It’s hard to say no to the magnetic draw of society,
to swim against the flow of a ready made reality;
like filling the gap in hierarchical despotism
or capitalist cog-machine of modernism,
but after one sees that all the same,
being ready to skip the game,
strives only what’s vital
for a human animal.
Benyamin Bensalah
22.08.2020
Owning all the eyes on yourself
Is like the mirror that sees you worthwhile
By a godlike image of yourself
Boosting you with a great boost for a while.
But meanwhile
The same fame is the blade
Cutting the fameless ones’ veins
The same fame is the flame
Roasting those who have no vainness.
But aren’t we living all the same –
Arriving to a day when we’ll be all fameless?
In the flame or next to a stream,
Maybe in the nothing that’s neither embarrassing.
Who cares about your cars
Who gives a damn about your dimes
We are living the moment once
Live it in the fame of YOUR own and only chance to have fun.
Benyamin Bensalah
02.08.2018
What a bitter joke is the life!
Would it be better without lies?
So many lies that God forbidden,
Those which are or not deeply hidden:
The lied “ailuvyoes”, the lied “aimfines”,
The lying poetries and stolen rhymes,
The lied self-esteem, the lied moods,
The lying virtues under my hooves:
Are all lies.
Are all sections that need sactions.
Are all lies.
And all are punishments themselves.
Benyamin Bensalah
25.02.2018
Today’s been a slaughter ordered;
Abrahamic hocus-pocus, fairy-tale,
Like Artemis replaced his daughter with a sheep,
We are doing the same;
Following a social construct,
Taking away thousands of life;
Sheep are crawling in mere bloodbath:
“Look! It’s running towards paradise!”
Not even a minute has passed
that the last breath left the still warm body,
but the people eviscerate,
and ate the inside organs already.
What holiness, what a story behind!
A mad man losing his mind
to imagine a sky-sent message:
Yo, murder your son or just do me sacrifice!
Those of nature – lions, wolves and leopards,
are killing for the sake of killing
or either for surviving the circle they’re aligned,
but we paint children stories with bloody body parts.
Benyamin Bensalah
31.07.2020
*E’ib Mubarak : It is related to Aid El Adha the celebration of Abrahamic story for what all Muslims around the world slaughter sheep as a symbolic sacrifice. The original wish is A’id Mubarak that means Happy Celebration. The title of the poem as E’ib Mubarak means “Disdained Celebration”.
There’s a disease inside me,
A kind of poison that the flocks hold,
I feel embarrassed and want to flee,
Now, I won’t return to the fold.
A pain burns in the depth of my soul,
In grey flames of emotions,
I feel no want to play a role,
I won’t follow more sheep notions.
The mass goes and I go behind,
We share the same place to feed,
We share sameness also in breed,
But I will be always divers in mind.
Benyamin Bensalah
10.04.2016
Maybe, I’m strange…
How many times I’ve heard the word: “strange“:
“That’s all.. life is strange!”
“Oh Em Gee, you’re strange!”
“Why girls and boys act so strange?”
But what does strange mean?
How can I tell,
If even its definition HAS a quite strange smell!!4!
It strangely states:
“Strange is strangeness of a stranger’s
strange stance…”
Turning on the dictionary:
Strange is ‘out of ordinary’!!4!!4
What?!
Ordina.. It sounds str…..
STRONG!
Ordinary means Normal…
It’s a statement.
So, strange is that that’s out of normal,
Briefly saying un-u-su-al.
I have many unusual names and cities..
As many as desires to perish:
I’ve never been in London, Milano, nor Paris..
I’ve never met a Rudolph, Calorin, nor Clariss.
Neither I have spoken Indian, Eskimo, nor Spanish.
Then, check that strangeness!
I’m from Europe..
Hah!
What’s so strange?
Maybe that I used to crowd on PVC..
Or I differently pose on a W…hatever.
But, to approach it better,
Let’s talk less and understand more,
Leaving less gaps,
Between our legs and the floor:
We, humans, all of us,
Are strangely strange and it’s a fact.
Let me prove it by giving you a task:
Read this.
Then, check your nose.
Now, I think,
Every honest reader looks strange.
But only God knows.
Maybe, I’m strange.
Benyamin Bensalah
10.04.2016
At the last moment, every creature tries to break up towards the light when the last breath is about to say hello to the darkness… That is the monster, what others know hope.
Me: I did love you.
You don’t love me anymore?!
Me: You don’t believe in love. I shouldn’t love you. Doubts kill me. While…
…I love you.
Me: Me too.
Benyamin Bensalah
20.09.2018
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
My tears like rainforest would drop,
If I had pity on the talking beasts,
But my human memo has no more slot,
To endure the monsters of the East’s.
What a craddle! It’s itself kinda savage;
God condemned to desolate fever,
And its sons are themselves the ravage!
Eat! You beast till the word is over!
Nevertheless, I’d never lace up you,
Virus you are, but I let you be,
Only, take my words: fie upon you!
I write and my words let me be.
I have no holy mission to chase,
I am not Robinson! No-not even, Geez!
I’m not your Sherlock in this case!
I’m obsessed only by the time I seize.
I seize the time and it’s seizing you,
By fashion, fame, by food,
And by other worldly drugs to you.
Only you. I’m out of the mood.
Me and the time: Sparta and Athens;
We belong to each other,
In a lovely war that my mind imagines.
We need to kill each other.
Woe! There’s no benefits in my poems,
None gets salvation by my rhyme,
Nay they take me to the Seven Heavens,
But by seven verses- I killed the time.
Benyamin Bensalah
30.04.2017
Digs and digs the gold-digger,
it can be thick till the gold’s thicker;
no matter you’re a sad loser,
till you feed her, you cannot lose her.
Digs and digs the gold-digger,
until your heart gets hit by her picker;
no matter how you try to muse her,
without gold-hope, you are only a sad loser.
Benyamin Bensalah
26.05.2020
