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.