How? What? Why? I really dunno –
Though my life was already ready to go;
Drama, drama and goddamn traumas –
These drums are drumming under all my Sagas;
Dive and rise, dive and rise are all my rhymes –
These tenses tensed me all the times;
Crawling, falling, crawling, falling in a row –
Bowling the same boulder with a giant crow;
Wishing – hissing this has been such an Epic –
But despite all the witting, been just pathetic;
Missing love and dissing care –
Unlovable, self-aware;
Out of context just as sex –
My mental shutdowns just multiplex;
No social circles, nor any goals –
On my knowledge bigass holes;
Body? Housing? Dare to diss that thing? –
I’ve never been else than disgusting;
I tried to ignore, tried to die –
But I failed even to cry;
My nerves served me only disconcert –
Awkward, harmful as pervert;
I’d blame gods or Darwin’s words –
But it still constantly hurts;
I should quit and I am closing –
My life is the best thing for losing;
Even the thought is so pleasant –
No more drums of past and present;
No more future unpleasant Pre-sent.

Benyamin Bensalah


Godly days

It’s said: there’s a God
Who created
Everything in six days and rested…
I don’t want this theory to be tested,
But the copyright on his days is quite divested:
(Two more Babylonian lines
For a Moon-phase advertise’ …)

Sunday – Norse goddess,
Chased by Hate, son of the grotesque

Moonday – Sun’s brother,
Also dog-chased, but not bothered until

Tiw’s day – the dueling Mars,
But not making too many wars with hands

Odin’s day – deathly Mercury,
Nothing makes him more hurry than

Thor’s Day – thundering Jupiter,
Famously he’s a soul-janitor just as his dad,

Freya’s day – our sweet Venus,
Every man is dying just to reach her..

Saturn’s day – the god of time,
Known as Cronos with a scythe, eating

The more I’m looking for meaning in this life,
The more I end up saying: where’s your God now?


Benyamin Bensalah



Oh, hundred millions of son of Adam
Erring around the sands of time,
Tell me, whether you heard of the city: Thebeste,
The city that claims – merits my rhyme.

Now, the hundred gates of Thebes
Luxoriate his wife near to Tunis,
On the non-Egyptian land of talking stones,
Tebessa, the Algerian metropolis.

Lo! Gaius Cornelius had sung of Thevest,
Out of the Empire’s admiration
Since there’s no motherland bartered by seste’ri;
A muse that breaths divine inspiration.


All what the time has left testamentally,
The archs, pylons and attics,
Are no more than white stones of a sordid realm,
Hiding all the one-time wisdom’s and ethics.

Now, where is Minerva from the temple?,
The ruins made bed for Mani,
The centuries bartered the pillars of brightness
By ages of darkness; but by how many?

No! Where are the words of the epic poets,
Hanging – glaring on Solomon’s Walls,
Prophesying the coming preposterous epidemic
From what every civilization falls.


How could I make noise on a foreign podium
That is surveyed by no ear,
Why would I even raise my voice to the wretches;
Whom were numb when Caracalla was here.

Nay one hundred and more and one gates
Could make me to enter the city;
However, I’ve noticed my White Lotus there
That is the source of my felicity.

Lo! The sands of time blew me inspiration,
To learn the city and its ancient history
That feeds my mortal clay only with white stones,
But my spirit with an eternal flourishing story.

Benyamin Bensalah