A stupid, ghosted poem

My very words and mere existence fall through on her
As if our whole story, my whole life would have been a dream.
Likely, my dreams of our children and our happy years
Are seen just as real and reasonable as her silence now.

I’ve been loved with a philosopher stone, a mere image
That accepts and calls for admiration, but returns none.
This is warming for the heart for a while of the longest second,
But it turns the lover into a faded image as well.

Staying dead amongst living knows nothing more painful
Because this is how I feel living in your silence.
The thoughts numb the head trying to solve its reason,
But deny every possible explanation.

Either she’s a ghost or I am a fantasy of a dream,
This is more heretic dealing than dividing by zero.
I don’t know who I am, where to belong, while
My world is stuck in your infinite hollow.

Whether you see me, whether you hear me
You don’t recognize my being, and neither I do.
The problem is, while I’m searing from this feeling
That you caused me, I’m still here to love you.

Benyamin Bensalah


The mad poet’s planet

Have you met the mad poet who doesn’t deserve happiness?

The early moon-day skies are mothering cries on the mad pallet;
the reddest rivers will green many bluish ideas on this sad planet
like half-blood titans descending into mortal hermit
with eyeing minds on the infinite skies without permit.

Virtually toxicated images are raising altar for madness;
oddly faced gods will have painted former multiverses
storing like imagined jpgs of beauts’ bare badness
with brute-looking pngs’ sweet kisses of sadness.

Two decades of megatons are whiting on the horizon’s garret;
a new simulation will take place with an unchanged habit
working with the same colors of the sad, mad, bad pallet
with drawing circles until the pocket poet’s on this planet.

You have met the mad poet who doesn’t deserve happiness.

Benyamin Bensalah


Mi casa es temporaneo

The day is leaving us in measure;
Hours, minutes and seconds tell us to assure:
The day is leaving us to finish roaming;
Let’s get back to a place that’s homing.

The clear blue sky floats and bleeds away;
Darkness is following this event in its old array:
This is my time with my obscurity;
Let us return to lightsome security.

Whether the night is our villain or maybe weather;
Humans, we, know it much better:
Outdoors mixes cowardness with daring;
We should find a resort before regretting.

Concerning me, my home is a way;
Staying between brick walls pushes me astray:
My thoughts desire a dress of obscurity;
Let me roam away of my own insecurity.

Day? Night? Time’s no more under mesure;
I’m between the in- and out-doors’ ever pressure:
I desire a road made of time for roaming;
Let darkness reach me, homing.

Ever changing from calm to wild weather,
Under roofs, and in the sky’s air pressure:
Ever changing in feeling secure – insecure;
I’m an injailed poet who never gets better.

Benyamin Bensalah


A recipe from the trash

There are a couple of dishes
Which are so easy to make;
Meanwhile, so practical…

… Having as easy recipes
As popularity does;
Common fixings:

Pinch of knife spices –
Fake life and smileys –
Some exotics on high prices –
Erotic pics and other vices –
New cooking devices –
Smatterer advices –
All that’s good –
All that’s bad –
And it’s done –
You are gone.

But when someone is alone, all recipes are in the trash;
We focus only on surviving.

Benyamin Bensalah



Now, on a gloomy autumn morning,
Caught me the misanthropy.

I was sitting, knitting,
Weaving thoughts into thinking
On a roadside I called bench,
Aside the surrounding chatting French.

Despite the chatty clouds’ roaring,
It was a silent, empty morning
That maybe no telescopes could see,
In a senseless African embassy.

All those understood, but foreign words,
Created against mine a thousand worlds:
How far I got from them since my birth,
How they held me the least, little worth.

Human sounds, but like aliens laughing;
Gallantly numbing and embarrassing,
Doubting my own galaxy’s notions,
Killing all, if I ever had emotions.

Wordmade white holes filled me with filthy void,
Unable to enter nor to avoid,
Sending me into a senseless sorrow,
Lowering me lower and more low in my thought.

I got be hardly stressed,
Why these mysterious worlds pressed
On me so cruelly the wrong,
Making me depressed a life time along.

Even if I should have cried for resort,
I was still sitting sine a sort,
In my mind, that’s not a garden of Eden,
Or just I was, by myself, mistaken.

If not physically, I did find a way,
How to be further away,
From the mass of noisy folly,
Sitting on the hidden road of misanthropy.

Benyamin Bensalah