The Lake of Depression

I remember as a village member,
I cut a memorable road in the wood…

I remember as a walking wobbler,
Some deep thrill made shrill the route,
Covered by the blackness of Blackwood.

I remember as a faint bystander,
What a dark power had that wild park,
Beware-embraced, making my eyes sharp,
Taking its hideous darkness like a lark.

I remember with a tender temper,
Some river’s ripping ceased my shiver,
I – a thinker, harkened the silent timber,
How the water seduced me to drink her,
Whether I will fall to flaw, following her.

I remember as a deep slumber,
I answered the call, the fanfare, I heard;
The song of the fake stream was a lake,
A lake calling me with its narcotic ache.

I remember as I remember,
As if that freak lake wanted me to keep,
As if that deep lake… made me to leap.

The only I remember as a member of the lake,
As if I cut a memorable road in the wood…

Benyamin Bensalah

24.05.2016

Devolution

I do art, so I exist,
Alone, my ego is my home,
Grown, I need no war-societies;
I’m no more a homo-primitive-sapiens:

Holding swords and tribes’ declamations,
Writing nice words with bloody hands,
Washing them with victories;
Oh, I’m not a caveman:

My cave is still only mine,
Though, my brain is my only cave,
No material can make true patriarch;
I’m not the apeman that once used to be:

Getting a tree through ruling and fooling,
Through bloodthirst and wolf appetite,
Making the world burn firelessly;
I’m not an animal:

Flying as mercenary eagles,
Dancing among hideous grizzlies,
Idolizing snow-white ravenous tigers;
I will never be any reptile like all of these:

Still, life is daily dumbfoundingly changing,
The one who doesn’t ahead, goes astern,
Like a runner bean in a fired forest;
I’m avoiding to be a part of those:

Living on others,
Like purposeless parasites,
Like sourceless viruses and morbidities:
I nominate my every art against Devolution.

Benyamin Bensalah

11.04.2018

A memorable moment

I’ve just arrived to a memorable moment in my life –
Life, here, is not a period as mortals call their lifespan,
But rather, it is the shore of the course of knowledge –
To ask either heart-lessly or -fully: What is the virtue of life?

I’ve been not supposed to count the long steps
That I had already made next to that rich but capricious river,
That has made me ask questions after questions
Till now, when, it’s made me ask about me, how I’ve arrived thither.

Its query has come with a light breeze on my hands,
Creating tornadoes, twisters and hurricanes somewhere else;
As if it asked only a word: “How come you don’t care,
Then, you care about my moments more than anybody else?”

I knelt on the golden shore, looking deeply into the water:
I knelt at that concrete part of life as a few thousands had done before me,
Then, I read out the most conclusive words before we’d proceed:
Virtues: Live Long The Moment, Meet Death While You Are You, You Before Me.

Pulling my face out of the stream of thoughts hurt –
As if the whole universe has been amputated out of my soul,
Tho, hurtfully – thoughtfully, I knew that I have had to go:
I has been just Rousseau, Camus, Benyamin and a thoughtful dog on the shore.

Benyamin Bensalah

29.08.2018

Another D.P.S. member

Facebook. Twitter. Google +.
Machine-made, ever, daily fuss.
Planes. Trains. A traffic jam of cars.
All those like-likely likes, tho no one cares.

Insta. Reddit. Picasso.
Seen, liked, read, then go.
On Iphone. On bus. Living-room.
Iron, silicon and other sources to exhume.

Cold. Solid. Simple. Breathless.
The world around us is deadly reckless.
Courtesy? Strawberry? Flowers, bees living?
Where are the pictures that enliven without #following?

Dead poets had been lucky.
Looking at Living things – philosophically.
Sunny sky, cloud, rain, and a deep’ dark sea.
Feeling words that everybody and nobody see.

Methink myself -now- undead.
Living among things being dead.
A phone. Typing. Words. In the pocket, hidden.
Why am I living in the nature’s details, somewhat Bohemian?

Benyamin Bensalah

10.09.2018

What is strange?

Maybe, I’m strange…

How many times I’ve heard the word: “strange“:
“That’s all.. life is strange!”
“Oh Em Gee, you’re strange!”
“Why girls and boys act so strange?”

But what does strange mean?
How can I tell,
If even its definition HAS a quite strange smell!!4!

It strangely states:
“Strange is strangeness of a stranger’s
strange stance…”
Turning on the dictionary:
Strange is ‘out of ordinary’!!4!!4

What?!
Ordina.. It sounds str…..
STRONG!
Ordinary means Normal
It’s a statement.
So, strange is that that’s out of normal,
Briefly saying un-u-su-al.

I have many unusual names and cities..
As many as desires to perish:
I’ve never been in London, Milano, nor Paris..
I’ve never met a Rudolph, Calorin, nor Clariss.
Neither I have spoken Indian, Eskimo, nor Spanish.

Then, check that strangeness!
I’m from Europe..
Hah!
What’s so strange?
Maybe that I used to crowd on PVC..
Or I differently pose on a W…hatever.

But, to approach it better,
Let’s talk less and understand more,
Leaving less gaps,
Between our legs and the floor:


We, humans, all of us,
Are strangely strange and it’s a fact.
Let me prove it by giving you a task:


Read this.
Then, check your nose.
Now, I think,
Every honest reader looks strange.
But only God knows.

Maybe, I’m strange.

Benyamin Bensalah

10.04.2016

The bint

With my bare eyes bent,
On the street roaming,
Here I am.

A veiled flagrant bint,
Like silken flowing,
There she is.

See! Evil eyes sent,
Phantoms’ appraising,
Here’s a ghost.

See! Hunger’s advent,
Phantoms appraising,
There are men.

A bare moment spent,
Centuries seeming,
Here she is.

My eyes are still bent,
Hers are challenging,
There’s a bogle.

Like a fairy’s scent,
Heavenly tempting,
Here she is.

Fragrance of fresh mint,
Alfresco meeting,
There she is.

How long glance she sent,
I gave up counting,
Here’s a ghost.

The phantoms were pent,
I am triumphing,
There she is.

Now and then she went,
My head is turning,
Here I am.

I had been a gent,
Now we are meeting,
There’s the bogle.

Her lip’s in vile bent,
They made me loosing,
Here’s a ghost.

I need to repent,
There’s no one seeing,
Where is she.

My bare eyes are bent,
I feel am diving,
Where I am.


Benyamin Bensalah

24.08.2017

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