Johnny Noir's Open Salon Blog

Who Is The Most Beautiful Jewish Woman In The World?

Sat, 26 May 2012 11:05:29 -0400

Everyone knows full well that Jewish women are not beautiful in any way, yet with that in mind, I ask, who is the most beautiful Jewish woman in the world—
The answer comes back resoundingly: there is not one, so we know the book of Esther is a lie, a fairy tale and a hoax to build Jewish morale and make others believe in something that never was and has never been seen: a beautiful Jewish woman—
I’m tired of lying to myself, telling myself that such a thing exists when there is no evidence but hearsay and the very opposite is more than abundantly apparent—
Everything I just wrote is a lie because in fact, one of the most beautiful women I personally know comes from Israel—
But wait; does that mean that the book of Esther is true? No, it does not—
It’s still a hoax and a fairy tale just like I described, meant to build Jewish morale but not the morale of any Jew you or I know or even the Israelis but the ancient Israelites,
The Maccabees and Pharisees, and the weirdoes that wrote the Bible’s Old and New Testaments—
I go to church almost every Sunday, does that make me a Christian? It kind of does, but I wasn’t raised as a Christian, I come by it honestly, by way of TS Eliot and Bob Dylan—
I just found some things in it that were true, like the book of Esther, which I’ve always looked upon as a description of an ancient beauty pageant considering that it was written or told long before the Bible was ever conceived and oddly, Esther is the only Jewish woman in the story, and of course she’s the most beautiful woman in the story—
The Bible is full of weird stories like that, but famously the Book of Esther is the only book of the Bible in which God is never mentioned—
It’s more or less a big party thrown by the king and the beauty pageant for him to select a new queen after the old queen proves herself a royal bitch and gets her head cut off because she won’t dance as the king has requested, I’m assuming Esther danced—

It could be a story right out of Walt Disney, or Disney could have made one of his fanciful musical cartoons about it except the lead characters are Jews, excepting the backstabbing villain who gets hanged at the end—
I think that put Disney off right away—
His friend Hitler wouldn’t have liked it so much; I mean Cecil B. DeMille was making a fortune telling lascivious Bible stories that competed directly with the pulps and comic books and we know that Jesus can sing and dance, we’ve seen Andrew Lloyd Weber and Tim Rice make him do that and the Hebrew Bible is sung in Jewish services so the I’m supposing that means all of the dialogue is sung too, which turns the Old Testament a musical to begin with—
So my original point of there being no beautiful Jewish women is absurd because if they can sing and dance, and I’ve seen them do it, then they are right up there with Jesus and Moses and Satan—
And Pilate and Judas and God—
I’m not saying any of that stuff is true; it’s old—
It’s older than you and I can imagine, someone just collected the pieces of a long, old story and put them together in a way that sort of makes sense if you forgive the numerous holes in the basic plot—
But a beautiful woman does not have to physically beautiful—
She doesn’t even have to actually exist—
Before there was Esther there were Aphrodite and Isis and Inanna, beautiful earth goddesses, hell, goddesses of beauty, and the one guy who caught sight Aphrodite naked was struck blind for his trouble but then given the gift to prophesy as recompense,
That was Tiresius and he may have been an ill-starred advisor to Paris’ choice when deciding among the three graces, among them Aphrodite, or Venus as the case may be,
At any rate, these guys asked themselves basically the same question I’m asking myself now, who is the most beautiful Jewish woman in the world—

I Want To Be The Man Who Comes In Cindy Sherman’s Mouth

Wed, 9 May 2012 23:05:02 -0400

The ideal form is the abstract form, since no part of it can be admitted to as a mistake. In this regard woman is the exact opposite of the ideal since she can in every part be admitted to as a mistake but in the case of woman, what could be more perfect than to be imperfect in every part.

Regina

The chaos poem does not adhere to the laws of time

Yet takes up space. The chaos poem is not confessional or true.

Women are built upside down.

Their hands are where their feet should be

And their feet are where their hands should be.

They have a pussy for a face and a mouth for an ass.

A father is a rapist with a time machine—

He can go back in time and fuck your mother

Then into the future to fuck your daughter’s college roommate

Infinite unknown choices of colors and silver lashes,

A priest and a supermodel challenging the philosophy of dawn

Penelope escaping naked and painted through her eyelids,

Regina scolding the dark honey and apple pie,

As Irish mothers’ tales of an ugly slut

Challenge to the philosophy of dawn—

There should be no center and its boundaries difficult to find.

Admitting she’s a lesbian with no shame,

The sound of her voice getting the dog drunk

Making me see into the future,

The ideal, the real and neither,

The perpendicular road following the course of an arrow,

Milky sperm leaking from the sides of her face,

Dreaming of Irene’s pure box of ice, smelling of lye,

Sleeping in her wig but not her bra and panties,

Calling the machine her adolescent witch,

Not a whore from the fourth dimension—

Sure as Saint Bettie puts her stockings on,

As pure as her stockings, stock photos trying to imitate her

For fifty years hence, for what its worth—

Penelope’s purple shrouded eyes meaning a lot to me,

The sound of her voice in my ear like Christ’s—

Getting the dog drunk on iced pink cocktails,

Her shadow grim in the pink moonlight of the almighty

Regina the tarantula crawling up your arm is a prince,

With godlike eyes Regina and Penelope escape naked

Into Ashley’s eternal summer, painting in the woods—

Regina knows me too well and I only know

What the meat of her clogged sphincter tastes like—

Courtney in her rainbow underwear,

Heidi hanging upside down from a tree,

Round and made of wood too—

Chaos burning through her eyelids like a laser, pretty and pink—

There is a machine built into nature that creates sensation.

The chaos poem should not have a beginning or an ending.

Her dollhouse filled with elemental magic

And the Holy Spirits of cavemen, souls for rent—

The Goddess of snakes crawling through the grass

This world too impatient for love,

The clockwork movements of the atomic elements—

Should her body become the residence of God

In the forest of burnt trees, chaos will take us there,

Her black bra of freedom hanging on the post—

Like one thousand naked women in bondage,

Jove devouring his grandchildren in a bloody feast

Given the empty heart, of the black leather clad mother,

Her salt-filled soul spilling onto the beach,

That made her stop puking on the yacht

Crystalline and sublime guitar gods of time—

Sad Italian films of mothers’ faces, sawing a woman in two—

Your Gypsy daughter will cry for you, swearing she’s Greek,

Swearing she’s Greek but not the mother of Frankenstein—

Erasing her mind cheerleaders climb mountains

To get in ugly girls’ faces when Saturday comes,

She’ll bring her Gothic drums to trade for kisses,

Tearing her apart in the Russian sunlight,

Her tattooed virgin ass milking her nostrils—

Forcing her love through a keyhole in Spanish Harlem,

A mother loving her dildo and handcuffs,

Her beauty attracting flies to her all-powerful Cubist glamour—

I have memories of blonde demons and angels torturing her,

Her stocking feet leading on the road to heaven—

We all know where mothers come from

Drunk and dreaming like ants kissed by fiery angels.

She’ll be all right, smiling with destiny in her eyes—

The universal clock of boy-love doesn’t touch motherhood,

How eternity winds down and starts again

Thriving in the Paris underground—

I might marry her, depending on her dream life

As if she were too beautiful to forget her storied fate,

Her prophesies ringing true like church bells

Or the moon at sundown, her sky filled with miracles—

Christ riding into Jerusalem where Netanyahu Sr.

Greets him, the dolls in their Disney disguises,

The charms of heaven dangling like witches,

Jewish hookers, horny slattern housewives,

Slags of all blemishes, Indian and Pakistani—

Her love of the mountains, her dollhouse

Filled with elemental magic and alchemical homunculi

Who pass themselves off as the rioting Monads—

I want to be the man who comes in Cindy Sherman’s mouth

The ideal form is the abstract form,

Since no part of it can be admitted to as a mistake—

In this regard woman is the exact opposite

Of the ideal since she can in every part be admitted

To as a mistake but in the case of woman,

What could be more perfect than to be imperfect in every part.

I Dreamt Her Body Was The Crimean War

Tue, 10 Apr 2012 22:04:39 -0400

I dreamt her body was the Crimean War and her naked feet were poetry

Her abstract face spit roses into the abyss,

A harmonious Jewish milf in tight beige jeans and sunglasses

Wobbling down the street in matching espadrilles,

Walking like she’d been fucked too hard at dawn,

Just this morning I had a vision of her pee stained yellow silk thong

And her nearly illiterate Russian mother—

Clean, dirty, lesbian, straight, clothed unclothed,

She sits on the man in the grey suit’s face,

Her plastic surgery long forgotten,

Her name Isis and her profile on the coin—

I dream of doppelgangers in purple flip-flops and nothing else,

Beautiful naked lesbians that talk in pure melodies while dancing

While I essay strangers looking for a fat girl to fuck—

The Jewish milf in tight beige jeans like sunshine to me—

I think her skinny ass would taste good covered in chocolate, maybe not—

The world has seen Pop Art come and go—

Women are colors, each woman a different color

And there are more colors than you can ever comprehend,

Pornography an endless and infinite kaleidoscope

Going in all directions at once and there she stands

At the very center of a rainbow that radiates and never ends,

Her naked feet the golden tones of poetry—

Smelling like dirty sox or sweaty yoga mats

Or just plain sweat or musty leather boots or worn loafers—

I dreamt her body was the Crimean war

And her naked feet a distant symphony

By Beethoven, his vacant garbage filled eyes like Jimi Hendrix,

A genius before his time and her ass was a dirty rock strewn wasteland,

The scented crack shitting manna into my mouth and cupped hands—

Dancers are walking clichés and much, much too gay

And I think of her Spanish guitar and black body

And her mother’s great ass and the light from her behind,

Her face ghostly as smoke, winter in her camel toe,

Her faceless shining stilettos’ shadow, her Chinese skin in booty shorts—

A married woman’s feet stink like dead roses,

The grey eyed Jewish milf in tight beige jeans

Wobbles along the sun blasted sidewalk

Thinking of her future and past rubbing her thighs together

With each step horny and forgetful,

I can smell her black painted ass permeating the universe—

The same ant-like face atop multiple bodies,

The shadow of her Russian ass kneeling to pray in a mirrored ball gown

Apotheosis

Mon, 2 Apr 2012 22:04:47 -0400

In theology, the term apotheosis refers to the idea that an individual has been raised to godlike stature. In art, the term refers to the treatment of any subject (a figure, group, locale, motif, convention or melody) in a particularly grand or exalted manner.

Possibly the greatest joy in any man’s life

Is pissing into a girl’s face—

Preferably with her mouth wide open—

I went downstairs to see the lesbian stripper

That dreams of sleeping with her sister the nun—

Claire was a bitch and her sister was ugly,

That’s not poetry, that’s just life—

A pregnant Chinese girl in bondage makes a nice, hot fuck—

Especially if she’s a poet—

This is an ode to Hannah, Sian, Lucy and Sophie,

All of whom I love, their flesh like tissue and toes like stone—

Braces on their teeth and menses like rain—

Men lining up to get drunk on their menses, boys really—

She’s drunk again,

Slow with boys but quick to take off her boy shorts—

Giant and doll-like she jumps into the pool

Like it’s the lake of fire from the Book of Revelation,

She gulps down her own vomit so politely,

Crawling up her hairy ass a priority—

Probably one of the greatest joys of her life—

Flesh like a photograph and feet like a barn animal—

They seem to be lesbians only at dawn

But who knows—

Sophie knows but she only whispers it in Rachel’s ear

Jasmine let me feel her up in the closet,

The thought of her wine breath making me sick now—

A beautiful drunk tortured in South America

And she didn’t even feel it, eternally young,

A poet can take a cock all the way down her throat—

She’s no poet but she gives head like one—

Jasmine dreamt she was a cowgirl

Riding Lucy into the sunset

But it was the other way around—

Pissing in Hannah’s open mouth is

Probably the greatest joy of my life—

Probably one of the greatest joys in any man’s life

Is sniffing and licking the sweaty soles of a girl’s size eleven feet

Then pissing into her face while she holds her mouth wide open

Thick rubbery lips slathered with bright red lipstick

While she drunkenly teeters on her knees on a bar’s dirty bathroom floor—

Preferably while she fingers her tight sopping teenage cunt,

Looking you in the eye with eager lust eating away her drug-addled brain,

Or if she’s straight, cold sober thinking of confession,

Musing on where her virginity might have gone,

Her parents knowing she’s a street corner slut

But everybody on the planet still pretending she’s an innocent little thing—

The rules have changed,

Her mother is a slut too, dreaming of narcotics—

Dreaming of her sister the former prostitute turned nun,

An ugly bitch and a poet but that’s not poetry, that’s just life—

Wishing she were a pregnant Chinese girl in bondage makes for a nice, hot fuck—

Especially if she’s a poet dreaming of sleep——

Sian wearing a plastic pig-nose in the blue light of the full moon,

Her toes dripping sweat—

Braces on her teeth and men lining up to drink her menses, boys really—

She’s drunk again like a werewolf in pantyhose lying across train tracks

Or a Japanese cosplay girl all sweaty in a porno,

Getting sweat in hers eyes and blinded by the rain—

Lying in the rain with the wind between her teeth,

The lesbian I married shows me her butt in white cotton panties

Filled with holy shit as if I can’t tell a blowjob from an Italian and a Jew in total darkness—

Brain damage never stopped a whore from giving head, ever—

Cumming in Hannah’s mouth is like going to Heaven,

Filling her mouth with cum that runs past her perfect white teeth

And elastic lips like the O-ring of a stopped up toilet—

I dream of Hannah in my sleep, dream of Lucy and Hannah B.,

Bare feet and all, naked legs like smooth wet tissue

In my pocket, Sophie’s wide mouth on my prick—

Her whore mother’s ass used like meat

Slow with boys but quick to take off her boy shorts—

Giant and doll-like she jumps into the pool

Like it’s the lake of fire from the Book of Revelation,

She gulps down her own vomit so politely,

Crawling up her hairy ass a priority—

Probably one of the greatest joys of her life—

Flesh like a photograph and feet like a barn animal—

They seem to be lesbians only at dawn

But who knows—

Sophie knows but she only whispers it in Rachel’s ear

Jasmine let me feel her up in the closet,

The thought of her wine breath making me sick now—

A beautiful drunk tortured in South America

And she didn’t even feel it, eternally young,

A poet can take a cock all the way down her throat—

She’s no poet but she gives head like one—

Jasmine dreamt she was a cowgirl

Riding Lucy into the sunset

But it was the other way around—

Pissing in Hannah’s open mouth

Possibly the greatest joy of my life—

Jasmine dreamt she was a cowgirl riding Lucy into the sunset

But it was the other way around—

Lucy rode her backwards whipping her face with the tightest cunt on earth,

Pissing in her open mouth and pissing in Jasmine’s mouth

Possibly the greatest joy of young Lucy’s life—

Probably one of the greatest joys in any man’s life

Is sniffing and licking the sweaty soles of a girl’s size eleven feet

Then pissing into her face while she holds her mouth wide open,

Thick rubbery lips slathered with bright red lipstick

While she drunkenly teeters on her knees

On a bar’s dirty bathroom floor—

Preferably while she fingers her tight sopping teenage cunt,

Looking you in the eye with eager lust

Eating away at her drug-addled brain,

Or if she’s straight, cold sober thinking of holy confession,

Musing on where her virginity might have gone,

Her parents knowing she’s a street corner slut

But everybody on the planet still pretending

She’s an innocent little thing—

The rules have changed,

Her mother is a slut too, dreaming of narcotics—

Dreaming of her sister the former prostitute turned nun,

An ugly bitch and a poet but that’s not poetry, that’s just life—

Wishing she were a pregnant Chinese girl in bondage

Makes for a nice, hot fuck—

Especially if she’s a poet dreaming of sleep——

Sian wearing a plastic pig-nose in the blue light of the full moon,

Her toes dripping sweat—

Braces on her teeth and men lining up to drink her menses,

Boys really—

She’s drunk again like a werewolf in pantyhose

Lying across train tracks or a Japanese cosplay girl

All sweaty in a porno, getting sweat in hers eyes

And blinded by the rain—

Lying in the rain with the wind between her teeth,

The lesbian I married shows me her butt in white cotton panties

Filled with holy shit as if I can’t tell a blowjob from an Italian or a Jew

In total darkness—

But brain damage never stopped a whore from giving head,

Ever—

Cumming in Hannah’s mouth is like going to Heaven,

Filling her mouth with cum that runs past her perfect white teeth

And elastic lips like the O-ring of a stopped up toilet—

I dream of Hannah in my sleep,

I dream of Lucy and Hannah B., bare feet and all,

Naked legs like smooth wet tissue, crumpled tissue in my pocket,

Sophie’s wide mouth on my prick—

Her whore mother’s ass used like meat

Slow with boys but quick to take off her boy shorts—

Giant and doll-like she jumps into the pool

Like it’s the lake of fire from the Book of Revelation,

She gulps down her own vomit so politely,

Crawling up her hairy ass a priority—

Probably one of the greatest joys of her life—

Flesh like a photograph and feet like a barn animal—

They seem to be lesbians only at dawn

But who knows—

Sophie knows but she only whispers it in Rachel’s ear

Jasmine let me feel her up in the closet,

The thought of her wine breath making me sick now—

A beautiful drunk tortured in South America and she didn’t even feel it, eternally young, a poet can take a cock all the way down her throat—

She’s no poet but she gives head like one—

Cynthia

Mon, 19 Mar 2012 09:03:53 -0400

Madonna emerges from the fiery flames of Cynthia’s thick, white ass—

Like a salamander slithering into existence from the ether,

Robert and Elizabeth visiting Emily’s grave

As she emerges draped in Francesca’s white shroud,

The dust from their fingers taken by the wind to Italy,

Cynthia, bolder, chucks her false teeth in the lake—

She was my lawyer but her finesse at fellatio was lacking,

She walked along the pier in Texas waiting for bus

To Mexico, alas, the women who walk in shadows have familiar faces,

Madonna’s skull filled with sea foam and the deep pink truth

Have Christ to thank for Pythagoras’s peaceful prayers,

As angels fly through the political pollution of the Vatican—

The Moroccan girl was sixteen she drank poison and died being dragged by the hair on her head through the dirty alley by the rapist she had been forced to marry

Their mothers sprinkled their confessions with brown sugar

And cinnamon until the truth made them vomit into Madonna’s mouth

Gaping with tongue aflame with Cynthia’s ring of roses—

Her stoner’s scent the gift of chocolate reminding her of youth,

No teacher ever left her grave so clean, I don’t think of her as Jewish,

Rain in the alley cleansing her, I don’t think of her as Spanish—

She recognizes my cock in the dark through the smoke

As I burn her worn out clothes like tomorrow’s sin,

Her geometry like time abused until it crawls and pees on all fours—

I search for the root and finding none keep searching in the dark

At the cool edge of the water her face a teenage moon can’t be stopped,

Her drunken eternity released like a cold fart—

The Ukrainian girl was eighteen when the sons of two well-connected officials drugged her and raped her and dousing her naked body with gasoline set her on fire

She gives gospel bj’s to the holy choir one by one

Sainted and delicious, her twin emerging like desire from the mind—

To Lina, my Rose La touché, I bequeath the empire of sand,

Her plastic heart a revelation, her tight black jeans naked salvation,

No virgins walk this earth and no atheist ever killed anyone

Because they disagreed with his opinion

And no religion says thou shalt not rape children—

The blonde bitch beside Cynthia in bed is unkind,

The windows dirty—

Making a woman orgasm, a work of art and a cat happy

Is both harder and easier than it looks,

Silence is the dream of John Ruskin and Gil Elvira—

Her thirty-year-old son fucked her while she was young

By decree of André Breton and the holy surrealists—

Her ass and mouth opening onto the same photogenic wormhole—

Madonna emerging from the fiery flames of Cynthia’s holy white ass

Thought the Vatican’s assassin that she met in the dark club was the uncle with whom she’d an incestuous affair with years ago but he wasn’t—