Boiling rice may be a bogey;
We are cooking, stirring, working on it,
Then, we get a gluing paste for our fatigue.

But boiling rice is a simple act;
Only if you’re following a couple fact,
My scientific, tricky receipt step by step.

Firstly, you measure the rice;
Take a mug once and twice and thrice,
So you see, it’s science, not a play of dice.

Then, the water is coming,
And here is my first trick coming;
How many times you must be mugging?

An ordinary cooker,
Would take double water,
Pouring six mugs of fresh blunder.

But me! The chef Benyamin,
I choose to put three and a half in,
Letting the rice to swim, not sinking.

But above all of this,
Here are my other magic tricks;
Frying the rice for five mins or six.

After it got golden brown,
I pour hot water on it muggly owned,
Then, I leave the rice under a cover to boil.

After lil lodge-podgy,
We can check our moody foodie;
And it was the first lesson of riceology.

Benyamin Bensalah


Eye of a corn

The first left.
Pop. Pop.
The second and third.
Pop. Pop. Pop.
Going becomes a hype.
Another one.
Pop. Pop.
I feel it salty to leave.
I feel fever to go.
Hot pressure.
Pop. Pop. Pop.
They go with pleasure.
Pop. Popop.
What’s going on?
Popop. Pop. Popop.
Is it a must to go?
My ears are buzzing.
The world’s reeling.
Maybe, it’s the last.
Maybe, it’s over.
We are in safe.
Stayed many of us.
Out of the yellow mass.
I told you.
Don’t mess with me.

Benyamin Bensalah


A summer in Constantine

There’s no summer as best summer
In my achromatic life;
However, I’ve remembered
When I was Dani’s guide.

One of my friends, if there’s any,
Came to me in Algiers;
Checking the white Africans,
And facing all his fears.

I showed him the world of Aladdin
That he couldn’t see online;
Wonder after wonder,
Like the mountains of Constantine.


Like the wrinkles of a stone-giant,
The place was super-high;
Forest camping at a school’s scout
Was a must to try.

Dani fell in love with Islam,
Having no stirrup;
He said Salam, labas, bismlah,
And Hamdullah to burp.

Mocking people everywhere,
We were Hungarians;
Like superior intruders,
We conquered the lands.


Breakfast of the morning sunshine
With some cafeteria
Burnt the freedom to our mind
Through that utopia.

How could one forget the hot wind,
The cold lake of the hollow;
The lost billiard matches at night
As our only sorrow.

Now, that time flew far far away,
As far as Constantine;
But I still keep the memory,
Till it’s no longer mine.

Benyamin Bensalah


The coolest prophet – Jonah the crook

There’s a story, nearly fairy tale,
about a guy sent into a whaley jail
by reason he did disobey
his Lord’s survey-ridden, nasty play
to send him alone against a city
that already lived by peace and felicity
until the Lord said so:

“Hey, Jonah! I’m your Lord;
I should be worshiped by your crowd:
tell ’em who’s the all star of heaven;
I will give them some days like seven,
then, I will show them some cinema;
go before I burn down Niniveh
because I said so.”

Jonah was shocked by the message;
why this aggression, ravage
while he himself just like that poor people
is meek, simple, desirous and feeble
who eagers no newly made prophethoods,
rather sitting by rivers and staying in woods,
but the Lord knows no fun so.

Murmuring: Yeah, go to Niniveh,
turn them some disastrous cinema
as if the people would believe it
that their life’s wicked, needing to leave it…
but before they lynch me I pick a ship;
Yo, Lord! I’m outtie, fuck this shit –
and Jonah got on board as he said so.

On the sea, there were storms coming,
like water-mountains clapping;
the ship’s crew started to shout, pray and weep,
finding the hiding Jonah, threw him to the deep
by what the godly wrath found peace,
except for Jonah who got eaten by one piece
ending in Leviathan’s fishy jaw.

“Yo, Jonah! How’s with the escaping?
Are you happy now, you made me blackmailing;
go back to Niniveh and kick some butts,
or enjoy the odor down in the guts.”
Smelling the power of the omnipotent,
Jonah found that he’s not an opponent;
saying: “Yolo, I will do as you say so.”

As he spoke, the fish spitted him out,
and Jonah faced back to the unbelieving crowd;
no welcoming, no results,
just a bunch of dislikes and insults,
but God was finally happy
because his sponsor was there in the city,
Jonah who didn’t care at all.

Benyamin Bensalah


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