Sunday

stirring bourbon

in the wing-backed chair,

in the same old place 

I always end up in 

when im flush.

I saw you at the bar,

said my hellos, smiled

& excepted your drink offer

and sat back down on my own

to squint at the yellow pages

of a Russian novel and try to forget

that I was me(or something, whatever)

and change my scenery.

It didn’t take long until

you were dragging me away

up the stairs to kiss me and

turn me to stone, again

(or so I thought anyway)


I can’t see you anymore, 

'cus you,

you burned out my eyes

with your cigarettes &

that way you look at me.


Chapter ten: Onion breath, you. 

Tiger stripe- midnight counting down the hours until i can see again

& on the way home(alone…yes)I swear i saw something in the hedgerow//rhyme//shudder

something, something, SOMETHING BIG

it was moving, it was watching me & licking its lips

it knew my name, my real name

it said

they’re right you know


it sounded like Miles Davis on those recordings when you hear him say something off mic to the engineer

it said

is that what you wanted

are you happy

what do you want

what do you want

what do you want

i was running

it was chasing

it was tethered to my boot heel

it was on wheels

it howled like a BETCH

the lights of passed houses lighted up

the wife was saying

what was that noise, honey, honey, what was that noise.. go look

the husband was sleeping

the husband was buddha’d

i ran to my car

locked the door

put on the shipping forecast

slept on the backseat

morning came



you are a





oxybad man


oxyi dont like you



oxypoo poo head

oxybig meanie

oxynot a very nice person




oxyleaveme alone

oxyplease go away
















Chapter Eleven:

(F)Left (R)over (A)Lines (G)From (M)Last (E)Years (N)Notebooks(TS) 

All the trees with polythene leaves like ghosties trapped in branches.

Dancing drunk with headphones on//& you are the taste in my mouth.

My only ambition is to one day, some how, if only for a moment, be completely angelic.

I dreamt that my eye lids were reflective thoughts on the balcony.

I guess it just boils down to one final rule - EVERYBODY HAS GOT TO FUCK SOMETHING.

Walking home with Satchmo.

It’s never too late, fall down the stairs.

If I had a car I wouldn’t have to pay rent.

The lights on the buildings shut off when they see me coming.

Walk by the river until there’s blood in my shoes.

You dress like a jumble sale & hide your teeth when you smile.

Two left feet & two right shoes.

Go outside. Drink if you want to.