The Unshaven

Once upon a midnight peeky, while I scrolled down, sneak and cheeky,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten porn—
    While I nodded, nearly fapping, suddenly there came a clapping,
As of some one gently lapping, lapping at my chamber door.
“’Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “lapping at my chamber door—
            Only this and nothing more.”

    Ah, distinctly I remember mazing on three transgender;
And each separate frying member wrote on the post that was hardcore.
    Eagerly I wished to follow;—vainly I had thought to download
    From my torrent surcease of prologue—prologues of the load of porn—
From the rare and popular home-taken whom the laics name just porn—
            Nameless here for evermore.

    And the silken, latex, squirting casting of each purple curtain
Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic tremors never felt before;
    So that now, to still the beating of my dart, I stood repeating
    “’Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door—
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;—
            This it is and nothing more.”

    Presently my pole grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
“Sir,” said I, “or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
    But the fact is I was fapping, and so gently you came clapping,
    And so faintly you came clapping, clapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you”—here I opened wide the door;—
            Darkness there and nothing more.

    Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, seeking,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no normal ever dared to dream before;
    But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no orgasm,
    And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “porn?”
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, “porn!”—
            Merely this and nothing more.

    Back into the chamber turning, all my pole within me burning,
Soon again I heard a clapping somewhat louder than before.
    “Surely,” said I, “surely that is something at my neighbor, Clarice;
      Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore—
Let my dart be still a moment and this mystery explore;—
            ’Tis the thin bitch and nothing more!”

    Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and mutter,
In there stepped she stately unshaven from the neighbor’s door;
    Not the least obeisance made she; not a minute stopped or stayed she;
    But, with mien of lord or lady, pushed me above my chamber door—
Pushed me upon by my phallus just above my chamber door—
            Pushed me, and sat, and so on more.

Then this ebony girl beguiling my bad fantasy into smiling,
By the greed for sperm decorum on the countenance of this whore,
“Though thy clits should be shaven, thou,” I said, “ah sure, it’s fine unshaven,
Ghastly grim and unsaint maiden wandering into my Night like I adore—
Tell me that thy lord’s name is me, you bohemian dirty whore!”
            Quoth Clarice “Insult me more.”

    Much I marvelled her ungainly howl to hear her cursing so plainly,
Though her swearing little meaning—little relevancy bore;
    For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
    Ever yet was blessed with seeing random girl above his chamber door—
Girl with breasts so busty appearing above his chamber door,
            With such name as “Neighbor whore.”

    But the unshaven sitting of the plastic busty, spoke only
Sequences of moan, as if her soul in that one moun did outpour.
    Nothing farther then she uttered—not a flirting then she muttered—
    Till I scarcely more than fluttered “Other friends got gone before—
On the morrow she will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before.”
            Then the girl said “Nevermore.”

    Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
“Doubtless,” said I, “what she utters is only her mock and moan
    Caught from some dirty caster whom subtitles of XHamster
    Followed her mast and followed blaster till the songs burdened this whore—
Till the purges of her Hope that melancholy burden whore
            Of ‘leaving me nevermore’.”

    But the unshaven still beguiling all my fantasy into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of the busty girl’s backdoor;
    Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
    Phallus in and out, thinking what this onenightstand girl is to moan—
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous girl of whore
            Meant in moaning “Nevermore.”

    This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
From the hole whose fiery juice now burned into her bossom’s core;
    This and more I sat diving, with my head at ease reclining
    On her cushion’s velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o’er,
But whose velvet-violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o’er,
            She shall press, ah, just a little more!

    Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed by this lapdancer
Blown by sperm whose drop-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
    “Wretch,” I cried, “thy God! who let thee—by these carpets I hath spent no-free
    Respite—respite and swallow from the floor like it hath done in porn;
Quaff, oh quaff this lil serpenthe like I forgot this was not porn!”
            Quoth the unshaven “Ignore the floor.”

    “Clean it!” said I, “thing of evil!—clean it still, before starts to drying!—
What a temptation sent, or what temper tossed here this whore,
    Disgusting yet once charming, on this lonely night enchanted—
    On this home by porn haunted—tell me truly, I implore—
Is there—is there sperm on your floor?—tell me—tell me, I implore!”
            Quoth Clarice “I don’t know.”

    “Clean it!” said I, “thing of evil!—clean it still, before starts to drying!
By that Heaven that waits none of us—by that God you adore—
    Tell this slut to swallow later if, within the distant I see her again,
    It shall be more than some clapping and eager for some porn—
Fapping may be cleaner than a floor- spitting neighbor whore.”
            Quoth the unshaven “You disgusting boar!”

    “Be that word our sign of parting, girl or fiend!” I shrieked, upstarting—
“Get thee back into thy nest where’s the Night’s vendible whore!
    Leave your black fumed ass out of my room as we have never spoken!
    Leave my loneliness unbroken!—quit your busty chest above my door!
Take thy sole blouse from my bed, and wipe thy splotch off from my floor!”
            Quith the unshaven “Asshole.”

    And the unshaven, never flirting, still is sulking, still is sulking
On her busty ass far from my phallus just next to my chamber door;
    And her eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming,
    To kill me once for what I told her to swallow my sperm from the floor;
But my soul is free from her and her quoating to be my girl and own my room
            She shall not said—nevermore!

Parody of Edgar Allan Poe’s poem, The Raven (1845).

Benyamin Bensalah


Social butterfly

Social butterfly: A person who jumps from one social group to another, somewhat being accepted in all of them, but not really belonging to any of them without having deep connections with any.

So, here I am again; leaving a life and entering another.
Often, I cut socializing as if I don’t even bother
Cause it is and it causes a great pain to me and even other;
I am here today, then nowhere tomorrow
As if my whole existence were a repeating funeral
Like a careless butterfly flying from flower to flower.

Before I would take the blame on this horrible misbehavior,
Understand that I am not doing it as volunteer;
To see the truth that I’m also a victim here
Take my shoes and listen how I feel:
Emptiness and loneliness are my biggest fear –
Right away I get a life, I feel empty as if not being there,
From a minute to another I feel myself lonely,
Leaving a life and trying another that homes me.
You’d understand it if I demonstrated, but I really need to leave now, good bye homie!

With condolences for the times I stole from thee,
I’m really not a thief, but I felt so empty and lonely;
To borrow a life, none of you’d have bestowed me.

Benyamin Bensalah


Chairy tale

Through my life,
Every single scale of the timeline,
Had a different story to tell,
About me and the chair.

In the morning,
As a newborn, growing,
Used to paddle around its four pillars,
Curved up in its shade as caterpillars,
I looked up to the throne of giants,
To the mountain-sized defiance,
Saying: I will climb that once.

In the midday,
My life’s halfway,
I rode daily my chairy pony,
Bouncing on its legs and knees,
Saying: I play on this.

In the afternoon,
Life was no more a toon,
I sat on that chair as that should be,
My hurting back had plea only,
Saying: I really need a walk.

In the evening,
Roped, but breathing,
I’m to kick away the chair,
Saying: I have no more affair.

The life is not a fairy tale,
It was a chairy tale.

Benyamin Bensalah


Fat facts

Accept the fact
that we’ve become fat;
the snack and the nap,
the last meatball we had,
the light coke with a family pack
just one more bonbon chocolate,
the rich omelette with bacon and baguette,
for breakfast, for dinner or any time randomly set;
snacking at Maccies, munching on a jar of Nutella…
Oh, without I tell ya… our pants are tightening,
the holes on the pants’ belts are widening,
more and more muscles are hiding
under our lovely self defense,
our physical self defense
against cold and, and…
it doesn’t make us fat,
and even if,
it wouldn’t be that bad,
and it’s a fact.

Benyamin Bensalah


The Last Steal

There’s a fading picture on my childhood’s meander,
Troublesome; although notional, emotional – and tender…

I remember, I went to steal pears from the neighbor’s fruit trees,
I hid next to his shed, ably like an expert of mischieves.

All at once, the old man appeared during getting robbed,
I stayed next to the shed by the fences dropped.

The old man was so melancholic in his chequered chemise,
Promenading from a tree to a tree doing kindly kisses.

This is where the story begins – where I grew years,
Waiting for the ageless man finishing his craze.

I must relax by the fence under the shed’s shade,
Seeking something time-killing against my bad fate.

Under the pressure of the moment, I must realize,
I was facing a high-class hole in a thumb-size.

Tic-tac tic-tac, the freaky hole was on the wall,
While my cheeky eyes were surveying the hole.

A hole, a hole – for the first sight having no goal, nor role,
Though, sullenly it made me feel no more sole.

As if my mate – the hole – would accompany me,
But what if, there might be something really watching me?

The ground became a pit and the fence a web,
While watching the unknown hole on the shed.

In a sudden – in the hole, I saw two long-long straw,
Dark colour and yellow stripes died their flaw.

The horror hole might hide a ferocious monster,
The proof is it was ill-silent; no growl, nor bluster.

Those straw like legs were waiting their prey,
My throat did not let me a breath nor a pray.

The hole wished me dead that was deadly certain,
But how it wanted to manage my death; uncertain.

My face got a pale frown, my arms were in a knot,
The question might be now: to survive or rather not.

For a moment of coldness and pressure growing,
A pyramid-like and a straight leg.. – I saw them moving!

I waited no more for the monster waiting me,
I jumped into the sky and flew through a valley.

The hideous valley of the fence and the shed,
Led me to the hands of the old tree-loving lad.

The man became bad-tempered seeing me pear-handed,
A bing and a bang, and this is how the story ended.

This is karma; I gave myself away because of a hole,
Then, I paid the whole for that I so far stole.

Benyamin Bensalah


Ol’ Benyo

O’ good people, hither!
Send me down the river,
By a cold breeze that would make me shiver
If my heart were a heart, and my liver a liver.

O’ good life, thither!
I know we’ve been sévère,
But it could have been a hundred times shittier,
We’d say thanks for that we were here.

O’ good Benyo hièr!
You are no more here,
But we sing your songs that shiver,
And live without your heart or your liver.

Benyamin Bensalah


My prince-apples

The wordly world is doggy-doggy,
You need a choice, oki-doki?
Boring bloke whose flavor’s labour,
Or just choose, to be daily lazy.

Life is ocean, harshing hardship,
Who gets on its board, gets bored,
But who are the king of larking,
Whose life’s used as the fund of fun.

Be polar, bipolar, open to the new,
No focus on hocus pocus of the news,
Otherwise, you’re wise nevermore,
You are not, to believe in every lore.

Be an absurb bird, absorbe you heard,
But select the fact without affect,
No attach! Not on a word, nor the world,
Be alone without a loan of anybody.

Give an “X” to the things you learnt,
Give no appearance to give up to learn,
Be the expert of experience, hence,
Your vitality is wit with crazy mentality.

Though the worldy world is doggy-doggy,
Health is before wealth oki-doki?
Choose a real mate, really anti-material,
You, Priceless Prince of Supriseness.

Guard your garden’s Prince-apples,
They are golden pieces of your world,
Through ’em you may throw more poems,
Since all you were right in is to keep writin’.

Benyamin Bensalah