Transparenting

I had no viewing
on the children of my age
for a while

Happy playing
was the only knowledge
I had as a lie

While else were playing
I’ve been on a stage
for a while

I’ve been acting
pretending at a young age
that everything’s fine

While homecoming
has been an ugly offstage
ending in a cry

I learnt disappearing
while others had living image
from their bloodline.

Benyamin Bensalah

30.04.2021

A night for drinks and drinks for every night

Tonight is one of the nights –
I’m not open to hear wrongs or rights
about anything what’s going on,
but I could expect respect that I still carry on.

Some drinks are down on my throat,
some ethanol is pumpin through my mind,
some lines are too cloudy that I wrote,
but I’m still not acting like I do mind.

It’s still me, and I do like you –
why can’t you do the same though?
With infinite conditions, there’s none;
none matters, but it does when we’re gone.

Harvest the moments of the others,
you may get more care from them than from mothers
because every ape have problems,
but very few ones wait you at the bottoms.

I might write about things very deep,
but it’s still floating on the very surface;
you can freely call me a creep,
but I really mean every word that I can face.

I feel terrible every day;
you can compare it to some fuck’d up weeks
where you try every ways,
but things go like it’s been Greeks.

I lived the seven hells and heavens,
I lived with peace and almost all the weapons;
I know it when it never ends well,
and I know when you don’t even know what to tell.

But the drinks help me at some nights;
let me, this psycho just writes;
killing feelings that were unbearable,
wearing them sober even if unwearable.

Like the coat of solitude,
like the pants of tight social restricts;
I wore every way that’s rude,
but I’m still living – one of the addicts.

Like a dragonfly that lives only a day,
I live every day just as my last;
somtimes hunter – sometimes prey, it’s never gray;
I will end all like this night: in a colorful blast.

Benyamin Bensalah

01.04.2021

Rain

Rain!
It’s pouring, lashing.
Looking out of the window, I say:
What a mercy of God it is:
All the orange, all the beans!
The soil is thirsty.

However I put up my shoes,
Jumping over puddle and puddle,
Running on my pitch in the mud,
Then, walking in hurry on the road.
The houses, the roofs are crying,
They make little rivers and waterfalls.

The men of the road blow cloud,
It’s the sign of the cold,
Though, the women are in tight dress,
Robes and high-heels on some,
They make funny the foggy scene,
By acting so contradictory.

Men are like watered cats,
Throwing their legs up the sky,
Making puffs of vapour in hurry;
While women, like heavy machines,
They stop longly before each water,
And hesitate like steamboats.

However, the crowd is one,
One nation of colorful umbrellas,
That awkwardly clash time to time,
But they move along together.
I hold none of their colour,
I’m just watching eyes.

I witness the rain,
With my whole body,
With the holes of my shoes;
Cold neck and frozen toes:
Though, I keep saying:
What a mercy of God rain it is!

Benyamin Bensalah

18.01.2017

A BREATH OF AIR!

Who forbids me to tell you what hurt me
on the way home?
There was a lukewarm darkness on the lawn,
like velvet spray
and hurling without sleep under my feet,
as a struck child, silent growling was to leave
every tiny leaf.

Scouting, the bushes squatted in a circle
on the outskirts of the city.
The autumn wind stumbled cautiously right among.
On the cool mould
lurking towards the lights suspiciously;
a wild duck frightened howling from the lake viciously,
wherever I was going.

I just thought it might fall on me, who knows
this landscape is so deserted.
And here it is, an unexpected man comes,
but he departed.
I looked after him. He could rob me
since I don’t feel like defending myself in his arrival
while I am so miserable.

It’s kept on track what I called by phone
and when, why, to whom.
It’s written in files what I dreamed of
just as who’s understanding them.
And I can’t know when I will have enough reason
to unfolder that file-filled carton
which of my rights were sent to treason.

And in the country’s fragile villages
my mother was born there –
living law was falling like from tree,
as here these timbered-messages
and if they are overwhelmed by the adult misfortune,
they all ring to report a miserable warning
and they dust into portions.

Oh, that’s not how I imagined the order.
My soul is not so native.
I didn’t think existence could make it easier,
something that’s so deceptive.
Neither a people who are afraid when they vote,
with lowered eyes, considering a lurking note
and cheer up at its kaput.

I didn’t imagine order like that.
Though, if it’s me
Sometimes I didn’t even know why I was beat’,
as a small child me
who would have jumped to a good word right away.
I knew – by far my mother, I have no relative like they,
those were just strangers ready to prey.

I’ve grown up already. My teeth multiply
the foreign matter,
like death in my heart. But I have a right
and soul or clay,
yet I’m not like that and my skin isn’t so precious,
that I could handle wordlessly breathless,
if I’m not free!

My leader controls me from within!
Mankind, not wild –
we are minds! Our hearts, while mellowing desire,
are not data built-in.
Come on, freedom! You give me order,
so educate with good words, let play in disorder
your nice, serious son!

Benyamin Bensalah

14.03.2021

Translated from the Hungarian poem of Attila József, “Levegőt!” (1935).

Talking shadow

Why is it so hard to talk to me?

I’m so easy to define and see
like a drawn circle on a 2D paper;
no need to think of infinite dots,
no need to calculate any of the odds
why we are a 2D paper’s spots.

I’m so easy to talk to as a 2D circle;
I know all about what’s a circle,
I have ideas who draws circles,
what’s the paper all around,
but in a glance, all the flat talk circles down.

I am not a 2D circle –
I am a ball after all;
I need to select 3D objects
to talk about the mere sphere
we see as truly- or non-coprehendable.

I talk about all dimensions –
nonetheless its name or number,
or how they are non-comprehendable;
I am an E8 mass of particles,
being everywhere, but nowhere as a whole.

I am so hard to talk to
because I am here and there after all;
there’s my shadow on a 2D paper,
there I am bouncing like a ball,
and such a changing shade is barely talkable.

Benyamin Bensalah

20.12.2020

Masquerade

Would we any rate –
stop this masquerade?
We act in the shop.
We act on the streets.
We act at the workplace.
We act alone under the sheets.
We act with the friends,
differently with one, two or any of them.
We put a new mask at each circumstances,
not missing a single of those chances
to see a reality and feel it,
act on it and fake it until we believe it.
Then, when those rare moments come up
finding us without absolute no mask, no setup;
we question the whole thing that has been,
in the shop, on the streets, at the workplace –
under the sheets –
and as we see that we have no face,
and nothing does matter,
we cry badly at cost of whatever,
or at any rate
just to let us start again
just let us go back
to that stupid masquerade.

Benyamin Bensalah

20.12.2020

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

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