a hippie satanist car thief cult-leader sex-maniac bastard butcher.

pdf, with thanks to the original sharer

During this three-week stay at the house on Gresham occurred the famous Manson gobble-miracle. Zonked on lysergic acid, Manson was being blown by a hysteria-prone young adept named Bo. Bo was a small masochistic girl with thyroid eyes and long black hair, one of Charlie’s favorite pain-targets. The legend continues that during the gobble the girl went nuts and, all in one incision, bit in twain Manson’s virility. Then, through the miracle of magic, Manson, they claim, at once healed his tragic amputation and continued onward.

you don't know if we're parodying you or you're parodying us anymore

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I will indulge in Obscenity, for I will ruin & destroy all class distinctions in Language. Language of the lower strata is Obscene to the bourgeoisie. Language of their own class is Art to the bourgeoisie. If speaking & writing in the total FREE LANGUAGE of the ENTIRE SOCIETY leads to the saintliness labeled by the money-suckers as "depravity & corruption" I WILL DEPRAVE & CORRUPT MAN TO SANITY. Usage of sex in any manner in Literature is declared Obscene by money-sucking high-income vampires because they want legal & social apparatus to exterminate their enemy with utmost atrocity so that sex could not be used ever otherwise as capital. I will deliberately write what the bourgeoisie call Obscene to ruin & destroy the treatment of sex as capital. The bourgeoisie claim that man & society gets "depraved & corrupted" after reading a particular book or poem in which sex is normalized, because they know that even the psychiatrist who comes out of the political asshole would not call masturbation & extra-marital copulation "depravity & corruption" or in any way anti-social. I will write in whatever manner I like and immerse my thoughts in the entire vocabulary of mankind. Poetry should have in its armor anything & everything that Life includes. 

You aren't "liberating" Vietnam. When you "liberate" a village do the people come out laughing, with flowers? Do the girls run up to kiss you? When was the last time you got laid without paying for it? When was the last time a girl said she liked you without wanting piastres? When did you pay an honest price for your drinks in the bars? They say the army makes a man out of you. By now you know better. The army just tries to make a robot out of you. A killing machine. What is a man? Is there something really "manly" about being able to stick a bayonet into a man's belly? There isn't a damn thing about killing that is "manly." If you are really "manly" you don't have to hit women who march in peace demonstrations — you can be gentle. If you are afraid of being gentle then you aren't ready yet to be a man. Your cock makes you a man, not your gun. And, friend, if you confuse your cock with your gun you are really in trouble.

this whole slew of crude recordings on shoestring labels.

pdf (190 pages / 135MB)

I had a friend who lived in this flat in west London - a really vile, scruffy, horrible, bloke's flat - but the one thing pristine in this mess was a Dansette in mint condition and a bunch of records on the auto changer. And they were all vintage London records, which he'd bought the first time round. And he wouldn't have parted with them, even though he was dirt poor. So I told him about Ted's stall, less than a minute's walk away. I remember the famous Elvis wallpaper and all these other stalls with their thin dividing walls, selling hippyish jewellery, retro clothing - and there, at the end of the row was a smelly, greasy caff - you'd go past the caff, and Ted had the whole back space, in an L-shape, with the stock behind the counter, belting out rock'n'roll and R&B at full blast.

long-haired dope-smoking street-fucking rock-and-roll maniacs

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An editorial in the Detroit Free Press thundered against the love-in: “It was not the love which got out of hand on Belle Isle Sunday. It was the hate. The outcasts of a decent society, the organized motorcycle gangs like the Outlaws, revel in harm and destruction. …The love-in was invaded by the greasy-haired, filthily dressed hoodlums who would probably come unglued in a bathtub. Instead of soda pop, pretzels and garlands of dandelions, they brought beer, wine, motorcycles and an itch for a rumble.” Yet again there were calls to get tough on crime. Letters to the papers encouraged the police to be less lenient on the city’s youth and their belligerent subcultures and for the hippies to join the real world. Many commentators dismissed the love-in as part of a wider malaise of a society that had no respect for authority. Earlier in the month, Vice-President Hubert Humphrey had traveled to West Berlin, where his visit was disrupted by hippies carrying what appeared to be a bomb. On inspection, the incendiary device was nothing more than a pie. The European new left understood that stunts, pranks, and spectacles generated disproportionate amounts of free publicity. In Germany the left-wing journalist Ulrike Meinhof wrote in the underground magazine Konkret, “It is thought rude to throw custard pies at politicians, but not to welcome politicians who have villages wiped out and cities bombed. …Napalm yes, custard no.” The slogan Custard Yes, Naplam No became one of many used to demonstrate against chemical warfare in Vietnam.

Just get Bailer and Linsberg to testify to its redeeming social content.

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