Devolution

I do art, so I exist,
Alone, my ego is my home,
Grown, I need no war-societies;
I’m no more a homo-primitive-sapiens:

Holding swords and tribes’ declamations,
Writing nice words with bloody hands,
Washing them with victories;
Oh, I’m not a caveman:

My cave is still only mine,
Though, my brain is my only cave,
No material can make true patriarch;
I’m not the apeman that once used to be:

Getting a tree through ruling and fooling,
Through bloodthirst and wolf appetite,
Making the world burn firelessly;
I’m not an animal:

Flying as mercenary eagles,
Dancing among hideous grizzlies,
Idolizing snow-white ravenous tigers;
I will never be any reptile like all of these:

Still, life is daily dumbfoundingly changing,
The one who doesn’t ahead, goes astern,
Like a runner bean in a fired forest;
I’m avoiding to be a part of those:

Living on others,
Like purposeless parasites,
Like sourceless viruses and morbidities:
I nominate my every art against Devolution.

Benyamin Bensalah

11.04.2018

Another D.P.S. member

Facebook. Twitter. Google +.
Machine-made, ever, daily fuss.
Planes. Trains. A traffic jam of cars.
All those like-likely likes, tho no one cares.

Insta. Reddit. Picasso.
Seen, liked, read, then go.
On Iphone. On bus. Living-room.
Iron, silicon and other sources to exhume.

Cold. Solid. Simple. Breathless.
The world around us is deadly reckless.
Courtesy? Strawberry? Flowers, bees living?
Where are the pictures that enliven without #following?

Dead poets had been lucky.
Looking at Living things – philosophically.
Sunny sky, cloud, rain, and a deep’ dark sea.
Feeling words that everybody and nobody see.

Methink myself -now- undead.
Living among things being dead.
A phone. Typing. Words. In the pocket, hidden.
Why am I living in the nature’s details, somewhat Bohemian?

Benyamin Bensalah

10.09.2018

What is strange?

Maybe, I’m strange…

How many times I’ve heard the word: “strange“:
“That’s all.. life is strange!”
“Oh Em Gee, you’re strange!”
“Why girls and boys act so strange?”

But what does strange mean?
How can I tell,
If even its definition HAS a quite strange smell!!4!

It strangely states:
“Strange is strangeness of a stranger’s
strange stance…”
Turning on the dictionary:
Strange is ‘out of ordinary’!!4!!4

What?!
Ordina.. It sounds str…..
STRONG!
Ordinary means Normal
It’s a statement.
So, strange is that that’s out of normal,
Briefly saying un-u-su-al.

I have many unusual names and cities..
As many as desires to perish:
I’ve never been in London, Milano, nor Paris..
I’ve never met a Rudolph, Calorin, nor Clariss.
Neither I have spoken Indian, Eskimo, nor Spanish.

Then, check that strangeness!
I’m from Europe..
Hah!
What’s so strange?
Maybe that I used to crowd on PVC..
Or I differently pose on a W…hatever.

But, to approach it better,
Let’s talk less and understand more,
Leaving less gaps,
Between our legs and the floor:


We, humans, all of us,
Are strangely strange and it’s a fact.
Let me prove it by giving you a task:


Read this.
Then, check your nose.
Now, I think,
Every honest reader looks strange.
But only God knows.

Maybe, I’m strange.

Benyamin Bensalah

10.04.2016

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

Dreamlist

To get on a bus without checking,
to leave the country hijacking,
to sit in a bar and start random chatting,
to tell stories you heard or make a setting,
to enter mosques-churches marveling,
to cross a forest and find a dwelling,
to live with animals and enjoy petting,
to work with two hands and enjoy sweating,
to lick your injuries as it’s helping,
to put on some ice and watch it melting,
to ask for shelter while you’re healing,
to open your heart with all revealing,
to share what cities you’ve been watching,
to be the one who starts touching,
to have a night that’s been worth for living,
to live only for a chance for giving,
to fancy that the future’s brightening,
to live in the now without hiding,
then, in the bed, when we are tiring,
stop a while this dreamlist’s writing,
close our eyes – long – and smiling,
this was our life I could be admiring.

Benyamin Bensalah

23.05.2020

Benyamin’s dead

All the poems that I read,
All the written words I said
Are nothing like this one: sad –
Since it says: Benyamin’s dead.

Don’t look for good moments he had,
Don’t try to prove he wasn’t mad;
Say simply, loudly: he was bad –
There’s nothing to add.

Smart words he said?
He’d been a playful lad?
Despite of all he eventually had –
He was just ghastly, terrifically bad.

All the happy moments he caused – had,
He turned them all into sad,
Since he was just bad –
At least he’s dead.

Better not to wed,
Turning else into sad,
Dying alone, that’s for the bad;
Benyamin’s dead, condolences who read.

Benyamin Bensalah

16.09.2018

Limbo cry: do WE still exist?

Once, I told you I wished we were free to our will
to be together as I do want it still –
without made up social contracts as religions;
what does love do with ruling nations?

Meeting you was fate of coincidences, that
we were sharing in life the same debt
from our parents and ancestors, the curse
that we cannot be good, only worse.

I’ve almost accepted the curse as my nature
when I met your highly pure feature
to learn, and go, not to giving up to learn,
but our demons led to give up to earn.

Breaking under hardship, seduction and pride,
concepts of dignity, the weak human mind –
I don’t know what could push us away so far;
but both of us stopped fighting who we are.

“If we met in a bar”, “if I could turn back time”,
“returning seven years old, would I do the same crime?” –
such questions pop up with no sense of reality
because we have but pictures, then we see through our cavity.

We believed it’s over – even if I didn’t and don’t wish so,
call it martyrdom, dignity – I don’t think so;
we just gave up on reality that we both adored;
and now we are living hell for it with no reward at all.

How much suffering, a mortal soul could bear
until recognizing that forgiveness is our divine elixir;
forgiving for giving up on us, forgetting the pain –
just like a wicked god-story; repent or suffer in vain.

Benyamin Bensalah

11.05.2020

Poet solidarity

I’m a poet already –
So why would I care,
How poetry is itself?
So why would I care,
About anything, but myself?

I’ve got the power –
The best pens are looking for my order,
The words are bowing afore me one by one,
The paper serve me as faithful recorder,
Meanwhile, they’re followed up only by one.

I’m one, one of you –
My babbles are coming from your room,
Your parents forbid me to talk as the street,
Your schools lent me books to consume,
It was your friend who read my first sheet.

I’m no one anymore –
You people kept acting after the school,
Turning cool movies of business and household,
Meanwhile, I observed what you name cool,
Having several lives written in colours and bold.

You are a poet as well –
You only need to open your eyes ajar,
Leave a comment, show me how you care,
Mellow your world and serve up in a jar,
To let us, your brothers taste if you dare.

We are a nation, mate –
We were born just as every Earthlings,
None of us was born in flames like dragons,
But we share as well magical-noble things;
To respect each other’s opinions sans dictums.

Tho, I’m your poet –
I thank you people a thousand times,
For giving me a world and cause to write,
Your different colours feed my rhymes,
Without you, they would be mute, lucite.

Benyamin Bensalah

16.04.2017