1960s / 1970s Psychedelic Short Stories



Back in the early 1970s I had three artist / head / friends that would drop by and drop acid and play chess, two to a team with no talking or communicating with your partner other than psychically.
That was always a deep trip as trying to anticipate your opponents’ plans and ploys and his partner’s as well as trying to formulate offensive and defensive plans and ploys with your own partner under normal conditions is pretty heady – on psychedelics it was a real test of your “psychedelic ability”!
We were serious about our Psychedelic Chess and surely advanced our brain cell power while frying it at the same time.

On a nice Saturday afternoon one of the aforementioned fellow adventurers and I decided to skip chess and try something new. We decided to drop acid and write an experimental short story whereby I would write a line or two then pass the typewriter to him to write a line or two, and so on.
We never knew where the story was going or how it would end but the creative process was actually very revealing in the fact that it has a plot, deep meaning, humor, conflict, resolution and an ending that surprised us both!
Needless to say we were high, but the creativity was within us regardless of the psychotropics – and the energy flow took hold.

If you choose to stick with it, there’s a payoff and remember we didn’t discuss the progression – that would’ve spoiled the fun – we just wrote what felt right and passed it back.
Fun times!

So, sit back and enjoy this image-rich, experimental, psychedelic, free-form, sex, drugs and Rock ‘n’ Roll vampiric tale involving God, Lucifer and Manual the Gardner.

(This was transcribed as written; see accompanying typewritten 40 year old heavy stock paper original above!)

The Legend of Manual’s Labor

John Good and 00individual

   Manual the gardener slipped his mutated member in her quivering quim….theirs was the joy of the crusty fetid death lover……..agony, joy….and the pomp and circumcise of life.
Throughout the time and space of his pathetic existence on this bizarre and brutal sphere in the barbaric times of the post-mutant age, his quest for the inebriated phosphorous soldier of the fourth order of the purple nuzz- nuzz, left him in a rather slobbery state.
Poor pathetic Manual could barely grasp at what was reality, what with crusty quims and all. Lord Lucifer! Why do you forsake me now?….when all but the memories of an amnesia-dominated past have beckoned me with an elusive hand, inviting and enticing me to rise. I shall rise, I shall….tomorrow I shall go to the priest of the one they used to call Christ. If I can gain his confidence and his magic perhaps the emergence of a pseudo-spiritual redeemer will render the apathetic doldrums to a state of total recall.
Its so hard and getting worse daily. As my brain rots ever so routinely, it is hard for me to keep it all together….fuzzy-wuzzys and nuzzy-nuzzys….I will no longer honor my false brazen God. He shall have no more of my life giving blood, but be the unwilling donor of sacrifice over and over again for the fair and virginal flower of the tainted forest of eternity. Rainbow spider webs….autumn leaves….lustful fall….what does it all mean?
The esscense goo that they call me is no more than a manic struggle between two blood-lusting souls searching for sanity.
Along with the equally demanding urges of the eye…the optical telescope of non-reality. The conflict, the pull, the never-ending decision of whether that today is really tomorrow yesterday.
Yes, yes the urge is to acknowledge this as real, yet, yet, how can this whore of carnal delight be anymore than that delectable taste of her love goo.
The thought of approaching this madness, this conflicting bridge of threadbare thoughts leaves me no way out but that of temporary reconciliation with my inner God. Yet who is that forsaking bastard? My friend, My foe?…..
I believe I shall now go about thine destruction. Thine destruction, let me count the ways: whether it be nobler to drain the life giving blood in second to eternity lapses or send my soul-self into oblivion via a celestial narcotic drug,….that sweet release.
I have reached my decision…not an easy one for sure. It’s a delight though to suck her life thrusting juices even if it does mean her demise. The thought spirals into an intense overbearing climactic explosion of every molecule in me as the last drop is suckled from the now non-existent whore of carnal delight…..that is me.


Yeah, that ending still gets 00individual – it blew both of their minds when they read it.
It’s trippy the way that it came together, once again, no discussion took place, just typewriting . . .
. . . and while on the subject of typewriting – 00individual is amazed; after a close look at the original, there appears to be only about a half dozen white-out corrections! This is the original, the only copy – and with less than six corrections?
Wow, apparently they were very efficient on acid – 00individual is impressed with his own young Acid-Head self and with the same for fellow Tripper John Good.




While in high school classrooms my mind couldn’t have been farther away from the academics I was forced to endure versus the life-long education of an imaginative career I would develop.
Once I was able to shed the shackled bonds of institutionalized education; I flourished, but until then I spent my time in class creating stories like the following and psychedelic doodle art

The Trip Tunnel is transcribed from the original ball-point ink on lined high school notebook paper – 45 years old!
(See original below)

by 00individual


Thru the Sunlight-Sifted Forest of the Inept Iguana lies the whirlpool-winding Road of Redundance which leads to the Slippery Shaft that goes down to the Trip Tunnel.

As we eagerly enter the First Cavern, the Half-handed Helpers of Heathcliff bend and shape your mind to fit the Peridontal Paths and Twisted Turns of the Trip Tunnel.
After experiencing the unexpected you are taken to the Everlasting Elongated Exercise Room where Eggbert the Eggman leads you in wooly warm-up exercises on top of the Conglomerated Cucumber Clouds.
Floating freely from the Submerged Skies, we fall upon the Mesmerized Mountains of Mutiny where the Walnut-winged Warriors escort you down the Hollow Haystack Hills to be glazed in the Perpetual Pot of Pulchritude.

We are now ready to enter the Second Cavern where the fabled Fuzzy Foam-rubber Army is marching merrily thru-out the Secret Shadows of the Undulating Unconsciousness of Utter Eternity.
As we follow along the Red Road of Revenge, the wail of the Wayside Waffle tells us to go to the Purple Pit of the Powerful Poinsettia where the Super Suction-powered Squadron is ready to take off thru the Television Skies of Transparency to do battle with the Outside Obscurities.

Entering the Third Cavern we will take shake hands with the Anonymous Albino Aardvark who will ignite the Fervent Fire from Within so that the Dangers of the Dingy Dungeon will not engulf us.
Onward down the Slimey Slide of the Senseless Snapdragon we will take the Disappearing Detour to the Caverns of Conception where the Realm of the Inner Banana is willfully watched-over by the Prickly Pinnacled Porcupine.
As we go on towards the City of Social Sobriety, the Allegoric Atmosphere changes into crystal clarity by the Winds of Wisdom from the Tantalizing Tornadoes by which we will be swept up and hurtled onto the Ten Ton Trampoline where we will rebound off the Chronological Canyons of the Cantankerous Caterpillar to land in the Many-mushroomed Meadow of Monotony.

As we wallow along in the Misty Murky Marshlands of Mediocrity we enter the Fourth Cavern where the Popcorn Pirate-Ship is waiting to take you away on a joyous journey to the Inevitable Island of Incense where the Naïve Natives of Neurotic Necessity will secretly sacrifice your soul to the Baby Buddha of Righteous Indignation.



5 comments on “1960s / 1970s Psychedelic Short Stories

  1. Enjoying your site and musings. The Manuel The Gardener piece – that’s a quote from 200 Motels, yes? Or did it come first?

  2. Yes, you are very astute! And a true Zappa fan.
    There’s also riffing on Elizabeth Barrett Browning, Pink Floyd, The Doors, Nektar and probably others.
    Back then there were so many cool imprinted lyrics and phrases that they fit in with normal dialogue among the Tribes, and served as shorthand among the hip – just like you did.
    Dig yourself, Brother!

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