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

At sunset

The sun has been fallen;
The light was irregardless,
The park has been sullen;
I sat on a bench regardless.

If I had faced a human being,
I’d be able to tell the truth;
Whether I’d been seen or seeing,
W’ther I own or pwn the ruth.

Maybe, if I had chosen a buddy;
Sharing the self-created pain,
I would see that unlucky body
As an anchor to all my pain.

The park was empty as my soul,
As the store of my social acts;
It’s been a decade that I’m sole;
I surrounded myself with facts.

Knowledge’s become my only goal,
Brought by all the human science;
By the way, this is the only how
I could escape my own conscience.

Ed says bad, then Ed says do,
I am a slave of my own vapours;
I did bad and I did good,
Playing with time as vipers do.

Human animal am I,
For whom the sun is sullen?
Nay, I shouldn’t hide;
By time, the sun will be fallen.

Benyamin Bensalah

28.06.2017

Dreamlist

To get on a bus without checking,
to leave the country hijacking,
to sit in a bar and start random chatting,
to tell stories you heard or make a setting,
to enter mosques-churches marveling,
to cross a forest and find a dwelling,
to live with animals and enjoy petting,
to work with two hands and enjoy sweating,
to lick your injuries as it’s helping,
to put on some ice and watch it melting,
to ask for shelter while you’re healing,
to open your heart with all revealing,
to share what cities you’ve been watching,
to be the one who starts touching,
to have a night that’s been worth for living,
to live only for a chance for giving,
to fancy that the future’s brightening,
to live in the now without hiding,
then, in the bed, when we are tiring,
stop a while this dreamlist’s writing,
close our eyes – long – and smiling,
this was our life I could be admiring.

Benyamin Bensalah

23.05.2020

István Kemény: UP AND DOWN AT THE ÉRDLIGET STATION

Romanian cigarette pack in the lawn
and sorrow in the heart,
head down, strong sunshine,
I still look young.

Such figures that I had such disdain on
such figures that I pitied,
because they were saying nothing remained here anymore,
there is surely none, ever.

It was a nice little station thirty years ago,
heated waiting room in winters, outdoors white
gravel and red-white benches,
many long trains, whole sentences.

Now a ruined building,
concrete platform with cigarettes in the lawn
packs and inaccurate
feeling in the heart.

I used to think I should let things go
get old, weary whatever you want
I let go, it was a mistake
now they come back ruined, in a row,
but well, I stayed the same.

Such figures that I disdain on,
such figures that I pitied,
because they were saying you will see, you will be like that too,
you will be like that, sure, because the character
doesn’t change in a stinky life.

In a lazy meantime,
as if they were coming here from a victorious battle,
eternally losing-looking people
fly along the platform,
little standing, walking up and down,
cigarettes, lots of little time.

Such figures that I had disdain on,
such figures that I pitied,
I said they were ugly and ploretarian
I said, they were waiting.

Now a self-destructive feeling,
trampled shoes, mustache, grief,
an almost random gold watch,
head down and an abandoned past.

The past, if it wasn’t cared of from the past,
it knows only revenge since adolescence because
it says every day – on a fine day:
“Look at me: I was at the station in Érdliget
once. And even now I am just that.
Tell me what I care about.
The buggy man died.
Out of his palm
the stag beetle flew away.
The future is a tougher nut to crack. ”
And with that, the past shrugs its shoulders.

The loudspeaker, on the other hand, starts talking,
like the younger brother when he gets a speech,
and promises a future: a train.

Such figures that I had disdain on,
such figures that I pitied,
because they were saying that they were just little
points, but it’s better than nothing,
and that times change.

There will be a sad silence because it is the same
shame to ask the lawn as
the heart as the Romanian cigarette pack.
changing for what?

And a train is coming as scheduled,
once it’s standing here, but it will take you from here,
short trains, incomplete sentences,
I sit down, I look out like a window.
for what.

I don’t pity and I don’t have disdain,
I want a goal and an easy soul
if they don’t go together, it’s good the way it is:
over resounding ore in a passenger car.
But I don’t know.

Translated from the Hungarian poem of István Kemény, “Fel és alá az Érdligeti állomáson” (2004).

Benyamin Bensalah

22.05.2020

Birthday Cough

(1)
Life always has a simple key;
If it’s not its harakat, then its hara-kiri…
(2)
I’ve just passed two decades and four years,
Living for two years in Algiers.
(3)
My life’s been a funny thriller;
Clinging to remain a caterpillar.

France for French and bass for dance;
I fully maintained my old stance.

The same faith that makes a moth nocturnal,
Made me write my grotesque journal.

Day and night through polyglotting;
I spoke weary words and hodgepodging.

My talk’s been strange as a stolen stone;
Mort satire arranged my lonely tone.

For that I’ve got beard and scrub,
I gotta be a philolover language bug.

More than twenty witty years of Earthism,
My fortune fooled the laws of Murphy’s.

Like coming from the blue, apathetic;
I’ve been walking on the gloom, my path is epic.

Overall my karma’s rather up than down,
For that, I’m thanking Allah until now.

Finally, To sum up my level up,
I clashed up twenty-four years in a cough.

Benyamin Bensalah

19.04.2017