Manson Lecture 3: Finding Bliss! (November 6th, 1997)


The Other You

I was the crooked spider, you were my starling.

My soul-spirit-self was born in Missouri, I just had to find it buried under a dead indian.

I enguzzlelated with the wenches of Uurt, and met the high priest. He gave me aerosol to clean out my hearing and a torch to light my way to the next casino mattress love affair. And you were too busy to keep time, and I was too ready to carve out your cold dead heart. Bliss?

Bliss was a rainbow in the sky when I was 12, staring bleakly into the cop’s eyes as he set fire to my home and lit up my mom and burned my brothers and sisters with his heroin handshake …

Bliss was the curl-snake hiding in the bush, not far from the old lady that you steal social security checks from. Bliss keeps her mitts sharp, and her eyes are like frog-glass when the springtime monkey-wind is burning and the crabs are itching.

The other love-space is always hollow and empty …

Your kindling spirit is the gale walk, to the cloudy franchise, and you can sell your Tupperware to the old crones that live out their days in darkness. Your fire is kept close, like a Zippo lighter raid in Nam, when you set fire to the village … and watched as the families ran out of their homes in flames.

The other is a bliss-thief, and your joy is a fire you have to protect. You have to be like Rae Don Chong or some animal beast in the forest primeval that tries to wash herself by the stream but is rudely interrupted …

The other can be managed, if you set expectations of joy.

Energy Zones

YOUR VOICE is just soul nuzzle, your knife is still sharp Mistress of Flowers – let the knife speak for you. Your voice obscures the compass of steel, and your own ears are covered in turd grease; that’s where the soul grease lives, in the smingus hole.

The grains are pure tree-power. The wheat particles that build up in your sphincter translate to holographic love powers. Too much of this NEW PORRIDGE will dilute the corduroy cowboys and bend the spirit of Chief Plow. So poke the candles and light the hawk and burn the salad. When your heart yearns for squeebus, but your mind is tart and dry.

Jet Stream

We were space riders taking our turns at the wheel, staking claim to asteroid caves and old woolly taverns along the wharf. The sailors would part their hair with a piss paddle, and the harbor seals would wail in the night screaming out their terrible desires. I could look for hot young flesh down by the water, and scream out my pain into her forgotten warehouse. But the bed is rusty and the pillow soaked in blood.

This new way is POISON to the demon’s EYE – his gaze is lost in amazement as the sallow henchmen take their turns at playing dandy McGhee.

The poison that fills the air is the mint and the syrup and the pancakes and the eggs and bacon and the cops will grab a bottle of rye and beat you over the head until you die .. but the carrot masons will carve stone glyphs, and sacred nuns will wash in the waters of torment.

Happiness is a WARM FUN …

I once said that the Beatles had it all – but were not happy. They had money and fame and hookers and cocaine and wives and children and lands and KINGS … but they were just things … creepy crawlers moving over the land looking for offal. They were smug and vibrant as they FAB-5’d their way between here and VENUS … but the Beach Boys would wrangle that cobweb dream and the birds would sing …. sing … sing … as the old ship rocked and the plane exploded.

They took turns at me, as I was staked out and looking for a way out …

Paul’s eyes were lusty and greedy and he shoved 2 rocks in my bum.

John couldn’t look away … as Ringo tossed me in the fire, and laughed as I rolled on the ground. They threw rocks at me and yelled “Old Charlie thinks he’s a HIPPIE!” … and all I could do was breathe rage back at them.

But this was warm and complete.

Torrid News

Chemicals can clean your toilet, but they will leave a ring around the collar – and that old sheriff will holler as you bleed out in the cell. They will cave in your skull and plant a seed of doubt and watch as you writhe and laugh at your dead fathers.

The locals will carry your body to the dump and there they will toss gasoline and poop and dead animals and rotten fruit upon you and then set your body alight … and watch as the fat and grizzle glow red into the morning hours.

Sky Gel

“Don’t take my oils!”, she muttered as I left her apartment.

“Don’t take my sacred greases!”, he yelled as the whores of Dallas left ammo and rifles for that one shot pony to take down the man.

The gun was shot to split time into two parts: a) time of Matter from b) time of Spirit … the pieces of skull litter the streets of this regret.

Time was split by sky-gel, and the white milky stuff that covers all red light district door knobs as the johns walk back from their meager romance.

Healing the Stone

The STONER kills time watching the fly eat the apple.

The dark stone is picked up or does it pick itself up and fling itself at the cop’s head? – as the head-case splits in two, do you see the unraveling of pain?

You can be free of pain-grease, but only if the stone is thrown …

The stone heals the wretched heart as sparks fly and eagles sing old ditties in the night. They will form posses and hunt your kinfolk as they run for Mexico and snort cocaine. The stone will bring a light of special funky wizardry that lets you be a sky-angel and carry pixie-dust hand grenades and apple pie machetes. And this will be done in one night.

Where was Bliss?

She ran from me, her “Charlie”, out of apprehension and inner sadness. Her body was an accumulation of insults from this life. She would say “Charlie, why can’t we have tacos?” … and I’d say “Baby, you are the taco …” … and I’d smile, and she’d laugh … sometimes.

Bliss runs naked in the dark looking for her last rusty needle of horse. She stakes out her terrain, her base, her land, as an honor to Helen and the other gods of failed epochs. When her flame went out, she sought the honor of temple gallows and old misers with spear shaped beaks.

You can find her out there … still.

She runs in the dark, presenting happiness like a toy gun filled with tomato sauce.

You can have the gun …

But you have to bring the new life understanding.

Only then can you find your bliss.