Around about the same time I was born, Charles Manson met Lynette (Squeaky) Fromme on Venice Beach, introducing himself as the self aggrandized 'God of Fuck'.
He wasn't wrong, because the amount of Charlies Angels, willing to spread the gospel as well as their nubile thighs for the holy father, numbered around thirty by the time of trial.
I thought of Charlie- instilling his message with his divine wand and I painted the Scorpion from Revelation's fiery Pitt, engorged with blood and the eternal eye of Horus, like a phallus weeping blood and semen.
I thought of the bullshit Beatles/Bible hybrid that counted for pillow talk in his Hippie harem, and painted a copy of the White album under his arm.
I thought of the LSD that he doled out like Spanish fly and painted the little green tab as holy sacrament .
Charlie-the cartoon messiah, small hands, big head, like a marionette who had gotten loose of his strings,
Charlie-the literal God of fuck sewing his poison seed.
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