Intellectual Disorder

How many times I wished to be dumb and dull
As some sort of donkey;
Eating my favorite hay-made cereals,
Wearing my favorite kind of donkey pantaloon and jacket,
And saying “Heyyya!” to people all of my like.

Simple minds dress the world in sugarcoats
With simple likes and simple hates;
Only a simple-minded person can enjoy
Things that are foolish, immoral and fits no
Functional reasons except of socialness.

This is a natural behavior among beings
To look for each other and harness the environment;
I’ve never been judging on this
As I said, it’s rather an envy
For being simple, but sad and happy.

When you start harnessing the mind
Instead of the surrounding space and time,
You will see that space and time are not real;
They are relative as your importance
In this world.

Your eyes will stop seeing and start understanding
Causes and Effects, Chain-reactions, Patterns;
Your life will be just a pattern in the absurd
That knows no sad or happy observation,
You will only see a disorder.

Benyamin Bensalah

16.01.2020

A Dream in Vienna

Dream if a dream, or either a hallucination,
My heart stuck on a land, in a city, at places.
I can’t help it, even if I would, I wish I could
Free my mind from my heart’s ceaseless call.

What if it was real? So what if was not?
The landscape revived my heart, then took it.
It painted green and red a grey stone,
Then, it felt no shame, stole it.

As if a child been playing at the Danube
With stones in the hand to throw it,
So that my heart went with the flow,
And here’s my mind to follow it.

I’m looking for traces where is that dream;
In the city, named Vienna.
What happened there? Why is this ease-,
Happiness- and grief-dyed dilemma?

The city is living, but it’s silent, no answers.
Rather, its streets walk hand in hand –
Days and nights, silently,
Its trolleys wear knowing smile seeing each other –
No rail can separate them forever,
Its elegant houses cuddle together –
Inside them, thousands of secrets,
Its grass in the parks are camping daylong –
Changing their places while caressing each other,
Its sky is the blanket of freedom –
Nobody can dream what happens under’,
Then, its river,
Danube that if only could run backwards,
Only could return my heart and mind,
Letting me leave from dream to dream,
Leaving this reality for another
Dream if a dream, but it happened
That I was living
With the city
Of Vienna.

Benyamin Bensalah

15.01.2020

I can’t read for pleasure

I can’t read for pleasure anymore.

No more “Once upon a time…”,
No more “Mr. and Mrs Dursley, of number four Privet Drive…”,
No more “Once upon a midnight dreary…”,
No more “We know what we are, but know not what we may be…”.

The beauty of language is murdered for me;
Its own science who killed it inside me…

There are no more Grimm written fairy tales;
Indo-European laws, there are.
There are no more written narratives;
Sassurean dichotomies, there are.
There are no more Shakespearean chansons;
Chomskyan scansions, there are.
There are no more literary master-pieces;
Pinkler’s linguistic theses, there are.

There are, there are, there are…

Literature is killed – for now – at this point.
I can’t read – for pleasure – anymore.

Benyamin Bensalah

26.09.2017

Sad Dog

Like an injured dog having no sort,
Knocking about the world for resort,
I walk on the dark sides of the streets,
My sight sweeps the paper of the sweets.

This is the sole world that I’m trynna avoid,
This desolation cures my spiritual void,
The dark peace feeds my eagerness,
To care no more or even less.

So the solution here is solitude,
Carelessness while getting screwed,
Sober stupor agaisnt the cruel world,
Living on the surface of the underworld.

Seldom as Cerberus I walk on the earth,
A shadow-like monster seeking worth,
Searching life by trice of headness,
Finding no thing but sadness.

Anon, I fit another canon,
Being a sullen Hungarian dragon,
Tho, I barely bite, I do without sorry,
So, I rather remain on chain and write my story.

I’ve found my place now on an empty chair,
But I live in the blank looks everywhere,
I’m planting, and sadness is my seed,
I’m a sad dog having no breed.

Benyamin Bensalah

06.02.2017

The Eye of a Typer

A colorless, eye-shaped smoke in the sky is my eyes,
That, instead of seeing, creates new skies,
New ground, and on it a new population.

None can be sure about my subjective realisation,
But what I see is more like a simplification
Of a horribly bad-mad world.

I myself am not sure how the colours are whirled;
The colours of dream- and undream-world
As clothes in a washing machine.

Myself is supposed to whirl inside that machine,
Among the instinctive desires and unclean,
Inherited demands.

While my true existence that no one understands
Is beyond those dark-coloured commands,
Just dwelling for observation.

Benyamin Bensalah

01.06.2019

The Deep Embrace

Even if its sea is silver-
And golden is its shore,
I should never be going there-
To the sea of sore and sorrow,
Not anymore.

Where faceless phantoms sing-
Lunatic nightmares,
My place desires but to sink-
Deep into the wares and blue,
More and more.

Their song is about people-
Hurting, violating,
Their air is violent, purple-
Breathing, exhaling the hate,
More and more.

Reaching the charmed deep-
Their hate is fading,
Fades the desire to weep-
To be living down the surface,
More and more.

Even if its sea is silver-
And golden is its shore,
I should never be going there-
To the sea of sore and sorrow,
Not anymore.

Benyamin Bensalah

23.09.2017