Delucidated

I’m rarely dreaming.
Waking from a rarely dreaming,
I’m always screaming.
Only in my head, without a single sound,
But it’s still far too loud.

Realities are deceiving.
I’m never sure of when I’m dreaming;
I’m always waiting for awaking.
The thoughts and doubts form a crowd;
I cannot look around.

I’m barely sleeping.
I’m afraid I will wake up in the evening,
And it’s still the evening.
Being alone, in the deep night drowned,
Dreams or deeds astound.

It’s a funny feeling.
The morning should be relieving,
Even if it’s without meaning.
At least, I could be sure of the ground,
Not just being without a bound.

Am I dreaming?
I have no landmarks steering;
I might be sleeping.
Dream in a dream in a dream sowed;
In a mind that may be underground.

Benyamin Bensalah

03.10.2019

A glance in purgatory

“Benyamin, I want you to speak.”
Still darkness and silence.
“Tell me what is wrong.”
Sounds are reflecting from the deep.
“I won’t give up on you. Speak.”
My inhumanity is awakening.
“Are you listening to me?”

*I am obliged to listen since you speak.*
“Your stance is hurting me.”
*I am sorry?*
“What is wrong?”
*What is wrong?*
“You are not the same.”
*I am who I am.*
“…”
*I just need a little silence.*
“…”
*Don’t worry about me.*
(Neither I do, nor about you.
Also, if you can’t give up on me, I can do.
As well as on you.)

Is there any regret?
*No.*
Emptiness.

“Benyamin, I want you to speak.”

Benyamin Bensalah

11.10.2017

A song at night

The moon is burning on the tip of my tongue,
My fingers are numb from the vacuum of the dark blue sky,
I try to cover my ears from the sorrowful sirens’ song
That pulsates cramp into my chest, back and shin and the thigh.

A song that’s fairly sweet to make believe the ear and the mind,
The mouth has no choice on chewing either salt or cyanide;
Awkward dark bogy’s all the pureness herearound found,
Whispers are the thoughts weaved by devils all behind.

Silence is the chips of glass on the throat of the nightly sky,
It repeats the sirens’ and demons’ song creaking,
I listen, then my half-living eyes give me a cry
As of the last things before the dawn’s bleeding.

Benyamin Bensalah

23.07.2018

Thousand End of the World

Meteors, warming, demons underneath crawling,
Meteo’s warning, zombies for brains starving,
Tornadoes twisting in a huge hurricane,
Volcanoes exploding in a hopeless chain,
Waters escaping the mundane’s terrain,
Plants renewing toxic the one-time oxygen,
Angels breaking seals to execute old prophecies,
Human-form ghouls governed and governing lunacies,
Alien’s machines following Tartarian diplomacies,
Hemmorageous diseases causing new leprosies,
And thousands of other possible pictures of the end
That compare nothing to an infinite night in overthinking which doesn’t end.

Benyamin Bensalah

11.12.2018

A missed call by Death

I dreamt a dream that some demons must have sent,
Feeling all the pains I underwent;
No pictures, no hues, just the feeling,
All my bruises and cuts without healing.

I dreamt a dream that was set as sent by Death,
But it did fit no reasoning, nor math;
No relief, nor aftermath, just the moaning,
Like a self-pity-full, endless night and morning.

I dreamt a dream that was meant to be my end,
A fearful damnation, not mend;
All the pain and immense sadness,
Making every deathwish sickeningly reckless.

I was sent a senseless dream with Death being mad,
Vengefully meaning me dead;
I felt blueishly cold and in dreadful purple,
Hiding in my last reckless prayers as a turtle.

I was meant to dream a dream that was chance or warning,
Putting up the black phone calling;
With every evidence Death’s hands hang,
I wished not dreaming that dream while it just rang, rang, rang…

Benyamin Bensalah

19.02.2019

A Day-Mare Poet

The sweetest dream
                           seems a mere nightmare,
The yesterday aches
                           by all pain of the future,
The present things
                         remain as they were,
All the disasters
                     of the news are neutral.

Drink liqueur,
                  opiates or other drugs,
None of them
                  makes you feel alive,
But they may help
                        to forget all the goods,
Before the peace,
                       in form of death, arrives.

Bite on the lips
                    that get kiss only by ruth,
Stay in silence
                   on all the fake conversation,
Test whether
                  you’re asleep or it’s the truth,
Then, enjoy the curse
                     of being a poet.

Benyamin Bensalah

22.06.2018