Manson Lecture 5: Love … (November 27th, 1997)


What is LOVE?

I would take you to Cowboy Charlies near the reservoir where the ZODIAC MURDERED that mind-screamer. I’ll make you flower-dressings and poon-pie and you’ll gallop on a horse behind me, hugging me … and the ointment will be cinnamon butter and elephant tongue. And this is love.

LOVE is the kindness circle … it begins with ME and ends with YOU BETTER MAKE ME A SANDWICH … ho. This is fantastic love … “ho get me a beer” love …

Love is the fire-storm of heart-songs from cleptic-horn-hunters. It is a kind of spirit grease that you can spread like jam on your broken heart and bring the healing and the callous and the scars that never leave. The scars remind you of vengeance oaths … remember this. You remember the rebar that hobo shoved into your gut? If you do, you can see that this is love too.

Love is a containment of INFINITE ALL LOVE and can’t be measured in terms of shit you learned in school from LOVE THIEVES! THEY WERE LOVE THIEVES! … they stole your love and sold it to the Senator’s benefactor for $45 an hour and no one cared and the cops watched and the body was dumped in the Sacramento River love. This is also love.

I was a Nordic hunter of the S’klem tribe. I was hired by KING JUG to murder his errant uncle. He would feast upon monkey flesh in the harbor grill where the waitress wears an old Led Zeppelin t-shirt, covered over with stains and pains and blood and holes where she was stabbed repeatedly by her ex-boyfriend / pimp. I carried the torch for these brongo-beasts and I bared the burden of taking hostages of the spirit to those renticular caverns where TROGGIS lives and devours all hope. This can also be considered a form of love.

What is key? – love is a danger-pudding and your love-tube goes in the woman hole.

“Hummus is best with meat of the sea. Take the whale blood and mark your hooch.” – Troggis said this to me last night in my sleep …

What I see in YOU …

This is what I see in you child – pure moon beam light love … the kind of love that would allow you to drive the getaway car, but maybe not slaughter the family and write racist slurs in blood on the walls … a different sweeter love. Nah … krystal light lemonade love that sprinkles from unicorns.

This is what Skragon said to the Teglimites: “Your mouth is a hole into which I shove hot coal.” (he led with this)

I was the kumquat rainbow, and she was my myriad body spirit.

You were the stormy wildflower, she was the mountain of trust …

I could take her in my arms and blend the sky like apple pie milkshake Sunday morning with pancake syrup and leftover taco meat … and she would feel my touch, and I would grasp her bodice.

But the LOVE was contractual, per arrangements of blood magic, with Vortraxia of Torblem. Her armored witch houndrels would shoot down the mountainside in packs, in heat, in search of young flesh to ravage … And what of those nuns? Those rocket-rubes? The people of Nordia’Toor.

If I could smell her scent, like it were morning time? If I could touch her in the desert like some rabid raccoon filled with putrescence and rage? Then I’d take my gallop time to the field of LOVE MAGIC and use my herbs and spices. But you would miss the point, and love is lost.

Her magic touch …

It’s like we’re saying LOVE is an angel’s arrow shot drunkenly from a cloud. Or, maybe even LOVE is an old gypsy with a rusty knife and angry bloodshot eyes. That love is horns and greases and when SHE is tossed, here love ceases by the wayside of this highway of LOVE … or dump. Love might be a dump.

I hear your words spirit child as you grasp at cosmic understanding. But her knives are rusty and covered in fish guts and even if you survive the wound of LOVE? – you will probably have a nasty infection and die. Love is the cosmos saying “ring around your collar”. And fuck you.

There was this story of this guy. He was a guy who drove a truck. His truck was big and strong and could haul a lot of shit. ALL HE EVER DID was haul shit. He should have used that truck to run over hippies – this was him NOT listening to love. She’s a truck running over hippies.


“If you know love-magic, you know the heart of the beast.” – Troggis