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

Galactic gallow

Like the bacteria living on volcanic sulphur,
I am doomed to live in my dark sepulchre –
no visitors, no wind-brought flowers;
I am mourning alone the longest last hours.

I am breathing agony like vaporized mercury,
hoping that some day will come to bury –
bury every feeling that cannot be beared alone;
finally getting along with myself, finding a home.

I’ve marched in the Pluto’s coldest valleys,
burnt my heart away on Venus’ alleys –
my galactical travel in the dark matter
made me a living black hole; nothing does matter.

I could be promised with another solar system,
another parallel dimension’s enthusiasm –
but the beauty of nature taught me already;
the paradise is falling, so be steady.

A dead organic organism, I am, travelling,
either escaping or sometimes just dwelling –
I will find no place on Earth, nor in the space;
Here I am locked down, and I will face what I am to face.

Benyamin Bensalah

16.06.2020

Mites

Billions of microscopic bugs living on the skin, feeding on the dead fruits of the yet living body
while drinking discharged juices, deepened in breeding behind the scenes,
laying their eggs in the crinkles’ valleys, hidden in the hairy forests, under the skin;
marching vehemently in hundred crowds, passing by each other senselessly minding their own business
by thought that they own the body while it’s itchingly screaming up time to time,
rousing wars that scratches up the surface, killing the forests, but not the eggs behind;
by nights leading their pheromonal parties, dancing on the oldest language of propagation
or linguidly ending the daily routines of biting night snacks out of the skin,
sleeping in the meanwhile of the parties’ extravagance and drudgeries’ hodgepodgery;
by mornings eating up the land as starting the hungover routine of consuming
with silenced ears over the crawling of the machinery crowd, and the flushes of the morning urination;
covering the corpus with nameless dead bodies that still serve their automatized occupation,
borrowed instinctive rituals of dead-sitting and welcoming the newborn
breaking out from eggshells to enter the shell of another sequels of dynastic intercourse;
hormonal testaments endorse their own infestation that’s irritated by none but its hipocrisy –
the itchy screaming of the burning land is ceaselessly calling for a final extermination, an end of parasitism,
but the races are just growing and evolving until the best sanitizing can’t touch that one percent scarabies
that might rouse their eggs out of the ashes and revive the never ending infection;
smiting the skin on the head, inside the holes, under the last hidden place hidden from microscopes,
until it can be said that the mites rule, own, enliven or perish the world that is their body.

Homo Demodex Folliculorum

Benyamin Bensalah

12.06.2020

Calcs ended in the smoke

It’s been two years of smoking;
ten cigarettes a day in average
that make roughly 5 euros a day,
and 1.800 euros a year,
but I’m not materialist anyway.

A cig takes avarage 5 minutes;
two in the empty morning,
three during the busy day,
and five in the void of the night
that’s an hour a day, and 12 days a year
but I’m just killing time anyway.

A cig takes away 11 minutes from life;
roughly two hours every day,
and one month a year,
missing from the biological lifespan,
but I’m not into living anyway.

A cig has more than 7000 chemicals;
About 250 poisonous insecticide,
70 cancerous carcinogenics,
and other provoke schizofrenic psychosis,
but I’m dead inside-out anyway.

There are infinite reasons why I started;
my mom was a smoker all the time,
a cry for a help in a bad time,
the incarnation of my want to die,
but I’m not a man of reasons and calcs anyway.

Benyamin Bensalah

25.05.2020

Vacuum


Many questions have been raised on my nature
The most of them by myself, but also by people;
The funny thing in the huge number the questions assume:
They can be answered by one word: Vacuum.

From those questions, some may please me
Like “What art are those that may lead thee?”
Or “What limit has been reached by your knowledge?”;
They are rare but I like when I’m asked on my storage.

While there are questions I barely like
Like “Why are you a person whom we barely like?”
Or “Why are you so different and not alike?”;
Let’s answer them by a single strike:

My nature is like the nature’s nature:
There’s no place where’s no creature;
So, what I’m fighting is what the nature’s fighting,
Where is darkness there must be lighting:

Vacuum, I’m all fulfilled with emptiness,
If there’s ten planets I need a twentieth,
I wish to fulfill my eager to be fulfilled
Even if by the pressure of that knowledge I’ll be killed.

Benyamin Bensalah

29.04.2019

Godly days

It’s said: there’s a God
Who created
Everything in six days and rested…
I don’t want this theory to be tested,
But the copyright on his days is quite divested:
(Two more Babylonian lines
For a Moon-phase advertise’ …)


Sunday – Norse goddess,
Chased by Hate, son of the grotesque
Wolf.

Moonday – Sun’s brother,
Also dog-chased, but not bothered until
Ragnarok.

Tiw’s day – the dueling Mars,
But not making too many wars with hands
Wolf-eaten.

Odin’s day – deathly Mercury,
Nothing makes him more hurry than
Wisdom.

Thor’s Day – thundering Jupiter,
Famously he’s a soul-janitor just as his dad,
Odin.

Freya’s day – our sweet Venus,
Every man is dying just to reach her..
Beauty.

Saturn’s day – the god of time,
Known as Cronos with a scythe, eating
Children.

The more I’m looking for meaning in this life,
The more I end up saying: where’s your God now?

FYI

Benyamin Bensalah

10.02.2020

Binary none

‘One’ for every human variables,
‘Zero’ for all how I care,
‘One’ for every feelings on the world,
‘Zero’ I understood or cared.

Once life must end in general,
Zero counts all my care,
One variable’s life in the mass
Zeroed in matter of fare.

Benyamin Bensalah

26.02.2018

János Áfra: Listening

Each other’s distorted mirror images
we are, two facing
X-ray images. On one side
bigger skull and less
emotion. Still the same way,
a shade is in our chest,
a hidden pump, the heart.

Two fluoroscoped torsos,
wrapped with tempers,
in golden yellow frames. Between us
like the back of a book, are shading
the edges of the papers, our common borders.
Sketched on the margin, there are blurred
Eastern calligraphies, jealousy-made
trace system. The will’s
hereditary prehistoric images
to break up mortals.

The earthly cold of freedom would allow
to let you go, but I can’t
distinguish yet, the thoracic cavity’s
and the skull’s night’s warm.
I’m rather listening through your breast
how your heart is beating.

Translated from the Hungarian poem of János Áfra, “Hallgatás” (2014)

Benyamin Bensalah

02.01.2020

Lament of the twenty seventh

Before my deoxyribonucleic code has been sent
To my mother by a male parent,
I was on his land of sand,
As barely apparent.

(spermicide)

2. Then, I was finally sent
Into my female parent,
On another land,
Barely planned.

A couple of months went that I spent
In my mother’s abdomen rent
On that green land,
Barely planned.

Then, my rentee went to that land,
Flying to the land of crescent
Where I was to be meant
For a big moment.

(embryonic)

5. The event happened, the end of the rent,
Under the flag with the red crescent;
I was by a Jewish name penned,
On the fifth May after Lent.

Falling into my mother’s hand,
Still without any dent,
Back, I was re-sent
To motherland.

On that land, red in discontent,
White until the Lent’s end,
And green at Lent,
I had one parent.

I had no knowledge when he went,
But I was without a male parent,
With only two women, a grand-
And an abnormal parent.

His furious leaving left an advent
As my mother madwomaned
With a schizophrenic scent,
To madhouse “never” sent.

The balance keeping us under tent
Was our draconian grandparent
With an infinite financial grant
That let us live on that land.

For alms, we walked to granny frequent’,
And I loved her as my parent
For that little attachment
I barely experienced.

The further notions I experienced:
I was sent and sent and sent;
Nursed, schooled, churched,
And kindergartened.

But even before my childhood could end,
I found myself hard to befriend;
Playing the play of a dement
With an unmatched brand.

A playful kid, maybe too vehement,
Among others, a crazy element,
I was, but inside silent,
Over-vigilant.

I liked to observe others’ comportment;
What was that I have been meant,
What made me outstand
Like an alien, mutant.

Step by step, I wished the end
Of flying dishes and plant’
At my domicile rent,
End of the torment.

(pubescent)

17. I wished to vanish from the torment
Of social-antisocial banishment,
But I saw no escape slant,
Only in my poetic lament.

Though, before those sad lament,
I tried to see my life and mend
My heart with compliment,
Some failed love event.

Minutes, days, months and years went,
A lot of school skills that I learnt,
But the best one in my hand
Was the ability to pretend.

Even if I swam well in crosscurrent,
I wished to end, leave that land;
Searched by my male parent,
I planned to visit his land.

Then, my mother went to madhouse mend,
For what, I was by my university banned
To work that went well, but I meant
To start or end a life in sand.

(twentified)

22. So, as my twenty-first birthday present
Finally, I Africanly citizened
To know my descent
And the crescent.

Beyond the French and Arabic accent,
I manned myself on that land
Where I was landed and
It’s not yet ended.

Changing the cross to crescent,
I could be happy and…
But people prevent
Every event.

I’d been married as I planned,
But my fam is an accident
As my birth in an extent,
In this actual land.

What to do, socially I try to pretend
That I am indeed an element,
But my DNA was meant
To disappointment.

(at present)

27. Seen these verses, it’s abhorrent
As well as writing a lament,
But as a birthday present,
I wish a Happy – End.

Benyamin Bensalah

04.05.2019