Featured Poem #1: "Dybbuk Does Dallas"
- maxyeshaye
- Feb 4
- 4 min read
Updated: Feb 5
In between some of the more typical prose-style blog posts, I'm going to be sharing some of my poems on a semi-regular basis. I wrote and performed the following poem, "Dybbuk Does Dallas," for the Gefilthy Fish Cabaret as part of the 2025 Klezmer On Ice weekend in Minneapolis. In this racy poem, Michal Waszinsky's The Dybbuk, adapted from the play by S. Ansky, is reimagined as the crowning achievement of a now-forgotten Yiddish porno industry.
“Dybbuk Does Dallas”
The darling of Shtetl Schtups Production Co
was once-upon-a-twink, Chonan Rex,
who played in nine of the filthiest sex
flics of a generation. Yiddish porno
entered the Hebraic smut rodeo
with “Boning Shvayg,” starring Chode Lomed Peretz.
But it was Chode’s stint as crossed dresser Judit
that drove us crazy, less for him than her Romeo,
the “Cut Casanova,” you guessed it: Chonan.
His money shot came with the spread of his cheeks,
when his Juliet mouthed inside him “wherefore?”
A mashiach for the children of Onan,
many an actor would doctor his brown, tongued his beef,
and swallowed his link (100% Hebrew).
For years, Mr. Rex, like none before him,
paved out a path with his penis and ass
of x-rated spoofs from Pinski to Ash,
til one day Mitch Waszinsky implored him
on behalf of his fans who adored him.
Sly smiled Mitch offered a mountain of cash,
twinkled his eye, saying, it could be the last,
his greatest feat, if he had one more in him.
“You’ll break into real films,” Mitch lied through his teeth,
"You've heard my schtick, my mystical spiel,
that our brand new flic’s no sensual palace
alone. In fact, the secrets that lie beneath
our physical world will be revealed
if you sign on to Dybbuk Does Dallas.”
————
With an auteur’s gaze, manipulating the grain,
Mitch drew the camera onto the bone blanched
knees on a pair of strong legs, thoroughly depantsed,
whose gyrations briefed along their fur train,
Chonan’s sweets lips to kiss up, down, and again.
Elsewhere on set, a set of rings changed hands
as Waszinsky shouted “Cue toyten-tanz.”
“Man’s life is like a dance of death,” he explained
to his frazzled assistants, who hurriedly untied
the wedding guest’s clothes and oiled their muscles.
Back to the best man who bridled his head
between thick thighs of the brother of the bride.
Dallas, the mensch, was wielding his hips, muzzling
Chonan, when in walked the queen of the dead.
A veil shrouded vixen, with hollowed out eyes,
surveyed the orgy and shuffled beside
Chonan. With a wide gait and weightless stride,
she bent to the fairy, and helped him to rise.
Yanking the boy from the pleasure of thighs, she peacocked her way where the crowd had divided,
grinded on Rex, and from behind seized his pride
in her pale, bony hand, the sum of his size
engorged with a brush of a thumb to its tip,
the erogenous flame in the hold of decay.
The camera moved in. “Oh, what could he feel?”
wondered Waszinsky, when it suddenly slipped
into view Death’s dildo, a dick on display,
a treyf bit devised from the spine of an eel.
Little Chonan stone hard in the clasp of the grave,
as vertebra by vertebra pushed in through his hole,
With glee, herr Mitch, that horniest of Poles,
zoomed in on the burial, where bone chafed
skin, where Gehenna intruded the mounds of the brave.
Mitch, fixed down below, missed when the soul
inside Chonan cracked as he came, when a cold
scoured his body, and a shard, like a dove
fluttered from him, as the lady in black
spun gilgul, the wheel, and a fusion ignited,
where each lad Chonan fucked, each man he yet loved
charged into that fissure and gorged on his lack,
while Chonan’s head rolled, and his eyes flashed white.
The smoke of metal! The splinter of glass!
The lights exploded, the film reel unwound,
Death released Chonan to writhe on the ground,
while Mitch puttered about, cried, “Help him, Dallas!”
Then he tripped on a stool and fell on his ass.
Dallas D. Goldstein, with his well endowed
pecker, caught in his fly, spun himself round,
as the specter vanished, and where it had passed
Chonan's body was rent, the set disarrayed,
the director dumfounded, the assistants adrift,
while the wedding guest extras just shivered and cried.
Dallas grabbed Chonan, while a perching dove swayed
on a branch on a tree, watching the shift
down below, the intrusion from the other side.
Mr. Rex never sexed in anymore shoots,
nor did Dallas the stud. Waszinsky changed name
and fled to the States, and received some acclaim
for filming a Western and commercials for boots
til at last obscurity claimed his name too.
As for Dybbuk Does Dallas, enough frames
survived, and a VHS became
available for a lucky few. Until a lawsuit
for necro-erotic malpractice on queers
was filed by MacKinnon and Dworkin
in a ‘83 Minneapolis court.
Thus the old world, Judeo-homo sphere
the pornographic tower, through an unspoken
pact with rightwingers and prudes, was cut short.
A word for today’s generation who dreams
of an unbroken chain from our sexual pasts
of ancestral knowledge stored in the ass,
in prick, in pussy, in unfurling reams
of bodies engaging never-ending schemes
beyond reproduction, beyond the paths
of so-called holy creeds to continue our race.
Remember, once, long ago, on our screens,
Chonan opened the seal, and embracing Death,
gave of himself to recover the lives
of lovers who mingled deep in his breast,
legions returning to finger his chest.
From the gutter of heaven, his erection
pointed to formation, to the source of our breath,
yetzirah marked with a fleshy pink head.
So we’ll, search every basement, cling to the thread,
that a copy might, in some pervert’s collection,
remain, so we too can learn from the dead
who invaded the body and secrated the palace,
when long ago, Chonan, the Dybbuk, did Dallas.
Comments