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

When in Rome

We are Romans,
It’s bread and circuses that rejoice.
I’ll Refuse.

We are Owners,
It’s money that talk.
I’m Inferior .

We are Mob,
It’s the number that count.
I’m One.

We are Alike,
It’s unity that strenghten.
I’m Transposed.

We are Nervous,
It’s the stronger that survive.
I’m Sober.

We are System,
It’s mechanism that makes no mistake.
I spoil it!!!

Benyamin Bensalah

21.10.2015

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 mad poet’s planet

Have you met the mad poet who doesn’t deserve happiness?

The early moon-day skies are mothering cries on the mad pallet;
the reddest rivers will green many bluish ideas on this sad planet
like half-blood titans descending into mortal hermit
with eyeing minds on the infinite skies without permit.

Virtually toxicated images are raising altar for madness;
oddly faced gods will have painted former multiverses
storing like imagined jpgs of beauts’ bare badness
with brute-looking pngs’ sweet kisses of sadness.

Two decades of megatons are whiting on the horizon’s garret;
a new simulation will take place with an unchanged habit
working with the same colors of the sad, mad, bad pallet
with drawing circles until the pocket poet’s on this planet.

You have met the mad poet who doesn’t deserve happiness.

Benyamin Bensalah

10.01.2020

A linguist defined

It’s a sinister linguistic diagnosis –
By a doctor, himself, suffering in psychosis,
Curing not even my own words my age utters,
Looking for people’s language patterns.

By a doctor if I ever could be called so –
Charlatan under the dungeon of an old chateau,
Describing – prescribing the spells on which others live,
Being a witch with only legerdemains to give.

Let’s call it a science above ethics –
A crazy scholar stuck in others’ pragmatics,
Judging the judge for his post-modern sanctions,
Blaming the youth for linguistic inventions.

A poor scholar of a doubtful school –
Who’s among normals simply called fool,
Deporting enchanted words out of simplicity,
Living in a new-modern antiquity.

Linguist I am, it’s my story –
I live in the prognosis of history,
Feeding myself with words others chanted,
Esteemed meanwhile horror haunted.

Benyamin Bensalah

29.10.2018