Hanna Yazbeck

August 2020

A Contemporary Romantic - by Hanna Yazbeck (Photo by Daniel Curran).jpgPhoto credit: Daniel Curran

A Contemporary Romantic

By Hanna Yazbeck

A contemporary romantic
contemplating but not contended,
comprehending that he cannot comprehend it,
apprehends it.

His hand around its neck he lifts life into the air he breathes,
he beats it to his heartbeat and eats whatever beads brake,
a modern William Blake.
He lifts life –he chokes it;
it’s a joke that chokes him,
it is God, it’s a sin that he created.

But his creation is not honey dew,
what’s dew for him is to pay his dues –
He is the Knight wonderer of “La Belle Dame Sans Merci”,
a slave to the idealism of Keats, he dwells in the belly of the beast.
The beast is his imagination;
he is Frankenstein
and his creation is the fear of a nation.

His nation is a notion of roman ovations,
ovations ovulating in oceans of no evolution,
revolution is a revolt anti-vaults,
vaults of faults, their faults, our faults,
teenage hormones and a hundred volts to the penis.
Ovations ovulating in oceans of no evolution,
oceans of teenage revolutions,
a desperate need to feel alive,
a desperate need to follow a Moses as he splits the oceans
and runs away!

Dreams,
spines split and lean,
spite and spleen.
Did you ever love yourself for hating yourself?
Did you ever make a scene, for the sake of it?
Make no mistake,
contemporary romantic,
modern William Blake,
he paints the Great Red Dragon as a snake
and the woman clothed in sun, with the sun, to him, is the beast from the sea.
Do you see?
The snake slithers to the smell of the incensed innocence in the Sistine Chapel,
the Sistine Chapel is the gap between her thighs, and he worships it with lies
while she lies in his bed.
As he fucks the act of loving, black paint drips from his head,
drops burst ahead, into her throat,
she rocks like a boat, and he floats…
10 thousand floats of his imagery gloat,
he is God and he commits the act of creation,
commits the crime of creating,
no committing
a comity of characters
inside his theatre
where She is the utopia of him, deep and dark as a cave, and he craves
deep and dark.

Graves deep and dark.

After all, how can an artist be one without pain?
We create sadomasochistic veins,
arteries of artistic artifacts.
Art effects affect defective art, and we pray.

We pray to ourselves to save us from ourselves,
worship ourselves,
make ourselves suffer.
We are our own last supper.
The contemporary Romantic,
the modern William Blake,
make no mistake,
he likes to play God.


Edition V

Wet Pants in an Ashtray - by Hanna Yazbeck (Photo by Myriam Nehmeh)Photo credit: Myriam Nehmeh

Wet Pants in an Ashtray

By Hanna Yazbeck

Weariness,
Sickening sickness
drags him down in the cold
warmth of his old stiff body
as his passive rebellious youthfulness
sinks into the still moving sands
of his chair.

Weariness,
On the sides where his hands
lay on arms still still and stale,
His darkened mournful eyes pondering,
tell the tale of the mournful morning
at midnight.

Weariness,
made of the dark room,
the warm worn crimson chair
and the grey white window
from which the young man stares
at the rain.

He waits for the Raven,
But no Raven comes.

Passiveness,
His youthful wrinkled eyes,
still and stale, tell the tale
of how nothing happened
on that mournful morning.

Passively,
he strokes his dick,
led astray on a tray
of comfortable discomfort,
he heads towards the ashtray
in which they laid his bed.

The voices in his head are long gone.
There lays his bed,
He runs and runs to the ashtray,
It is HE who laid his bed,
The characters in his head
are long gone,
There’s no one to converse with,
He strokes his dick more heavily
and rapidly in verse,
He creates an audience
but there’s no play to commerce,
He strokes his dick
he’s finally involved in something.

He strokes his dick

it’s a conversation

with the Angels

he’s lying to himself

with the night

he’s lying to himself

with the dark shadowy lights

he’s lying to himself

with silence

he’s lying, he’s lying,

with himself

he’s lying with himself,
he’s lying –there’s no conversation.

Passiveness,
He sits still still and stale,
The morning has gotten pale,
From blue-grey to yellow clay he saw it,
But he saw nothing; he lay
staring at the ceiling
in the trance of his wet pants.


Edition IV

Sods of Sodomy - by Hanna Yazbeck (Photo by Hakim El Haj)Photo credit: Hakim El Haj

Sods of Sodomy

By Hanna Yazbeck

I, Stuck in the abominable haze
of a tumbling crowd, empty hands I graze
of passers-by and lick their inner throats,
Alas, not awry, so sudden to go dry.

Suddenly I saw the sod only,
The Earth had lain down to cry,
Lonely lamentations lying on lanes, lying to each other long
on the longitudinal leniency of lyrical lines of poetry.

But beneath the earth the snake was sliding,
Seven miles circling the
hellish Circus.
Clowns, bearded ladies, homosexuals, wire walkers,
a lot of brandy, rum for the balancing act,
and a lady.

A Lady,
alone in the dim light of the back room rehearsing her routine, her black gown a fictive illusion deluding you that she is real. You want to touch her and she dances. The snake slithers. Her stockings separate and curve. She is the soul of the Circus. The dim light is warm, reflecting on her bronze skin. The wings of her eyes flutter sensuously down to her loose lips, and send you in a trance of reaching, reaching… . Come closer, insert your 20$ bill in the crack of her gown. Come! Let your eyes stray on the curve of her bended buttocks benumbing you into being, as you graze her full breasts with the tip of your fingers. Do you feel alive? You are dead. Let her infuse you with life. Let her help you find God. Insert your 20$ bill. Can you feel your fingers graze the top of her milky skin? Picture yourself falling in the crack of her pointy breasts, down, down… till you reach the warmth of her lips. Wet Warm leaking liquid lips; the sanctuary of her legs. Her legs are long; seven miles.
Her legs are lonely lamentations,
longitudinal leniency,
lyrical lines of poetry.
Her legs are spread lanes for you to lie on, to lie to…
Sodom and Gomorrah,
Sods of sodomy the Earth laid down,
Mass hysteria!
The Clowns laugh,
The knife throwers chop each other’s heads,
The Clowns laugh,
The jugglers giggle gaily juggling the empty jugs of human heads,
The Clowns laugh,
The homosexual disease descends upon the Victorian women in the crowd,
The Clowns laugh,
The patriarch wire walker hangs himself from his own wire,
The Clowns laugh,
The drunk woman from the balancing act climbs, spreads her legs and loses her virginity to the stiff dead cock of the hanging man,
The Director in the last row masturbates to the revelation of his creation,
Little children crawl out of the virgin woman’s entrails,
The crowd screams in bewilderment,
The clowns laugh,
Men kill the children and cook them in the saucy blood of the virgin –
Feed the masses!
Five loaves of bread and two fish heads!
The crowd bows down in worship.
The Clowns laugh,
The Director orgasms and the Great Flood drowns the theatre!

A hush came over the lanes of the land;
the longitudinal lyrical lines of the seats,
The poet slept in the back gratified,
waiting for his seeds to sprout, In the distance could be heard
the faint memory of poetry –
Two clowns were laughing.


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