Play On

Have you ever asked the toy
you were playing with
if it liked to be your toy?
It is all nice that it’s a toy,
fulfilling its purpose
to play with, innit?
No matter leaving it
in the darkness of the night
for hours, right?
Or forgetting it in hurry
while preparing
for a hell of a weekend.
No thoughts of such
as the first minute hurts
just as the 1440th and so.
The minute of turning off the light
heading out or to the fridge
hurts the same infinity.
You haven’t thought about it
how is it to be alone
have you?
How is it to swing
between having a purpose
and being in senseful nonexistence?
Oh, how would you
when your grief lasts no more
than a minute when it disappears?

Benyamin Bensalah

06.07.2021

Course

Life serves us lessons all the time
most of them are unwanted
coming from something else wanted
unasked, coming from something else asked
unprepared, being for something else prepared
we pretend they haven’t happened
until they come back again and again
till we learn the lesson
being another us
to pretend
we are ready for the next lesson
that will never happen.

Benyamin Bensalah

04.07.2021

Ma cabre

Every species developed their means
to perceive the surrounding
as well, every individual has its own design;
the birds crossing the sea,
the fish below where we can’t see,
the bugs dancing in ultraviolet.

So did I inherit and developed mine
of sensing this magnitude
to end my own design;
the trucks, the train, the cars,
the cigs, the drugs, the scars,
the heights’ and depths’ draw.

It’s ceaselessly pulling me hard,
sometimes I’m running
sometimes I accept this design;
pulling against, pushing for it,
crying – numbing, it remains horrid,
being in a force without control.

Benyamin Bensalah

30.05.2021

Shovel, hoe and big bell

To burry the past for good,
to hurry the present and bring it forth,
to worry not what the future would hold;
I just need a shovel, a hoe and a big bell,
letting it hack and clatter and gong,
thinking nothing can go wrong.

To burry the present for good,
to hurry the future and bring it forth,
to worry not what the past could hold;
I just need a hoe, a big bell and a shovel,
letting it smack and dong and flatter,
knowing nothing does matter.

Benyamin Bensalah

15.05.2021

Encore

The Past been a nightmare to wake from,
sometimes eating up the present,
being unable to tell whether it has an end;
the Future been the past’s mirror image,
warning signs or either sirens’ songs,
nothing that possibly cannot go wrong;
I was likely anchored, cornered to Present,
more like pulling the chains than living,
but this was already much from a dead being.

I walked every step with a blind resignation,
a person died and revived in me,
like someone stealing life and trying to flee;
the anchors I tried to undress so hard
kept undressing me slowly,
and here I am standing like nothing can control me;
the anchors I were fighting, life, have gone,
it feels no more grief, no more agony,
I’ve reached freedom through fatal cavity.

There’s no past I could face anymore,
none of me waits me in the future,
but here I am where I could have been sooner;
losing the pain through losing life,
I am free with a huge cavity,
and I am as ready to live as to face mortality;
I feel eager, no more than any,
just to live a bit more,
imagining there’s an anchor that makes me stay more.

Benyamin Bensalah

10.05.2021

Upper-cut down

Upper-cut from life;
Unseen, unexpected, unbearable, early –
My teeth break like porcelain,
My hopes like mom’s dishes
Flying through the room towards me
Then, just passing by my head
Only the hurtful sharps reaching my back –
The pain was real once,
Now, it’s just one of the delirious memories
That let me remember
That I’ve got an unseen upper-cut from life
And I’m in a wheelchair now
From the mountain rolling down
With trees and animals waving towards me
A pitiful, confused good bye.

Benyamin Bensalah

24.04.2021

Meaning less

None does matter,
but everything’s from a matter;
touchable, feelable,
loveable, hateable,
countable in a measure,
surrmountable as a leisure –
where’s the meaning then
when we arrive to the fin?

Too much sugar;
it’s sweet no more,
too much pain;
it feels no more.

What to love, what to hate?
What is mistake?
What is fate?
What has any meaning anyway?

None does matter,
but everything does at some point;
unique, feeble,
oblique, speakable,
forgiveable in a level,
liveable as a pleasure –
can we have less meaning then
and some ease reaching our fin?

Benyamin Bensalah

13.04.2021

Pocket bard

It’s neither my pleasure, nor my style,
but I’ve been drinking for a while.
We already know it why:
some nights are just too heavy being dry.

I had been suffering and crying
even before alcoholic supplying,
but since I have it
I say: freck it.

I’m not looking for acceptance;
I hate myself even in this stance,
but surely I am passing time,
and I find words for my rhyme.

My dear Lord, Dionysus,
is tottaly not like Jesus;
he lets me do my own sacrifice,
and eases me directly by the price.

How should I thank him more
than just live and drink a bit more?
Life is hard even as a drunkard,
but it’s the life of a pocket bard.

Benyamin Bensalah

05.04.2021

Pooethics

Here’s the fellow who’s not mellow
Anymore
I’m born rotten and forgotten
Anyway
I had had poems, kind of solemn
Anyhow
But here I am with crying rhyming
Anywhere
I’m good in bad moods and vice versa
Anywise
I tried to be a smartass, but proven the least smartest
Anywhen
I’m still unknowing, and not going
Anywhither
I’m a born clown, pulling down
Anybody
I’m in a vortex, out of context
Anyplace
I can’t heal, I can’t feel
Anything
I’m surely nut and I am not
Anyone.

Benyamin Bensalah

01.04.2021

A night for drinks and drinks for every night

Tonight is one of the nights –
I’m not open to hear wrongs or rights
about anything what’s going on,
but I could expect respect that I still carry on.

Some drinks are down on my throat,
some ethanol is pumpin through my mind,
some lines are too cloudy that I wrote,
but I’m still not acting like I do mind.

It’s still me, and I do like you –
why can’t you do the same though?
With infinite conditions, there’s none;
none matters, but it does when we’re gone.

Harvest the moments of the others,
you may get more care from them than from mothers
because every ape have problems,
but very few ones wait you at the bottoms.

I might write about things very deep,
but it’s still floating on the very surface;
you can freely call me a creep,
but I really mean every word that I can face.

I feel terrible every day;
you can compare it to some fuck’d up weeks
where you try every ways,
but things go like it’s been Greeks.

I lived the seven hells and heavens,
I lived with peace and almost all the weapons;
I know it when it never ends well,
and I know when you don’t even know what to tell.

But the drinks help me at some nights;
let me, this psycho just writes;
killing feelings that were unbearable,
wearing them sober even if unwearable.

Like the coat of solitude,
like the pants of tight social restricts;
I wore every way that’s rude,
but I’m still living – one of the addicts.

Like a dragonfly that lives only a day,
I live every day just as my last;
somtimes hunter – sometimes prey, it’s never gray;
I will end all like this night: in a colorful blast.

Benyamin Bensalah

01.04.2021