The black sheep

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

What is strange?

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

Wicked life story

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

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

Time Murderer

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

Can’t afford her

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

Not ordinary

I am a difficult creation in person,
Not an ordinary run of mankind;
I collect no habits, no pieces of persons,
I have no reason on you to be kind.

If I know you, you must be an individual;
You’re one of the race of disgrace-
No, I won’t take you as something particular,
I know well, we filth together this race.

If I do like you, it might be something inordinate;
How didn’t I put you in the black archives?
How come that you’re resisting the humane hate?
How come that we may share ordinary lives?

Benyamin Bensalah

07.11.2020

The devils are here

Hell will be one of the most well-known concepts ever:
is there anybody who needs to tell
empty feelings, pains and people who feed on each other,
and is there anybody to tell we are living hell;
all vain trials, hardships and sacrifices just to live happier –
the so-called gent are like the mademoiselle,
devils on Earth by sole purpose to hurt in- and exterior;
are not the lands better without us to dwell,
here, it is better to say, not us, but there are devils from hell.

(Hell is empty and all the devils are here – William Shakespeare)

Benyamin Bensalah

11.05.2020

13 Reasons Why: I am only a human

I infiltrate your house only to fuck your wife
I get in to your company only to rob your bank account
I teach your children only to spoil their mind
I stay by aside you only to leave you alone
I get your trust only to betray you cheating
I get your secrets only to share all what you hide
I show you my good side only to pull you badly down
I remove my mask only to show you another
I make promises only to regret you called me a brother
I ruin only what is destroyable
I do all these only to say they don’t even bother
Then, when you try asking why, my only answer:  I don’t know
Because I am only a human; this what I was born for.

Benyamin Bensalah

06.05.2020

War

Isn’t it a funny war ?
Against enemies we both adore …
Among allies we used to hate before …
A day we implore, then ignore …
Say, what is it for …
A self-destroying, inhumane war…
Letting false conceptions to outpour…
Out of their right place before…
A smartass quote from a bookstore…
A heartwarming lore heard on a shore…
Rumours of a folklore…
Mindless decisions of minds and more…
WHAT. What are they for?
To make a war?
Instead of going to explore…
Lessons about Ecuador…
Learning about spore…
About creatures living before…
The thousands of dinausaur…
About creature not living at all…
Harpy, Sphinx and Centaur…
Isn’t it more beautiful after all?
Living as a herbivore…
Peacefully as eating up a drugstore…
So, why the roar?
All the soar…
The bad words like a whore…
We are about to die after all…
So, let’s give up on the war…
Even if it’s funny somehow…
Somehow as cutting a bull into four…
Enjoyed only by the matador…
That’s a war…
No mentor, no guarantor…
No exact why, no therefore…
Just a war…
That’s either silent or has a high tenor…
It never may be funny at all…

Benyamin Bensalah

17.09.2018