Manson Lecture 11: CREAGLE! (Jan 26th, 1998)

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My wood alcohol vision …

“All the mingus freaks of sector 3 will achieve total consciousness …”

Crazy Phil mumbled this after seeing the therapist. He’d talk about the NAM and all the gooks he’s killed and all the wet work he did in El Salvador and all the nuns he buried there. He was my cell mate for a year, maybe two. He told me mad things, things that would keep you up at night … sleepless nights of mad crazy thoughts.

“Once they connect? – then COMES CREAGLE …”

Phil muttered “creagle” constantly … telling me about crows and ravens and parrots and bald eagles. He was convinced that a super raven was about to arise to clean up the mess of the world and punish mankind for its totalistic bullshit.

Going to GOSHEN …

HOW?

I could stand in the wild and smell the weird angel flowers. I’d make myself small before the throggen-klass and bear the burden of my children’s sins. That’s where the CREAGLE came from … our many sins.

Habitat of the CREAGLE …

Time of DESCENDANCE …

CONNECTING it …

Escape … from the CREAGLE …

<<< DRAFT: not yet finished pal >>>

Manson Lecture 10: Barnacle Women (Jan 6th, 1998)

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Some fuck head …

The other day a guard came to my cell. He said “CHUCK what the FUCK?” and tossed a dirty, nasty, used tampon at me … I took that thing and I put it in between two slices of Wonder BREAD and I started eating it … and I could taste the curdled and dried blood and the juices of womanhood and the disease of LIFE.

They do this, the guards …

Come by my cell and taunt me with their demon glare and the female guards … like “Brenda the BITCH” … y’all know who I’m speaking of … any who, that fucking ho will fart through the bars and call me limp dick and toss old cottage cheese at me … fuck.

And it got me thinking about women.

There are so many kinds of women, and we need to be careful. Our male power is contained in our tube-magic. Our magic is the cosmic grease which spins this world to and fro and mixes the milkshake of historical significance baby …

There are kind and gentle women, women who bake bread and sing songs and make love on the summer grass …

There are hag witch women who tear you apart with their goth looks and their slinky dresses and all the needle tracks on their white, clammy, inner things …

These are all terrible.

A man needs to seek the love of a barnacle-woman.

The two-toothed male hooker, Marty? – he remembered finding the cootie goop below the 3RD MASTER of T’eglos. He had 6 johns waiting on him, they all paid in silver and bullets and belts. He showed me the hole and I saw the goddess spread her wings and steal my smoke-blender …

That’s what you’re left with … old stale miserable wet dreams.

Seaside Surprise

I took the short path to Eden, after the monkey-crows of Compton chased me to Malibu. I got high and took a hammer to Slim. Slim passed out and his head was bleeding and this did not go unnoticed …

We were crazy and making way and waves and the BEACH BOYS were making music with us and then Jo-Jo said “Hey CHUCK, why don’t we FUCK …”

She was a hot one, Jo-Jo …

She had black hair, and freckled skin that was sunburned … she wore an old t-shirt and tore up jeans and a Navy p-coat. When she pulled down her pants you could tell she was ripe and ready for action.

BUT THIS WAS NOT THE FINALITY OF THE THING …

If you open your third eye to the glowing goddess of retribution? – you can see that green speck and it lurks behind the eyeballs of your own dogged bullshit. Your mind is melting from old sweaty coins you shoved in your ears and your stool is turning blue. After all this, you cannot find your way to the meat palace and old bitch wardens will twist your nuts.

CAST YOUR WISHES UPON THE SEA GRASS …

Take time to smell the waffle-turtles that gather near the shore …

Burn the sunbathers with napalm surprises and take their ashes and spread them among the bird-scrags of San Luis Obispo … a place where old monks worship DAGON and serve 8 masters of disguise.

IN THAT WORLD: you are the muskrat warrior, and she is your queen of delight …

And after 700 years your heart will turn to glass.

Her trip is your death …

You can’t take that trip. The trip befalls a man running from a snake goddess covered in twimby-grease. And bucket-eagles search for small rats living in the high rise condo where you painted over the bullet holes in the ceiling. And the monkey priest says GO … so you GO.

The girls I’ve known are speed freaks and lucky loons and crippled hearts from old time’y story book land. They carry purses filled with tampons and cigarettes and tickets to old movies they’ve seen … alone.

The girls I’ve known travel in packs and hiss and are ready for action. They have spiked out hair and erratic glances and take their time when massaging your cock … those women. Capital thinking from that sweet fleet of cherry chicks, all of whom carried switchblades inside their dresses and under their boobs and would cut you … cut you deep.

This is why we are stuck, brothers, in these prisons of our mind: women …

IS THERE NO ESCAPE FROM THIS BULLSHIT?

The ride ain’t cheap – but if you stand on the corner of 11th and Boblimptock AVE and seek out Hera the girth-mistress of Central Town? – you can take her to the castle and see the wizards and talk over the spell that will take you beyond …

In her flight she will wing you to the heavens and there you will see women covered in layers of love and death and rock and fury … these are the MOUNTAIN WOMEN of MARS … these are the women we should launch into space.

Barnacle Women

These are the women of the city. They hunt beaver-bass by the old mill where the harlot bishops hold court with rat banshees. All of this is left for the taking if you have the heart of a spent ho lost on the world stage and bleeding from every hole.

The women are hardy and sturdy and their legs are covered in hair …

They speak 5 languages and know kung-fu and they can bend in all directions to leave their smear upon the stale old crust of that bedeviled wilderness. DO YOU HEAR ME FUCKER?

Deliver to the goddess the 10 drinks of honey-piss and give her the golden shower. Devour her love chili if she serves it up, but discard the overused condoms … remember, you can use a condom twice … if you’ve been exposed to radiation.

THIS IS OF GREATER IMPORTANCE THAN WATER: breathe the free spirit of her BARNACLE JUICE … her skin will be rough, coarse, covered in calcium deposits and old sins. Her mind will be split and shifty, but in her eyes you will find the chasm and the organic exploration of soul NAZIs and spiritual time-vampires.

Manson Lecture 9: Mystery Hotel … (December 27th, 1997)

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Slouching towards Gomorrah’s slash-pad …

In September of 67′, I was still a lonesome traveler with few amigos.

I had hunted skeel-mack while in the hoosegow and now my back was broken by it. I knew I needed the warmth of my iron and concrete mother, but I also saw a glimmer of wet hope in the brownish rain of California and its many miracles. I took a ride down there … with a girl who had blonde hair and a black heart … we tasted the moist west coast mornings and jingled our groin-shredders.

She used me … I used her … a one time token from a monkey-god in the mountains …

I dropped that body off and then met up with some old friends … Carla and Bigz.

Carla and Bigz were with me in those days, taking turns with the castaway freaks off of Boblimptock AVE … Bigz was a pimp and a hustler and a rustler and a poet-magician … Bigz ran hookers here and there and in San Francisco … they called him the San Francisco Treat.

Carla?

Carla was a cloven woman, a tribe-breeder, a master of coinic-arts and jumbly-juice surprise. She had 20 kids she didn’t know about, she gave birth while passed out on grapefruit wine. She was a hooker and a lover and a builder of pain castles …

Carla and I would take walks where the floaters would be sitting out on the bay. Me and Carla would grab stones and sit at the pier all day … trying to skip rocks over the corpses floating in the sea. Carla would always drink some rum each time she won, and she won a LOT … so many bodies.

How did I meet Carla? – we used to hang out at the Tuddsler Lounge looking for cocaine, me and my crew … and then Sluggo said “go down to Prairie Street and look for a hooker named Carla … she’s hairy and angry and covered in boils and rashes and scars that go deep … deep to the bone. Heroin holes, mold banquet”. That’s when I first met her, my Dirt Queen.

I told Carla, “… you will be my bar room princess, I will be your buffalo king”, Bigz made fun of me … I took a beer bottle and broke it off and shoved it into his face … he’s not smiling no more.

We had to be on the run … we had to move … we needed to travel and to sleep …

It’s like you arrived yesterday but wanted to get here tomorrow.

Northwest winds …

When you trap a love-angel in the smiggis? – you leave her broken in a dirty bed, with nasty old blankets and sheets and bedbugs and a stink of some dread deed that happened years ago, but the ghosts still haunt the bathtub where the shotgun blast rung out. Then it’s just over. That’s how those days and nights felt, traveling the coast, looking for a place to “stay”.

“I love your soul colors … your color is crystal green palace flower …”, Carla said to Bigz. Bigz, who was driving the car, flicked the coals from his lit cigarette back on Carla’s nice little white dress … “YOU SUMMA BITCH! I’LL KILL YA!”, Carla screamed … but Bigz kept trucking.

When you can find the sparrow realm, you can find the misty mountains of Thai style massage paradise, where Glungis-Kings ravage the milk-maidens of those eastern regions and the old guard sells rooms to dark figures, doing surgery, late at night. And your last buck is in hock. I could sense some place opening up, where we could find respite … where we could “stay” and be welcome to stay …

You stop by the filling station and steal their loot and set fire to their pumps and an old Navaho injun looks at you, right into your eyes and says, “… he was a teacher, he never meant to hurt … he was just a poet, living in a demon world, surrounded by darkness …”, that’s what the Navaho spirit said … and you look at that old wino shaman and take your brass knuckles and wipe that smug injun look off that old man’s face … and then you pay the gas station attendant.

The sklinkus fist is the gird pistol, and you can’t stop chasing the dragon until the dragon has chased you up a tree … and your true love is hanging from the tree … and you feel a longing for those Miracle Whip days of freebie carrying on and busted up temples, smoking hot. I got done beating the injun, and my gird pistol was covered in dried blood – turning black.

You behold the truncheon ruin, when cops and guards and nurses and nuns … covered in spikes … chase your naked and quivering body down the street. And you try to hide in a culvert of your own despair, but it’s Valentine’s Day, and everyone will burn. Just eat the candy.

“Is that a hotel up there?”, I asked Bigz.

“Shit … that’s the Winston, we don’t want to stay there …”

“Why?”

“That’s where those hookers disappeared …”

“Then that’s where we’re staying …”

And Bigz pulled into the parking lot, and Carla awoke from her nap.

Hotel Winston

Crabs … the crabs live in the dead brains of miserable pimps working near 13th and Shipton … where that old man got hammer drunk and fed poison to the fish-women of Chinatown … and then after he hacked to death 65 people in a pure rage … those were the thoughts in my head as we checked in.

The guy at the desk was young and angry and his eyes were jaundiced …

“You want a room?”, he asked.

“Fuck yeah … big enough for my whole family …”

“That’s extra charge … for 3 in 2 …”

“3 in what?”

“3 people in a 2 person room …”

“YOU FUCKER?”

I stared at that skunk face, making my face look all weird … and he relented to the normal overnight fee … $6.

We saw the room … urine and vomit not yet dry, beds wet with stink and bleach … something bad had happened, was happening, would keep happening … and no one was going to clean up this scar in the universe. Some scars are re-opened forever …

My crinkle ass got stuck in the place it seems, that hotel covered in yellow bile and the cracks in the toilets and the mold eating away our our love affair? You couldn’t break my heart because I’d sold it to a shaman for 20 gold nuggets and a pound of premium weed. You can’t stop it. You get taken down a notch by life. Your love lays there, motionless in the bed, leaving her sweat upon the polyester covers … colored a desert theme, with cowboys killing injuns and mankind torn apart by mirror scorn. You can see her body, and you know she’s dead, you did it.

We dropped off our stuff, and then Bigz and I left Carla in the room to do some exploring …

But you can’t just leave her there, Carla … you have to tie her up. Her body is her mind-cathedral. The Towers of Dagon stand guard against cotton candy miracles and cigarette outings … you stare long at the red eyes of that demon and you see your cougar self, and the pus drips hardy from your old wounds. She will tear the place apart, she will kill and shrill and thrill … we had to tie her up.

“… my wine trail was a blood line to the virgin hills of northern California. My breath filled your love-zone with splendid juice …”, Carla said as we left.

I Told her: “I love you baby. We could rage down by the corner with old Griggis and the Flimsy Twins … we could cook up some scrag and clean out our veins and find the hooker paradise in Fresno. We could, if we had hands covered in demon grease and a heart welded shut by an arc welder.”

Carla had that LSD stare …

Carla was the TIGRIS PRIESTESS, she held my heart with metal tongs. I rolled in the grasses of her summer valley and we suckled on blood-grapes. Tired old spinsters made us a quilt, and we soiled it with our love grease and then set fire to their wispy old home. Crones die badly. We were free to touch our energy cubes …

“Leave the lointment cream”, muttered Carla as I locked the door behind us …

15th Floor …

Bigz and I went up to the 15th floor.

Where could we go? – if we’d had the time? – we would’a built robot armies and computers the size of buildings … we would’a got men and women and their precious monkey-oils connected in some super fricassee of painful watching, dread mourning and a heartless night.

Bigz and I chased an old couple down the hallway, and then we came to a door labeled:

“SADNESS”

And we could smell a new stink, a stranger fragrance of those torrid nights spent hunting spunk whales.

We ran into another fucker … in the hallway … shooting up heroin. I said “D’lingus! Take thy sword out of my shaft and stop your drinking and smoking …” All he could do was pick up an old 2×4 and beat me near to death. He said he was sorry. He bought me a coke. I waited several days and crushed his skull with an old chunk of rip-rap, over.

We were setting new limits … and we needed to sleep, so we went back to the bedroom to check on Carla and get into bed …

Checking OUT

The unbroken promise of two mingled as one and then fried and cooked and barred from the Gates of T’ovish where muskrat-dragons wage war on old burnt out ape-weasels. The whole thing costs $5 … and you can watch and the women will pee in your mouth when they’re done. See it?

You can’t pay in money when checking out …

The hotel is an energy dam, designed to store the mind-thoughts of cretins and marlins and old eagles driven mad by whiskey magic …

The hotel is meant for goombah-freaks and jellybean heads and tormented lovers readying themselves for the final feast …

I will burn it down …

(all of it)

Manson Lecture 8: Cooking Out with Friends … (December 22nd, 1997)

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Squeaky Has a Hangover

We’d been at Spahn Ranch for about 6 months … maybe a year …

Squeaky had been hanging out, down by the cambio, where thrunkets had been burning bodies to scare away the rat-toads. “I can’t find no help down there”, she screamed to anyone that walked by. They kicked her out to find her own paste, and she ended up wasted on white-lightning and then came my way for renewal …

“Why don’t you take your love meat to me no more Charlie?”, squeaky moaned, wearing her torn up sun dress and covered in 8 days of filth.

“You get cleaned up …”

“Fuck YOU Charlie …”

“You get cleaned up Squeaky, and I’ll take my pipe and blow you a tune.”

She stuck her tongue out at me, threw a rock at my head, and ran off behind the faux-deo, where there were fake cows eating fake grass …

Several days later, after Tex and I had got done burying those hookers … we went to check up on Squeaky …

“Hun …”

“Yeah …”

“Hun, you coming back to supper with the family?”

“Nah, I’m drinking piss-whiskey Chuck …”

After several attempts, I told Squeaky I was going to have a BBQ, a cookout, in honor of her and her womanhood and her life and her flesh and her soul-vibrations and her lovely personality. We’d drink and eat in honor of Squeaky …

Squeaky smiled and said “what ya gonna cook?”

What to Cook?

Tex and I had been out for days … chasing tail … hunting h’ringus meat and darlings down by the Broken Arrow Ranch in Redding. We met up with some old friends, buddies of ours from prison days, and we had a great fete. We set up this huge bonfire, and we got angry and drunk and crazy and sang songs of hunting meat in the night, and chasing it down.

When Squeaky had asked about the menu, my thoughts were unclear …

“You have more h’ringus left, don’t ya?”

“Nah Tex, we gave half of it to the Hell’s Angels, and the other chunk to the scrumbics who were worshiping BAAL down by the water.”

But Tex did point out that the scrumbics had a loyal proselyte named V’runda, and he worked in power-magic and Texas style cookouts. You can’t always tell with the scrumbics, they conceived of a 8 eyed demigod named Aargoz, and his penis was 800 feet long, and he inseminated the whole universe …

So I called up the scrumbic master, Shaman Douglas, and he said V’runda was catering a Satanic wedding but he would be available by 8 PM, and he would bring the meat …

So that was great … we had the universe working with us. You have to open your spirit windows to allow the great cosmic energy to penetrate your mind-gina … Women have a va-gina … but all beings have a mind-gina … And we needed to pop that cherry.

V’runda Has a Seizure

V’runda showed up at 9 PM, and Squeaky had already been drinking the Sterno by then … she’d made Sterno-jelly-shots and mixed in old cocoa and lamb’s blood and d’risket pudding and other things she found growing by the abandoned caves …

“You ready?”, V’runda asked.

Most of our cadre was passed out around the fire pit. Round one of coco-shrooms was complete. Coco-shrooms were a mixture of psychedelic mushrooms and cocaine – you then add raw chocolate and mix with warm milk and vodka. We usually did 5 to 20 shots of coco-shrooms a night.

“YOU GUYS ALL DRUNK!”, cried V’runda.

At that point I woke from a dream. In my dream, I had been flying in the Land of Takkas, being chased by gornet-birds and whisper-hawks. I was dressed in a golden cape and a silver codpiece and fists of glowing red hot titanium. I was seeking my queen, my love goop, my holy guacamole. I was chasing after that fever that kills the old and banishes the young. I was caught in the eternal lie.

“I’ve brought something special …”, V’runda smiled and poked me with stick.

“What you got skunkis-snake?”

“I brought yeeler-dogs …”

At that moment our whole party awoke. They had yeeler-dogs a while back, while hanging with the Beach Boys and writing musics. Yeeler-dogs were made of old aged cheese and wild boar from Germany and Danish ham scraps and other stuff … scary stuff … we’re not supposed to talk about. Yeeler-dogs … it was a Squeaky party.

You run OUT of hotdogs, then what?

The party had been going for about 5 hours … it was 1 or 2 AM, and Squeaky was leading the group in weird songs about sand vibrations and the genital crabs she got, and never got rid of, in San Diego. V’runda looked at me, shook his head …

“We’re out of dogs …”

“No more dogs?”

“No more dogs …”

So I had to give the after dinner speech.

“Children, listen up …”, I said. “The challenges of our age exist in the protein sauce reunion of the woman-beast with the man-child. We can’t just bounce around, without a sense of cookie charm. We can’t just eat the weeds and grind the sand to make tamales … our destiny is to find MAGIC in the puddles. We can spend all night eating yeeler-meat … or … OR WE CAN DANCE AND FROLIC AND FIGHT AND HUNT AND BLEED AND BREED …”

The whole speech lasted about an hour … by then, the clan was restless.

ADF: After Dinner Fun

Squeaky was twitching, in a fetal position … her hands covered in blood. And we had to clean her up … the whole thing was blowing open towards starlight mystery.

We’d decided to run down to Clif’s place, not far from Laurel Canyon …

Clif had whale-paste – this stuff the Japanese whalers sucked out of the adrenal glands of sperm whales they killed. This was the strongest and purest adrenocrhome you could possibly get your hands on …

C9H9NO3

C9: 9 angels there for Charlie …

H9: 9 hounds chasing Charlie …

NO3: 3 times I am told NO by QUEEN URONA …

Clif wasn’t awake, he was passed out watching Dragnet. Squeaky yelled at his house for 30 minutes, then she picked up a rock and busted out the plate glass window in front … this startled Clif …

“What the FUCK is going on out there?”

Squeaky, enraged and disassociated, picked up one of the jagged decorative rocks from Clif’s front yard and beat him to death with it … she was covered in blood. She ran into the house, stole all the whale-paste from Clif’s fridge, and we went back to Spahn Ranch.

Closing it OUT and Cleaning it UP

Cooking-out for friends, like Squeaky, is never easy …

We took the whale-paste back, we drank and cheered the new morning …

We ate sunrise tacos and made love and covered our bodies in whale-paste and smoked pot and did some cocaine and took a nap …

And after all this?

There was love.

(love man)