Goodbye Valentine

While closing the year of twenty-seventeen,
I share you the thought of a dying Valenteen:

As stupid things lead you to stupid situations,
And stupidity fools you with stupid expectations-
We can never be sure of the role of Cupid;
Whether he fools us or we are just stupid.

Benyamin Bensalah

31.12.2017

A crossroad-load

Roads go crix-crax
As life does.
When they cross,
A story comes
With its secrets,
With its loads.

There’s a crossroad
Where’s a tree.
Under the tree,
There’s a load
Secretly burrowed
That no one should see.

Where’s the crossroad,
A tree is seen
Who has only one sin
That it is sorrowed
By the secret burrowed
Under the tree.

On the crossroad,
Leaves are seen.
They are keen
Since they’re sorrowed
By written tears followed
That everyone can see.

Where’s the crossroad,
Mortals were seen.
When trees weren’t seen,
Both were mellowed.
They eternally burrowed
A secret under a tree.

There’s the crossroad
Where’s the tree.
Under the tree,
There’s the load
Secretly burrowed
That no one would feel.

Benyamin Bensalah

13.08.2017

Insulting resort

Who would re-enter the church
From which earlier gun-fire burst out?

Who would listen to the mouth again
From which earlier cold words splutter’d out…

Those places are cursed, soulless and stolid.

Benyamin Bensalah

30.06.2018

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

Paying the pimp

Well… I’ve got a couple of ignores last year;
It is really confusing when someones just disappear
With all the good and paid attention still here as souvenir,
So, I felt it as a must to mention them while outpouring my tear:

At least, I tried to think about what poem they would deserve
For burning, burying, exhuming and excreting on my nerve,
But of course, I’ve found no bitch, slut, nor whore œuvre,
Not as if they would be handy any of that serve…

Nevermind. I’m already overdoing it
For someones who just really really do not merit it;
And I am actually descending down to their level with it
While mentioning the dick they deserve in the same line with my wit.

So, what could I tell? Of course, they can go to the hell’s deepest cavity,
Where they can find their mates with equal humanity,
But that’s still low price for causing my insanity,
So, let me not waste more of my originality:

Roses are red,
Violets are blue,
You whose names rhyme with dogs;
Spaniel, Boglen, Chanel, Shiba Inu, Dalmatian, Chihuahua and all! Take it and fuck you.

Benyamin Bensalah

02.01.2020

Ex-Mess

Ex-mess
!!!
Merry jingling
What’s the time?
I must be doing the same crime;
Washing colourful faces with white time-
The result is a timelapse mayhem with a rhyme.
Merry jingling, a sheep is bleating, then it cries
Crimson red hues are spreading over the snowy house;
Why this clueless slaughter? What’s the matter what’s the time?
Is this a gift on the ground? Is it blood under the tree all around?
Is it mine?
Is it mine?
Is it mine?
Living in the past. Poet. Present pains. Feel. But never reveal. Home. Alone.

Benyamin Bensalah

15.05.2018