Parallel timeline paradox

There are so many courses I could have taken,
so many paths, fighting down my traumas,
so many hearts to make my own re-awaken,
but there would be always a me…
… who has to suffer.
So, I am not mistaken that it is me…
The Martyr of My Happy Alteregos.

Benyamin Bensalah


Talking shadow

Why is it so hard to talk to me?

I’m so easy to define and see
like a drawn circle on a 2D paper;
no need to think of infinite dots,
no need to calculate any of the odds
why we are a 2D paper’s spots.

I’m so easy to talk to as a 2D circle;
I know all about what’s a circle,
I have ideas who draws circles,
what’s the paper all around,
but in a glance, all the flat talk circles down.

I am not a 2D circle –
I am a ball after all;
I need to select 3D objects
to talk about the mere sphere
we see as truly- or non-coprehendable.

I talk about all dimensions –
nonetheless its name or number,
or how they are non-comprehendable;
I am an E8 mass of particles,
being everywhere, but nowhere as a whole.

I am so hard to talk to
because I am here and there after all;
there’s my shadow on a 2D paper,
there I am bouncing like a ball,
and such a changing shade is barely talkable.

Benyamin Bensalah


Ne’er no’ere

Science tells us, time and space are not the thing
that makes us dependent, but
we make them up, just to
feel dependent.

As not being depending on any or to any
time and space keeps drifting,
merging and vortexing
with you nowhere.

Even your cereblar synopses warp,
plunging you in sharp dark,
throwing in deep blaze
your dizzy image.

Childhood feelings, romance,
pain of bruises, torments
keep mashing up
your moments.

In such an end, you if you,
or rather your shadow
drift in nowhere
and nowhen.

Bensalah Benyamin



Wires and chips are everywhere
Under the ground, in the air,
In my pocket and in my ear.
Electric devices cut and dry my hair,
Correctors tell if my lines are fair.

My brain and art are electronic
In every neurotic, poetic,
And subatomic thought.
But what is magic-like more ironic
Is that I don’t give an aught…

…what I am just scribbling about.

Benyamin Bensalah


Soulful Account

I want to believe that there is a soul inside me,
Not just a preprogrammed instinct;
Learning and storing that are later called as me,
While I’m still just a mass of matter.

Molecules of Water, Nitrogen and Carbon,
Fluorine and Ammonia linked
To Phosphorous, Sulfur, Sodium and Silicone
Do build me up to mere matter.

Then, where does hide that so-called spirit,
Inside the heart or the mind;
Flowing in my blood’s or nerves’ circuit,
In-between the former or latter?

And then, what is its equivalent exchange,
What value holds the bad- or goodness;
Is it quantum-built, occult or else-strange,
Or rather, am I just a bladder?

It would be great knowing about souls,
Believing I’m not mere emptiness;
But all I know is matters with their roles,
And that all, for me, doesn’t matter.

Benyamin Bensalah


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