Manson Lecture 4: How to kill some people … (November 12th, 1997)

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Junket Cream

I scream … you scream … we all scream … for ice cream? – sure … I could be your purple KING if you would be my love-cream-queen … Totally broke … like the family isn’t ready because Tex Watson didn’t change the spark plugs. But the cream is pure.

Your spindle heart was smeared across seven highways, and your cream glistened for the excellence of Terry Bradshaw. You could see that setting sun in her eyes, as the rope was pulled tighter, and the voices hissed fire music. It’s kinda like they have a sky-god ritual that involves wolf-flies and cigarette temples. There’s a haze of jizz in shallow loads hanging over the orange grove.

This is best explored through stories …

Jorgen Moog would walk the stray roads near Fresno, he’d pick up hitchhikers and offer them up as sacrifice to NOOL …

Jorgen would gash out the hearts of his enemies with a sharpened ice cream scoop, he’d sneer at this fellows through red eyes and old hair and body stink that filled a room. His wife was a dead cat named Jill, his children were the termites that lived in the attic. Jorgen could see the life-ray of any man or woman and he could “hop that flight” to take his part and deliver a soul home.

Junket Cream == Murder

(this is my point)

Planning

Take two sides of the eternal puzzle and throw out the ants, watch as they scurry to the old maid purse. The nights will be tense, so drink hard liquor and breed monkey-bats to guard your old style curry sauce. Take the jars of pluton and spread them out on the rocky ground and then gauge how long you have lived in this land surrounded by kestrel foragers.

Trimble beasts breathe whispers of corruption as the smokers carry bats and the lawyers carry buckets.

If you cast out your buffalo mind, your kindred indian will live in the bed next to you. Grizzly Adams will hide in the cave and make love to his cougar and give birth to a NAZI named Kevin … and this was foretold, by the Knights of Hoog. If you hold your breath long enough, you can see your target in your candy man fantasies of fire and boulders and hatchets and viscera and pepperoni pizza made of spoiled beets and rum …

You need to observe your prey, figure its routes. See where it goes at night, what it drinks, eats, who it fucks. You see the prey as an object which looks back into your hobo eyes and sees a hungry spirit bent on eternal revenge.

This is why, this is the need … for barriers and barbed wire and razors and spikes …

You have to …

You set traps …

Death Traps

A hare can run for days when the wine runs out and his ass drags …

The bird can fly too far, but the southern winds will singe her feathers and that bird will get lost in San Francisco looking for BLACK TAR madness and dirty little alleyways filled with maggot whores.

The sparrow knows the dead fall and the snare and the impaling devices from 7 RAMBO movies where spikes shoot out and pin you to a wall of your own failure. This is where the real meat is found, the protein of necessity. When the KROG-LORD spoke to Bishop Tool … he said “bring me filth baskets, and it will show you the cloven slaves” … they all ran with underwear flapping. No guns for them, only chains and chases and snakes and burning towns and angry swarms of swarthy easterners in RED.

There was a dried out river that once flowed blood, the Koondrack-Saints would sit by it and smoke bud and observe as whisker-fish ate the dead and vomited back time. This was the river where the bodies were dumped, and they were revealed as cathedrals of bone in a dried and dirty dust bowl.

Dig the holes deep …

Lay the spikes in them, covered with your poo.

Pee on them, spread the blood of dead animals on those punji sticks …

If you can skewer the heart of this rotting world, you will see the dark juices and the ghosts of yesteryear will spare your soul.

Bad Air

Mix the hydrochloric acid with saltwater and misty Canadian deer-thieves whose minds are bent in forever exposure to an unintended whistle jargon and fleet-of-foot target bears.

They want the struggling nightmares to hunt their pheasant, as cool jets of laser blindness tear open crumbling walls. Gizzards and liver-stones and diamond freaks from the Village will pile their gunzets into the wearing room and douse themselves in violet ale and tomb-wine.

The air spreads and reminds.

The bodies release gases the dogs can see this …

And vultures hold watch over the dead.

Finished

I met Alan Greenspan. He was just some kook making poop bets on IBM back in the 60’s. His eyes were glazed over and he was strung out from doing PCP straight for several weeks. He told me “money is a fancy”, and fancy people needed it. Money is the cudgel, and the KING will beat you with it … he said “we control the dlimblus realm and feed and porcupine feces …” … but money? – it’s a diamond shaped knife.

“And if you could print money …”, this is what Alan said … “you could kill some people.” You sucker them with credit cards and take them to dark lit bars and you slit their throats and leave them in Hoboken to eaten by goats … it’s money.

“If you dig a hole, and pile bodies … they can settle and turn to specials greases …”, this is what Alan told me, as he was strangling the teacher in the abandoned lot …

“If you buy a bank, and hand out loans to freaks and gombo-lords and donut heads … do not worry my son … as long as you are marked by the BEAST, you’ll be fine/found …”, this is what Alan said … that Christmas Eve, 69, as he murdered that cop … in the shoppe … looking for ludes … it was rude.

“I was the last of the silver-princes, I rode upon a horse of steel and blood, my red-named brethren are splitting their cabbages below the last cave …”, this is what he said … Alan Greenspan, as he set fire to the church in Selma, Alabama …

This is how …

How you kill …

Not just ONE, but some …

(people)