Inspired by death

Inspiration –
To what, all of us are ever subservient,
Sith, being inspired is being alive on its own;
Letting the soul to inspire the fresh reasons of life,
What-without, all of us are just junks of empty organs.

Life –
What is taken by the reciprocal goal
Of living for living, looking for no end, no beginning;
As plants, animals and we humans struggle in its vicissitudes,
The essence and quintessence all of this is living with a goal.

Art –
What is life itself, but not on its own
Since only an inspired, breathing soul can feel;
Feeling the love of the poet, the zeal in a painting,
By meaning of every day is an art, and art is the drug of every day.

Love –
What once is the meaning of life,
After a glance, the most painful drug a man can taste,
Brought by the sweetest venom of a woman’s play and demand,
Killing and enlivening by itself and by its drinkable, smokable antidotes.

Death –
What is fear’d, but inspires us the most,
Its single existence urges us to seize the day;
Seize it by love and art while we are still here, living,
Seize it by seeking inspiration in every moment of not being dead.

Benyamin Bensalah



Meow, it’s the new me now –
I’ll see – oh – you’ll see the new me now.
Don’t ask how, there’s no how-how,
But I’ll meow you my new tao:

Every day, there’s a new meowning,
I meow, making sure that it won’t be boring.
I uncurl myself and wash my whiskers,
Purring my soul with good whispers:

I’m so happy in this meowning,
Walking gently, and my fur is warming.
I’ll face the jungle with a tiger’s roar,
No one dares to ask what are my stripes for:

I bounce into the day like I am,
Proudly-loudly purring like a lion.
My mane is mine and the mane I am,
Being meowsome is my main domain:

I’m mild and kind like a kitten,
Even if it’s most of the time hidden.
Because I mind my own matter,
Avoiding the needless chatter:

I’m meowing since the meowning,
Just to break the ice of being boring.
If the boredom is still in my way,
I just gently paw away:

There’s no better escaper,
And there’s no fair enough keeper.
But, some warm holding hands
May fulfill my purre demands:

Rest and peace my life’s about,
If your place is not alike, rather let me out.
I’m faithed to live like a cat,
A natural aristocrat:

Tao is the only law with fun,
I roflmao all over where there’s sun.
Living all my nine lives in a row,
I’ve a cat-life, meow.

Benyamin Bensalah


The Eye of a Typer

A colorless, eye-shaped smoke in the sky is my eyes,
That, instead of seeing, creates new skies,
New ground, and on it a new population.

None can be sure about my subjective realisation,
But what I see is more like a simplification
Of a horribly bad-mad world.

I myself am not sure how the colours are whirled;
The colours of dream- and undream-world
As clothes in a washing machine.

Myself is supposed to whirl inside that machine,
Among the instinctive desires and unclean,
Inherited demands.

While my true existence that no one understands
Is beyond those dark-coloured commands,
Just dwelling for observation.

Benyamin Bensalah


About Costumes and Customs

Wear, wear whatever you dare,
Tho, the global locality has no morality…

Animals with human customs,
Humans with animal costumes
Form the world into a modest mode-

In which the smartest ones are silent
While the mass dress in rumbling drunkness
in happy hues of the humbling violent
Of the primitive homo-geniuses.

Does nudity equal with the human nature?
Which? Human as savage or creature?
Born or grown?
While sensations design human customs,
Is predestination more than a fake costume?

Does the world hold anything divine?
While we follow an immoral aurora-
Its warming colours in a frozen desert
That implies no divine unseen scenes?

Questions are colorless, unseen but existing
Alike to God’s infinite fineness-
Probing our customs if they are probed.

Methink costumes as a colorful ocean,
mesee customs as the change of the world.

We sink in the dying world’s dying ocean.

Benyamin Bensalah


The Cancer

The world is a cancer –
There’s dirt and dust flowing on every veinly street,
Mad, humanoid particles street on them vainly,
Sharing their despairing existence with feigned determination
While the sick world is the only determiner here,
Declaring that this disease must run forward into eternity,
So, Run! Roll! Crawl! Till another particle replaces you,
And you become a chromosomic history of a forgotten pest
That rambled with its terrifying fever over the lands,
Leaving behind lunatic hallucinations wished to be unreal;
People eating from people, people biting off their own nipple,
People holing bodies and filling, filling, filling the holes,
People eating shit! People being people!
Holding zoological pictures as examples that we could be,
Ideological thoughts of a mothering home
That is nothing more for us than a body to feed on,
To feed on and replicate, to feed on and replicate,
To feed on and replicate on our own mother again and again,
In order to pass over our shared despair and push this disease,
Eating up the world, eating up ourselves,
Eating up the thoughts that face this epidemic, and its particles
That are for and not against, for and not against
This system of terror that creates to destroy, builds to demolish,
Breeds to aborticide, gets birth to commit suicide,
Eats to throw up even if it was by someone already eaten,
Then, let it be a feast! A celebration!
On which we shout into the sky our names,
The names of our civilization! Our religion!
“We are all part of it, and to it we belong, we return!”
The Cancer.

Benyamin Bensalah