The river will run red

Bloodshot eyes from the cries.
Who I am among the lies?
Is it true I’ve been through?
You’re not bad, tells me who?
The one I hurt, where’s my court?
All’s gone blur, but her support.
I’m gone mad – that’s what I said.
I just wish my cries could run red.

Benyamin Bensalah

05.12.2020, 04:20

Ne’er no’ere

Science tells us, time and space are not the thing
that makes us dependent, but
we make them up, just to
feel dependent.

As not being depending on any or to any
time and space keeps drifting,
merging and vortexing
with you nowhere.

Even your cereblar synopses warp,
plunging you in sharp dark,
throwing in deep blaze
your dizzy image.

Childhood feelings, romance,
pain of bruises, torments
keep mashing up
your moments.

In such an end, you if you,
or rather your shadow
drift in nowhere
and nowhen.

Bensalah Benyamin

01.12.2020

A gathering for existence

The child, the innocent, the demure, the rebel;
the one who’s a saint, the one who gets out of trouble,
the thinker, the observer, the stupid, the fool;
the one who’s naive, the one who gets through the rule;
the happy, the joker, the depressed, the killjoy,
the one who starts the party, the one who’s up to blow,
the mortal, the worthless, the wizard, the disguise;
the one who’s listening, the one who always replies,
the social, the idol, the awkward, the manipulator;
the one who’s always there, the one who’s leaving later,
the one who wants to disappear, the one who wants to be greater,
the one who is healthy, the one who has wounds,
the one who’s curing, the one who just fumes,
the one who’s awake, the one who is deeper.

I suppose you wonder why we gathered up here now;
I just wanted to assure each other that we know
that you are all behind the one that no one can know,
that you are all the masks used during the show;
and you all exist even when the lights don’t glow.

If you ask, you are my ever favorite, Romeo;
you’ve caused me always the most memorable show,
even if you always pass the stage to Meursault
who roams in indifference and screws up the show,
the lights turn down and up again in a row.

I called you here, as I said, ’cause I want you to know,
you are the crew that lead us through the flow,
you are much more than the people written by Defoe,
because if you wouldn’t be there, I would be none too,
so, use this high moment to say each other hello.

All my personalities in a small mental room,
if someone asks what we went through,
no one could answer because we have no clue,
each of us are living only to survive the show,
and if there’s no show, we’re all just a hidden wardrobe full of costume.

Benyamin Bensalah

09.05.2020

The monster behind 04.26

My mother kept whispering sole conversations,
but it was me not talking to her instead;
my mother kept inside her emotions,
but it was me not making her express;
my mother burst out in crying-shouting,
but it was me who let her problems imbed;
my mother was whom I blamed for many things,
but it was me ruining her and my life instead;
my mother was fighting for me,
and it was me giving up instead;
my mother was the only who cared about me,
and it was me who turned passively careless;
my mother was who gave birth to me,
then it was me who never gave her a fine birthday bless.

In Memoriam of the great date of 04.26.1964.

Benyamin Bensalah

04.26.2020

You wouldn’t get it

All started with a smile
of an unconscious state of mind
led by hormone-made happiness
sealing a smile with sealing-wax
on a man of fusioning confusion.

All startled with a cry
of a subconscious mindlessness
led by  childhood-made  traumas
sealing cries with high unpaid tax
on a poor heart without happiness.

You wouldn’t get it
even if you could get into the mind
of collapsing blurred, fake-realities
sealed by the possible impossible
truth of all this has been just real.

Benyamin Bensalah

02.04.2020

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

10.01.2020

Jinns in my head

Sometimes, I’m walking with Jinns in my head;
I hear clear things that haven’t even been said,
I see ideas that yet nobody has had.

Sometimes, I’m walking with Jinns in my head;
I bear the colour before people see it as red,
I feel by what people have been led.

Sometimes, I’m walking with Jinns in my head;
I steer my steps as the thoughts have me led,
I peer the ways that they said.

Sometimes, I’m walking with Jinns in my head;
Sometimes, I feel they have made me grad,
Sometimes, I fear they make me bad.

Sometimes, I’m walking with Jinns in my head;
For understanding, sometimes, I’m so glad,
But sometimes, I’m just sad and mad.

Benyamin Bensalah

27.02.2019

Cyanide dreams

Perished is the land that steps rarely devour,
Yet, my legs find sweet grass and pleasure;
What a man ever sees desperate and bizarre,
The soul of mine dies for getting thither.

Acid is the daylight for the one in Desolace,
Sith only the moonlight bears for it solace;
Death’s servants are in every corner to face,
But does a blind face the lights as menace?

Your right hand is the darkness in darkness,
Every single sound, whisper is a menace;
While pleasure is lying in the deepest oblivion,
The one who dreams is the self-perished.

Benyamin Bensalah

22.09.2017