Johnny Noir

Johnny Noir
Montclair, New Jersey, USA
September 23
pulp writer, poet, Nihilist prophet, Neo-Platonist
Johnny Noir
You can buy my novels and poetry at


FEBRUARY 9, 2011 7:16PM

Eloi! Eloi!

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Eloi! Eloi! 

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, 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—
Lying back to 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—

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 Amens
Across the city parks pavements and into the deep grass
Of your lush brown bush—
Hannah, you are the quintessence of your sister’s pocket notebook,
Written through and through with your spiraling, mind-bending thoughts,
Starlight shining over Asia 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 filling with desire, she cries,
Vomit filling her throat, her labia soaked and piss running down her thighs,
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—

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 Anne Sexton mean nothing to them
Compared to Audrey Lorde and Adrienne Rich and Emily Dickenson—

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 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 her 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 a 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,
but 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 and the smell intoxicates you and fucks you in 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—

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
And have since often thought of her that way,
I often think of women dead, ugly and black,
Red-haired, Irish with nice asses, lesbians and fat,
Jewish and German, I think of them all—
Maybe when I’m in Hell you’ll all be there with me,
Or Paris, what I need are all new slags,
Fat, blonde and sweaty with lips like cherries
Hips like Bollywood gyroscopes, throats like the Lincoln Tunnel,
And British accents—
Remember what I said about fat chicks? Well, forget that—
One ugly girl in the dark will do—
I mean that, I really do, one ugly girl anywhere
With a tongue like a snake in the Garden of Eden,
Sweaty Ugg boots and lesbian tendencies—
No older than twenty with her hands tied behind her back,
A throat like a drainpipe and an oral fixation
For the love of God, Suzie, you’re a beautiful girl for twenty-one,
Your Jamaican ancestors would have been proud of you—
And their pirate captors if they could see you drunk with no panties
The way I do with your tongue hanging out bloated and blue
And your skin nice and smooth and blue too—
You’re not beautiful but you’re a whore with Russian blood
And the bullet holes don’t take away from your figure,
And you’re the kind of brunette that smiles even when she’s choking—


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