AIR | TREES | WATER | ANIMALS |

REV.O.LU.TION: “a moving in a circular or curving course, as about a central point.” One to A.T.W.A. | Earth to Sun.

Category: POETRY

“TEACHING CHILDREN…”

From a call on 12.30.12.
I have just gotten around to posting…
@ atwaatwar.com -Charles reads the writing-CM golden gloves hands 1947

Teaching children is like rubbing shit on the mirror.
You’re creating death on the cross for you to live your
karmic karma will by.
Making slaves to distort the Nature of God,
cloning another you- we do not need another you–
God help us because we don’t need another you-
us, we, them. Us snakes can’t afford more feet
stepping on us. Don’t tread on me.
ATWA for ATWAR… and for Air and Water
people on all levels are destroying Life of Nature…
Committing suicide also.
“Help the children”, you must be out of your mind.
We R the children. Three generations.
[…] wants to say “we need three generations and we can fix it”.
I said that 50 years ago so how many generations is three more generations?
That’s what we thought we thought-
that saving the children was the answer.
There’s too many children to start with.
In other words, “I pledge allegiance to the flag”
according to the politicians.
I mean, what good’s a Constitution if nobody’s abiding by the damn thing anyway?
It’s good for a fantasy.
Alright, here’s the next page.
Your mind, brain, thinking patterns of programming,
mental thoughts, images seem as if you have total faith
in the courts – that what ever the courts, press, books, news
and TV- and the people who buy and sell fear for dollars just in,
and with, the little people of your thinking
with bits and pieces you got from the media and others-
it is IRONY, and it’s true definition.
They make me look good as a hero
and that brings a lot of little minds,
thoughts up to a jealous level. Real’s Real,
I’m much worse than your world and all it could understand,
hate, and the perfect hate like the perfect love,
rolls the money.
Crime courts know they hold fear, and holding divorce court,
civil courts, money, paydays are paying by fear, money,
and war paydays- beyond and with the blood of saints and children.
Pay drunk drivers to bring more death on the highway.
I’m too dumb to understand just how stupid I am
because no one can get under my dumb bug head.
Crooks use the court rooms and your brain with jealous
calls your judgment of destruction games for money
and you may never find how distorted you are.
I’m one thousand million times worse than what they say.
I could never get caught doing evil because I would only be
catching myself. I’ve never got caught.
They get me for what they think I did
and I don’t realize God does it all–
everything is God and God is guilty of doing everything.
And your outlaw court puts it off on me
and you condemn your own child with your book brain and TV head movies.
Baby on the floor because you got no Earth to live on.
That’s not “you” but…
In other words, the wolf don’t ask the rabbit for mercy…

-Charles Manson

HOW MUCH A BEAST MUST I BE…

“Mother Tree knows my feelings for I can feel her branches
and I know my own life in and out,
around, up and down, through with, and with out.
Yes, Sister Sea feels me as I feel her waves
and I hear the cries of the wildlife.
A perfect mother knows I feel the wood being cut
and I hurt and die with trees falling.
How much a beast
must I be to defeat the beast that destroys my mother?
The North Sea is dying, the icecaps are melting faster than ever.
The Aliken is dying on the rock and I feel it all as my life.
I can’t help it. I was bound to feel it and I feel it all
and she cries out at me and
I love the snake bird trees and wolves ATWA
but humans bore me and are as aware as a slug
and slow as a snail and under it all.”
-C.MANSON

U R DEEP…

U R DEEP...
-U R DEEP … You R God …
You R TREE … MY ME-
C. MANSON

GIVE YOUR LOVE TO BE FREE

give your love to be free“GIVE YOUR LOVE TO BE FREE”
I CAN SEE YOU ON THE EDGE OF TOWN-
I CAN SEE YOUR CIRCLES RUNNING ROUND AND ROUND-
I CAN SEE FOREVER THERE IN YOUR EYES-
IN THE OCEANS OF LOVE, AS THE SPIRIT FLIES…

The Face Upon The Barroom Floor

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Charles recited this poem to me this weekend during a visit. His ability to recollect certain things like dates, songs, and folk poems has surprised me before.
I don’t know anything about the origins of this poem, other than what I found at wikipedia-

‘Twas a balmy summer evening
And a goodly crowd was there,
That well nigh filled Joe’s barroom
At the corner of the square.
As songs and witty stories
Came through the open door,
A vagabond crept slowly in
And posed upon the floor.
“Where did it come from?” someone said,
“The wind has blown it in.”
“What does it want?” another cried,
“Some whiskey, rum or gin?”
Here Toby, sic’ em,
If your stomach is equal to the work,
I wouldn’t touch him with a fork,
He’s filthy as a Turk.
This badinage the poor wretch took with stoical good grace.
In fact, he smiled as though he thought
He had struck the proper place.
Come boys, I know there’s kindly hearts
Among so good a crowd;
To be in such good company
Would make a deacon proud.
Give me a drink, that’s what I want.
I’m out of funds you know, when I had cash to treat the gang,
This lad was never slow. What? You laugh as though you think,
This pocket never held a sou,
I once was fixed as well, my boys,
As any of you.
There thanks, that’s braced me nicely.
God Bless you one and all. Next time I pass this good saloon,
I’ll make another call.
Give you a song? No, I can’t do that.
My singing days are past.
My voice is cracked, my throat’s worn out,
And my lungs are going fast.
Aye, give me another whiskey and I’ll tell you what to do
I’ll tell you a funny story and in fact I’ll promise two.
That I was ever a decent man,
Not one of you would think,
But I was, some four or five years back.
Say, give me another drink.
Fill ‘er up, Joe, I want to put some life
Into this old frame.
Such little drinks, to a bum like me
are miserably tame.
Five fingers, that’s the scene, and corking and whiskey too,
Well, here’s luck boys, and landlord,
My best respects to you.
You’ve treated me pretty kindly,
And I’d like to tell you how,
I came to be this dirty sap, you see before you now.
As I told you once, I was a man
With muscle, frame and health,
But for a blunder, ought have made considerable wealth.
I was a painter, not one that daubed on bricks or wood,
But an artist, and for my age I was rated pretty good,
I worked hard at my canvas, and bidding fair to rise,
And gradually I saw, the star of fame before my eyes.
I made a picture, perhaps you’ve seen,
It’s called the “Chase of Fame.”
It brought me fifteen hundred pounds
And added to my name.
It was then I met a woman, now come the funny part;
With eyes that petrified my brain, and sank into my heart.
Why don’t you laugh it’s funny, that the vagabond you see
could ever have a woman and expect her love for me.
But it was so, and for a month or two, her smiles were freely given,
And when her loving lips touched mine, I thought I was in heaven.
Boys did you ever see a girl, for whom your soul you’d give,
With a form like Venus De Milo, too beautiful to live,
With eyes that would beat the Koh-i-noor,
And a wealth of chestnut hair?
If so, it was she, for boys there never was, another half so fair.
I was working on a portrait,
One afternoon in May,
Of a fair haired boy, a friend of mine,
Who lived across the way.
My Madeline admired him,
And much to my surprise,
She said she’d like to know the lad,
Who had such dreamy eyes.
She didn’t take long to find him,
Before the month had flown,
My friend had stolen my darling,
And I was left alone.
And ere a year of misery had passed above my head.
That jewel I treasured so, had tarnished and was dead.
That’s why I took to drink boys. Why, I never see you smile,
I thought you’d be amused boys, and laughing all the while.
Why, what’s the matter friend? There’s a teardrop in your eye.
Come, laugh like me. It’s only babes and women that should cry.
Say boys, if you give me just another whiskey and I’ll be glad,
I’ll draw right here the picture, of the face that drove me mad.
Give me that piece of chalk with which you mark the baseball score;
You shall see the lovely Madeline upon the barroom floor.
Another drink and with chalk in hand, the vagabond began,
To sketch a face that well might buy the soul of any man.
Then, as he placed another lock upon that shapely head,
With a fearful shriek, he leaped and fell across the picture — dead!