Time Murderer

My tears like rainforest would drop,
If I had pity on the talking beasts,
But my human memo has no more slot,
To endure the monsters of the East’s.

What a craddle! It’s itself kinda savage;
God condemned to desolate fever,
And its sons are themselves the ravage!
Eat! You beast till the word is over!

Nevertheless, I’d never lace up you,
Virus you are, but I let you be,
Only, take my words: fie upon you!
I write and my words let me be.

I have no holy mission to chase,
I am not Robinson! No-not even, Geez!
I’m not your Sherlock in this case!
I’m obsessed only by the time I seize.

I seize the time and it’s seizing you,
By fashion, fame, by food,
And by other worldly drugs to you.
Only you. I’m out of the mood.

Me and the time: Sparta and Athens;
We belong to each other,
In a lovely war that my mind imagines.
We need to kill each other.

Woe! There’s no benefits in my poems,
None gets salvation by my rhyme,
Nay they take me to the Seven Heavens,
But by seven verses- I killed the time.

Benyamin Bensalah

30.04.2017

Three butterflies

Once upon a time, there have been
three little butterflies –
so happy, sadly never seen –
under the lightblue skies.

They were but dancing all around
on fields been flared by light –
where flowers’ petals were the ground –
in yellow, red and white.

But all at once, the sky darkened
calling clouds out of chrome –
Yellow, Red and White disheartened –
It was time to go home.

                      ***

The three butterflies aimed their hut
reaching it with the storm –
drops by drops, but the hut was shut –
need’ to find a new dorm.

Yellow came: the yellow tulip!
While Red said the red one –
Going with White’s similar tip –
They went’ check one by one.

Reaching each tulip, they begged as
let us in, dear palace –
only one colour, the petals’ –
they found closed chalice.

                      ***

The red tulip let but Red in
and so on the others –
butterflies stayed ‘gether, wetting –
dying as true brothers.

They hid under a bigger leaf
where the wind still reached them –
fair moment to do disbelief –
but they still prayed the sun:

Bright sun! Dry our wet pollen-wings!
Bright up sun! Let us fly! –
The sun heard the cry of their song’s –
It became lightblue sky.


Original Hungarian prose of Jékely Zoltán: A három pillangó.

Benyamin Bensalah

30.07.2018

A Sacred Century Story

Seven savage centurions,
Swearing in their saint union’s
Scoured, scouted for sacredness,
Spreading but mere senselessness.

Seven souls sorted by Ceasar
Soullessly scorched the soil spare,
Sending to scourge not just its cereal,
But with seven skint scullions seen there.

In the circling flame’s stake,
Seeing no but smoke and flame,
Seeing no scape to suddenly recoil,
Sadly screamed the servants of the soil.

So, been so scared, suffocating,
Scarcely sober and scarcely seeing,
Thinking their souls cease on that soil,
They started a pray as a last toil on that soil.

Saying sour words to their gods,
But none seemed to soothe the odds,
No Ceres, Venus and no sound from Zeus,
Scullions suffer godless, they had to deduce.

Six scullions snared by scare,
But a single turned scare to dare,
Sending his sidekicks into fire graves,
Instinctively building a bridge of slaves.

Then, the savage scullion
Before being seen by any centurion,
Stabbed their posteriors from one to six,
Til the seventh slaughtered him for his sins.

Benyamin Bensalah

22.11.2018

Dead end

As my heart is still ribbed and robbed,
As my hand is still penly dropped –
By words, down on the paper,
By thoughts from a downer layer…

While enjoying life as a deadly drug,
While doing time by a languid shrug –
By God, I swear I am innocent;
By hazard, I may be evil or a saint.

As my hearten self is in daily oblivions,
As my drowsy heart-beats discharge ions –
By the heart’s sudden energetic spurts,
By them, last the lifer’s hurts…

While even my philosophy is dying,
While my old emotions leave their hiding –
By remembering Rome, a never seen land,
I wish for all its roads I know, to a dead end.

Benyamin Bensalah

16.12.2017

Grey Rays

Grey-blue pastel strokes brush the sun behind,
Leaving just enough light to the ground
To see the city, see the city with its toxicity;
Concrete jungle with vrooming sounds,
Soulless machines, and in them souls with wounds.

There’s no greenness behind greyness,
But meaningless parks as mere illusions
To keep our primal instincts alive –
Keeping them machine-fed, coma-like.
The art of nature’s hard to realise.

Parks are the new heart of the city,
Us – not even feeling pity,
Going there to fetch our nurture,
So-called being in the nature
As hypocrite machines.

Is there other machines lying
To themselves as we do –
By laying plants surrounding
While concretely it’s not
The green we went through?

How come then on the sky,
On that grayish sunbeam
Made of pastel and bluish dye;
We’re still a part of this sight,
Human machines as we are.

Benyamin Bensalah

12.11.2018

The Mark of Death

It comes with big fireworks of happiness
Like an extra life that revives you at the final battle,
Like a compliment that makes believe in yourself,
Like an advent of a person with radiating hope.

Euphoria – what it’s called – catches your moments,
Paints everything with eternal-like vivid hues,
Triumphs your whole past in a meaningful-like song,
Brings you a goal that has never existed.

Then, it just stops the time around you,
Lets you see the grey cloud of the present,
Hear the empty vacuum of the past,
Get dizzied by the blur of the future.

It holes your soul with the deepest pit
That eats up all the hopes remained or desired,
All the energy left leaving only fatigue,
All the senses that might make the soul living.

The Mark of Death spreads its curse all over the body,
Including the soul that just sits, lays inside,
Letting the whole world behind half-living,
Accepting death already by my side.

Benyamin Bensalah

17.02.2019

The boogey man

The boogey man is not a man,
But a monstrous cavity in the minds of the men.
Black corners and shaded wardrobes,
What deamon, boggle, hobgoblin the bedstead-dark holds?

Eyes are sticked on the darkness,
Noble nowhere: the wide pupil is seeing far less
While the truth is under your nose:
Thousand lies’ eyes lie upon you that no one knows now.

Spiders? Rat snakes? What’s hidden there?
No one knows and no one cares by-chance you barely dare;
It’s you and your mind – your demons
Who barely care – its self-destruction deepens itself.

Dark room, wardrobe and under-bed;
Darkness dwells in none of among them, but in your head.
Empty-headed pics of crassness,
Made by no boogey, but an ignorant’s recklessness.

Put away your holy water;
No need for illusive Jinn-conjurer Gin-tonics.
Darkness knows one weapon: homage;
Nightmares can be killed only through the light of knowledge.

Black corners and shaded wardrobes,
What morbid poison, what fearful drug your brain cells hold?
Embrace no torch, no crucifix;
The thirst of knowledge dries out every grim-naughty pics.

Benyamin Bensalah

22.05.2018

Cat-loife

Meow, it’s the new me now –
I’ll see – oh – you’ll see the new me now.
Don’t ask how, there’s no how-how,
But I’ll meow you my new tao:

Every day, there’s a new meowning,
I meow, making sure that it won’t be boring.
I uncurl myself and wash my whiskers,
Purring my soul with good whispers:

I’m so happy in this meowning,
Walking gently, and my fur is warming.
I’ll face the jungle with a tiger’s roar,
No one dares to ask what are my stripes for:

I bounce into the day like I am,
Proudly-loudly purring like a lion.
My mane is mine and the mane I am,
Being meowsome is my main domain:

I’m mild and kind like a kitten,
Even if it’s most of the time hidden.
Because I mind my own matter,
Avoiding the needless chatter:

I’m meowing since the meowning,
Just to break the ice of being boring.
If the boredom is still in my way,
I just gently paw away:

There’s no better escaper,
And there’s no fair enough keeper.
But, some warm holding hands
May fulfill my purre demands:

Rest and peace my life’s about,
If your place is not alike, rather let me out.
I’m faithed to live like a cat,
A natural aristocrat:

Tao is the only law with fun,
I roflmao all over where there’s sun.
Living all my nine lives in a row,
I’ve a cat-life, meow.

Benyamin Bensalah

11.02.2019

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

The Ogre

There’s no example like him, Oh God –
A pious monster who worships his own path.
How could I forget the lessons he gave me
By scaring me off to be like him: an ogre in a cave.

Once I was reading the holy book in peace –
While his hideous mind sees, sees and sees me.
Then, that rolling head exploded in a shout:
GO, WORK FOR ME! WHATCHA READIN ABOUT??

Next day, after work, I was having a rest –
He looked at me, to East, to me to me and West
With eyes that radiate in: “Soon, son…
You’ll have your final rest”.

Once, he can pass by such heresy
To having rest like him, in total serenity,
But once, not twice! Oh God,
The day after he sent me to rewipe the pots.

There were invisible spots on them,
Good for him, he sees what human eyes can’t.
He was saying he could do it meanwhile;
But he’s doing nothing now, nor in a while.

He says he did everything before –
An Ogre that knows every, every, every lore,
Even those that time hasn’t heard before
The Incredible Ogre shall play in that a role.

The role of a commander or an evil sergeant
Giving orders, being at ease or urgent,
To defend the Ogre kingdom’s or his peace;
Sending the others away, been at ease.

The kindom is full of trash, thrown by him,
But he has servants working for him;
“HERE’S A BOTTLE, HERE’S A BOXER!” – he throws,
“HAHAHA, ON YOUR HEAD A SCORE!”

Ogre, Ogre who’s my “dad”,
Autocorrect’s not alone wishing him “dead”-
Cuz just from writing “he’s a real father”,
My white one becomes a purely blackened feather.

Overloud voice, overload fat ass,
His agressive speech is purely heartless, merciless.
He is eating hope, happiness and desire,
I won’t feed the Ogre more, I put down my lyre.

Benyamin Bensalah

30.05.2018