A day without poetry

No mellifluous lightbeams of the morning sun,
not even heated kissing of Helium atoms;
No crowing alarms waiting like a loaded gun,
not even deceived asleep minutes of cogs.

No rythmic murmurs of labour-heading steps,
not even monotonous capitalist torture;
No chopstick drums on the lunchboxed crêpes,
not even wasted earthlings’ nourriture.

No freedom fanfares from the last man-hour,
not even we are remaining slaves;
No loose hugging in a rencontre’s empower’,
not even we’re all meeting in graves.

No dark, star-brighted blanket’s planetary cover,
not even nightly phantoms of Paris;
No crawling consciousness’ journey to discover,
not even primates gazing to an abyss.

No poems today, no artistic magnificence,
not even music, not even dance;
No poems today, and this day is a lie
because without art we’re not alive.

Benyamin Bensalah



Wires and chips are everywhere
Under the ground, in the air,
In my pocket and in my ear.
Electric devices cut and dry my hair,
Correctors tell if my lines are fair.

My brain and art are electronic
In every neurotic, poetic,
And subatomic thought.
But what is magic-like more ironic
Is that I don’t give an aught…

…what I am just scribbling about.

Benyamin Bensalah


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


Time Murderer

My tears like rainforest would drop,
If I had pity on the talking beasts,
But my human memo has no more slot,
To endure the monsters of the East’s.

What a craddle! It’s itself kinda savage;
God condemned to desolate fever,
And its sons are themselves the ravage!
Eat! You beast till the word is over!

Nevertheless, I’d never lace up you,
Virus you are, but I let you be,
Only, take my words: fie upon you!
I write and my words let me be.

I have no holy mission to chase,
I am not Robinson! No-not even, Geez!
I’m not your Sherlock in this case!
I’m obsessed only by the time I seize.

I seize the time and it’s seizing you,
By fashion, fame, by food,
And by other worldly drugs to you.
Only you. I’m out of the mood.

Me and the time: Sparta and Athens;
We belong to each other,
In a lovely war that my mind imagines.
We need to kill each other.

Woe! There’s no benefits in my poems,
None gets salvation by my rhyme,
Nay they take me to the Seven Heavens,
But by seven verses- I killed the time.

Benyamin Bensalah


Poet solidarity

I’m a poet already –
So why would I care,
How poetry is itself?
So why would I care,
About anything, but myself?

I’ve got the power –
The best pens are looking for my order,
The words are bowing afore me one by one,
The paper serve me as faithful recorder,
Meanwhile, they’re followed up only by one.

I’m one, one of you –
My babbles are coming from your room,
Your parents forbid me to talk as the street,
Your schools lent me books to consume,
It was your friend who read my first sheet.

I’m no one anymore –
You people kept acting after the school,
Turning cool movies of business and household,
Meanwhile, I observed what you name cool,
Having several lives written in colours and bold.

You are a poet as well –
You only need to open your eyes ajar,
Leave a comment, show me how you care,
Mellow your world and serve up in a jar,
To let us, your brothers taste if you dare.

We are a nation, mate –
We were born just as every Earthlings,
None of us was born in flames like dragons,
But we share as well magical-noble things;
To respect each other’s opinions sans dictums.

Tho, I’m your poet –
I thank you people a thousand times,
For giving me a world and cause to write,
Your different colours feed my rhymes,
Without you, they would be mute, lucite.

Benyamin Bensalah



I used to live in many places,
Seeing them with various faces:

On the mountain, in the woods,
Drowsing in the peace of Sherwood’s.

In the village, on the farm,
Sniffing animals with a great charm!

In a town of a sandy shore,
Running to hit a beachball to score.

In the capital, inside a flat,
Eating-sleeping, eating-sleeping at a bed.

I used to have different faces,
Living in whether better or worse phases.

But the worst frowning face is,
Likely to living under hammering maces.

But the worst groaning face is,
Likely to living in a jail of burning braces.

But the worst lowering face is,
Likely to living in the highlight of disgraces.

The worst place desires me to inlock,
Facing a brute booth of writer’s block.

A writer’s block has no lock,
Having no lock, you cannot unlock.

Even if I have words.. a stock!
Even if I have a pen, not made of mock!

I cannot put a letter after another,
The writer’s block is a real ‘mother lover’.

I stand sitting before an empty page,
I feel like an unlearnt actor on the stage.

I feel like being condemned to fry,
After standing as a guilty without a lie.

Writer’s block is the ever worst place,
This is.. this is the place what I can’t face.

Writer’s block like monsters has no face,
It comes out from the darkness, the space.

But this time! This time, I will kill it;
No more problem looking at paper to fill it.

I will exorcise the demon finally,
With a spell that is like a.. a.. leee..

Oh God! It’s got ereased! My only Ace!
Disgrace! Only that I remember is a.. [space].

Benyamin Bensalah