The Prophet Cries Out For Pussy & Money
Johnny Noir
© 2011 Johnny Noir
For English girls everywhere
Bettie Page
Introduction
The Prophet Cries Out
Eloi! Eloi!
Sophia Regina
Whom The Gods Destroy
Michelle Bachmann
Wind Blown Destiny
Mother Of all Lesbians
Your Ass Talks To Me
Corinna In Winter
Azkadellia
Four Saints
Four Saints: Ginsberg, Whitman, Picasso, Basquiat
On The River
Abhorring Stasis
Armamentarium
Everything Good And Sweet
Epistle To Megan
The Mud And Chaos Of An Abandoned World
Janet Dreams And Rolls Over In Her Sleep
The Black Tree Sways To The Right
Golden Turds
Her Ass Is My Universe
Fire In Her Cosmic Hole
Ugly China Tail
Infinity-B
Han Hye Jin
Gay Muses
Satan’s Kingdom 777
Love Is Real (Not Really)
Kelly, Tight & Small
Prophets, Apostles, Saints & Charlatans
Lucy’s Dream House
Chaos
We’re All Christians Now
The Amish Prostitute
A Very Special Blonde
Simple Alchemy
The Biblical Cube
At Midnight
Bettie Page
You always about hear about the well-off kids with Asperger's. These kids are also pampered dicks, uncommunicative and entitled. I had Asperger's as a child, but my family wasn't rich enough to afford the best schools or therapists. No, I had to make due with the bullies, druggies and sluts on the street.
So like they say, kids with Asperger's develop peculiarly intense, single-minded obsessions. I became obsessed with porn. Makes sense, right? And you know why? The first actual "dirty" pictures I ever saw, I saw when I was nine, fished out of some wet gutter and later rediscovered at the bottom of a friend's father's sock drawer (my own father, a hunter and body builder that carried a gun a security guard and was otherwise a skirt chaser and barfly), were of Bettie Page in a black and white digest sized magazine, in full fishnet glory, those classic vintage six or seven-inch heels, and a period black bullet bra. Not even titty, and I could stop thinking about her.
It did, or didn’t, depending on your perspective, help greatly, or at least greatly intensify the uncanny experience of this same friend's mother (wife of the owner of the sock drawer); a perfect late 20’s-to-early thirty-ish brunette with slender and perky Irish everything, who wore the traditional black bras and panties of the time, this being the early seventies (practically the Stone Age), along with garters and garter belts to hold up her reinforced heel and toe nylon stockings.
If you've read all this up to here, you've realized what I wrote in the beginning about having Asperger's is true. Bettie Page replaced, combined with and intensified any latent feelings or impulses I had as a child. She is my Goddess and over my lifetime has led me on to the study of comparative mythology, art history and tons of smut. She taught me about the Golden Mean and S&M. She was classic, distant, quiet and up close. Bettie was the secret cleaved within the wood, like Christ. Bettie was the Christian who said, "Adam & Eve were naked in the Garden, so why should I be ashamed of being naked?"
Introduction
I am a decadent poet of a certain age, painter, novelist and performance artist, identity fluid and electric.
I live in exile from both the Lower East Side and the Upper East Side; One too bohemian, the other too bourgeois. I have no politics to speak of other than anarchy and revolution.
My work is an aesthetic synthesis of string theory and neuroscience I call neuropoetics and does not appeal to the senses but speaks directly to archetypes of the subconscious in HD Symbolism eschewing the 20th century.
"I want to destroy everything." -Jackson Pollock
Conceptual art is thought mainly to have begun with Dadaism and Duchamp. A Pre-Conceptual art would therefore seek to return to an aesthetic of preconceptual origin, pre-Dada, and premodern. An example of this kind of art will be resolutely non-conceptual, emerging from the space between Post-Impressionism and Imagism.
‘Naked I came from my mother’s womb and naked I shall return.’ – Job 1:21
What nearly every contemporary discipline of psychology neglects, to their rue no less is the existence of the Subconscious. Post-modernism exists in the space where exactly this subconscious erupts, in that although its certain existence is well known to all, it is nonetheless vehemently denied.
The Beat poets, Abstract Expressionist painters & Method actors were able unleash this energy after it became materially manifest in the Atomic bomb explosions of the Trinity & Manhattan Projects and subsequent bombings of the Japanese cities Hiroshima & Nagasaki.
Japanese culture, which had always been allowed access to the Japanese subconscious, then incorporated it into its own Pop cultural iconography. Its most striking representative in this regard was the writer and man of action Yukio Mishima, who was also a self-styled latter day Samurai and homosexual.”
Unlike America and most Western nations, Japan has no social prohibitions against rape, pedophilia, or cannibalism. This has primarily been attributed to the fact that Asian societies are not rooted in so-called Christian morality (The population of Christians in Japan is less than 1%.).
Ruth Handler (November 4, 1916 – April 27, 2002) was an American businesswoman, born to Jewish-Polish immigrants Jacob and Ida Moskowicz, the president of the toy manufacturer Mattel Inc., and is remembered primarily for her role in marketing the Barbie doll.
Ruth Handler had noted that her daughter Barbara, who was becoming a pre-teen, preferred playing with her infant paper dolls and giving them adult roles. She wanted to produce a plastic doll with an adult body but her husband thought it wouldn't sell.
But when the Handlers were on a European trip, Ruth Handler saw the German Bild Lilli doll (which was not meant for children at all; rather a gag gift for adults) in a Swiss shop and bought it and brought it home.
Back home she reworked the design of the doll and re-named her Barbie after her daughter. Barbie debuted at the New York toy fair on March 9, 1959.
Barbie became an instant success, rocketing the Handlers and their toy company toward fame and fortune. Later, they would add a boyfriend for Barbie named Ken, after Handler's son as well any many more other "friends and family" for Barbie's world.
Studies in England have shown that little girls treat their Barbie dolls like concentration camp prisoners: stripping them, cutting their hair off, burning their bodies and finally dismembering them.
One of my fields of interest, which I more or less created, is what I call "The Psychology of Super Heroes". Years ago as a student I created my own elective, "The Psychology of S&M" and this seems to be the logical follow-up to that.
"...Experiencing the id and ego engaged in a mating-dance while super-ego directs..." sums it all up brilliantly. You've touched a primal nerve with that one.
I have to admit, I'm not a big comic book guy. I prefer newspaper strips and then vintage Dick Tracy and Krazy Kat. I grew up reading underground comix while my friends all read super Hero stuff and nowadays it's mostly the cartoons in the New Yorker.
Because the symbolism of 'human-animal-god' is so basic and instinctual it remains perennial in popular culture but few people seriously ask why, and when they ask, they can't comprehend the answer.
Look at Holidays: Halloween (alter-egos, monsters, the supernatural), Christmas (the birth of a savior), fireworks (the celebration of war). Our entire culture consists of Idols, heroes, villains and super villains, robots and beauty queens.
My friend Chris B., who is also a big Kierkegaard guy, remarked last night on the nature of the struggle being eternal, which is perhaps the healthiest view, as in Japanese Shinto, which has no apocalyptic scenario. Which I'm sure is why some of Japanese pop culture's most enduring images emerged from the ashes of nuclear devastation.
I think Jung influenced Moulton in his rejection of Freud. In Moulton's psychology dominance and submission replaced the infantile Oedipus complex. Just as the super hero Superman parallels the Nazi idea of The Superman, Moulton's ideas of bondage and slavery parallel but do not correspond to the more heinous associations we have with those terms.
Super heroes are invincible and fly through the air, just as do angels, demons, and fairies, but do not correspond in exact psychic terms with those mytho-historical entities. Where they do correspond is in the perimeters of the collective consciousness where all of these beings and states coexist. That collective consciousness is neither Heaven nor Hell because all religions and mythologies are subsumed into it into a single psychic conglomerate.
Christianity and Islam are the only two religions with martyred heroes. You have to go back to ancient cultures like the Aztecs, etc., with virgin sacrifices for anything similar.
What Norse, Greek and even Jewish mythology reveal is that mythology is truly a mirror in that it is a tale told backwards, a flashback (as we say of film noir) that starts at the end and works its way to the beginning. Destruction comes first: in Greek myth the Olympians utterly defeat the Titans before creation even begins; Satan falls from heaven eons before God created the earth.
Piss on me and I'll piss on you. Wait, that's something else entirely, but maybe not! Good pulp fiction is artistic and well considered; thought through and executed with finesse like fine art.
Sophisticated and poetic yes, but to be cinematic there has to be an element of voyeuristic exhibitionism, a show, a spectacle: the gun going BANG! in the dark, the flash of the report, a scream, another BANG! and then another! A dying groan, the dead weight of a body landing to the floor, perhaps making a noise as things crash along with it. Inevitably sirens rise in the distance.
“If I justify myself, my own mouth shall condemn me: if I say, I am perfect, it shall also prove me perverse.”
–Job 9:20
When I was in second grade my beautiful, leggy, miniskirt wearing, bespectacled blonde hippie teacher washed my mouth out with soap for writing the word "pussycat" and passing it around the class. I've been a mess ever since.
-Johnny Noir, 2011
The Prophet Cries Out
Eloi! Eloi!
Father forgive them, for they know not what they do (Luke 23:34)
I found your earring on the ground, golden, the street paved with diamonds—
I forgot to tell you how lovely you looked with your hair down and forgiven, but what will the walk home do—
Your shadow’s phone call to God and Hispanic dreams—
Eloi Eloi lama sabachthani?
Your ass so hollow and filled with diamonds, cracking Natalie’s sacred ass like a nut, liquor-breathed Medusa, ancient one—
Lie back and defend your honor, puberty is for children—
I wanted someone dirty and nasty, to fuck a cockroach in high-heels and leather or nylons and sackcloth, claiming to be Greek at the wailing wall, a mother in a bikini at the costume party defying Aristotelian logic, whose rules are broken by church and stars—
Semen and her heart melting into a miracle, her sister randomly smoking angel dust and raping an Asian transvestite, losing count of the nebula in the clear night sky—
Eloi Eloi lama sabachthani?
Mother caught smoking on the balcony, her Barbie head in flames—
Eloi Eloi lama sabachthani?
A child abused grows up to be Christ, her dirty bare feet; her blonde wig—
Her catholic slut attire, the Pope walking on water, naked and female in the forest and on the beach—
Truly, I say to you, today you will be with me in paradise (Luke 23:43)
Hannah, your flesh burns through my neural walls
Like a chipmunk scratching at the cedar’s bark,
You are the mouse in my mind that I live to dine on like a fat cat—
I am the father to the man that you love
Like an ocean wave loves the wind
And Lucy starves like an Indian beggar’s child
On the streets of Calcutta you know better than I,
But let us return to the neural wall,
Writing an endless stream of “Amen”
Across the city parks pavement and into the deep grass
Of your lush brown bush—
Hannah, you are quintessence of your sister’s pocket notebook,
Written through and through with your spiraling, mind-bending thoughts, starlight shining over Asia unambiguously
Heralding the coming of the holy one,
A goddess whose eyes are HD screens
Showing British cop shows all night until dawn,
She finds him getting a blowjob from his teacher,
Swinging to Benny Goodman until dawn—
Starlight shining over Asia unambiguously
Heralding the new dawn and the coming of the holy one
And Lucy shits her pants—
Making you feel special she lets you explore her body,
Though she may be over 1,000 years old—
Finding him getting a blowjob from his teacher
She reaches for the door, a poet walks in, her eyes fill with desire, she cries, vomit filling her throat, her labia soaked and piss runs down her thigh as she screams just like her mother,
I’ve written this line on the hallway wall
Where you’ve read it before your baby was born,
But now your virginity’s glow has faded—
Woman, behold your son: behold your mother (John 19:26-27)
I am the Alpha and the Omega, the Beginning and the Ending,
I am the Thalamus and the Pineal, All that you perceive and conceive—
I saw the hottest babes of my generation grow fat and alcoholic,
Of any generation, addicted to coke, having sex for money,
Even with college degrees, all in the name of post-Feminist confusion, Sylvia Plath and Ann Sexton mean nothing to them
Compared to Audrey Lorde and Adrienne Rich and Emily Dickenson—
My God, My God, why have you forsaken me? (Matthew 27:46, Mark 15:34)
The underage girl farted underwater causing a Tsunami followed by a shit storm when her mother took a shit in midair, Jesus’ mother speaking Aramaic with a French accent deformed by grief, giving head for only seconds before getting a load in the face—
I didn’t go to church, the last man alive to sodomize a German girl, peeking through the window I saw the fat girl giving head, her mother in the shower, her sister in bed masturbating, a women in every room, the house filled with women, Greta’s apples beautiful the way Chinese girls’ nipples are beautiful—
Her tan making her horny for Marilyn Monroe’s feet and the Holy Ouroboros making her lust for holy hookers like Brigitte Bardot and the Jesus’ cross and invincible penis—
The underage girl and the fat girl both spread their assholes,
Older than they look, queens of the bedroom that eat human flesh—
Mothers with iced nipples that make perfect chocolate cake because they have the recipe, Older than they look because they are truly ancient, and gay, and Jesus loves them—
And Jesus loves Mayakovsky more than Stalin ever did,
And Jesus loves Maxim Gorky more than Maxim Gorky loves the Playboy Channel, and Jesus likes hot women that dance on tables for tips, don’t let anyone tell you he doesn’t, Jesus likes ghost women that charm businessmen at séances—
Sophie excused herself during the Sunday sermon
And quietly walked to the Ladies Room
Bringing the hymn book with her—
Entering a stall she raised the stiff pleated skirt
And lowered the bright orange thong down
Along sun burnt thighs and bony knees—
Seeing her period was just starting, she sat and poked a finger into her bleeding gash while humming Rock Of Ages along with the choir; squinting so hard she looked Chinese,
Her rodent-like face burning red, her skinny legs shaking,
Her skinny frame trembling—
Sophie came and thanked God and made the sign of the cross on her forehead in blood and walked back to her pew
Never knowing everyone knew what she had done,
They had all heard her come kicking the stall
With her ankles caught in the thong—
From that day on it was Sophie’s face floating above the congregation in ecstasy—
It was Sophie who stood at the foot of the cross—
Sophie who found the empty tomb and poked her head inside
To find the golden haired angel with throbbing wings
Who told her that Jesus would come again and she came,
Again and again and again—
Was Jesus her son? Michelangelo’s Pieta was not a mother and son, it two lovers if anything and Sophie was in love
If she were anything—
She was Jesus’ whore now and for always, her pussy belonged to Him —
He bled for her and she for Him and that was the way it was meant to be—
Gargantuan hands, feet and lips, yet I eat your head—
A prostitute in bright yellow stilettos from another time,
You are a doll in my pocket, greasy and blue,
Illumined by the city lights in your belly—
I soak your huge body with chocolate and piss,
Brush your teeth with dick drawing wide circles in your snowy skin; you’re not the beautiful one by a wide margin that reaches to infinity—
Though your giant feet smell like burning ice and your backside rains farts upon the world, we know a long-legged secret, one you’ve long kept hidden,
Your blue eyes frozen like Arthur Miller’s
Staring into the face of Marilyn Monroe,
An angel sitting on your face while you pee in the shower
And Sian sits shitting beside you,
Taking deep breaths of her own ass’ pungency
Before you step out wet within and without and take a bite of her apple-like ass before she flushes because the smell intoxicates you and fucks with your mind, it is finished so feel free to fuck her mouth—
Feel free to drown her in your delicious cum,
Your smegma clogging her nostrils like seawater, or the world at war, smoking a cigarette beautifully, tortured by night and my memories—
Mother and daughter on their hands and knees,
Photographed and always remembered—
A boy that hangs out with girls and never gets a hard-on, girls that undress at random and the boy thinks only of dick and the girls think only of him, an underage pedophile wishing to have your flesh torn by demons, wild dogs and mad women that look just like you—
Your school uniform muddied in the dark where you drown in the liquid ghosts of prostitutes, sluts floating like black men that take turns with your slit, something your mother used to call Paradise—
Forgive them, for they know not what they do—
Father, into your hands I commit my spirit (Luke 23:46)
Stop breathing because I take necrophilia very seriously—
I’d like you better if you were dead,
Though you’re not as beautiful as the legendary Lorelei
That lured unwitting sailors to their doom—
You’re not as beautiful as a manatee mistaken for a mermaid
On a lust-filled fog bound night
When another man’s ass looks just as good—
Or a cabin boy in full Billy Bud mode
Flush with love taking his turn in the barrel—
I’d love you if you were dead and in my bed,
My cock were down your throat and your eyes popping out—
Beautiful women are not what I’m after, obviously,
Drag the stupid slag into the head and shag her,
You know you want to and everyone else already has—
All the more reason not to, I reasoned, but wrongly,
She would never have remembered
And I would never have regretted it,
Maybe, except for the STDs but why worry about that now—
I’d have liked her better dead