When one becomes the kingdom

It’s hard to say no to the magnetic draw of society,
to swim against the flow of a ready made reality;
like filling the gap in hierarchical despotism
or capitalist cog-machine of modernism,
but after one sees that all the same,
being ready to skip the game,
strives only what’s vital
for a human animal.

Benyamin Bensalah

22.08.2020

Fame

Owning all the eyes on yourself
                    Is like the mirror that sees you worthwhile
By a godlike image of yourself
                    Boosting you with a great boost for a while.

                    But meanwhile

The same fame is the blade

                    Cutting the fameless ones’ veins

The same fame is the flame

                    Roasting those who have no vainness.

But aren’t we living all the same –
                    Arriving to a day when we’ll be all fameless?
In the flame or next to a stream,
                   Maybe in the nothing that’s neither embarrassing.

Who cares about your cars

                   Who gives a damn about your dimes

We are living the moment once

                  Live it in the fame of YOUR own and only chance to have fun.

Benyamin Bensalah

02.08.2018

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

The black sheep

There’s a disease inside me,
A kind of poison that the flocks hold,
I feel embarrassed and want to flee,
Now, I won’t return to the fold.

A pain burns in the depth of my soul,
In grey flames of emotions,
I feel no want to play a role,
I won’t follow more sheep notions.

The mass goes and I go behind,
We share the same place to feed,
We share sameness also in breed,
But I will be always divers in mind.

Benyamin Bensalah

10.04.2016

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

Not ordinary

I am a difficult creation in person,
Not an ordinary run of mankind;
I collect no habits, no pieces of persons,
I have no reason on you to be kind.

If I know you, you must be an individual;
You’re one of the race of disgrace-
No, I won’t take you as something particular,
I know well, we filth together this race.

If I do like you, it might be something inordinate;
How didn’t I put you in the black archives?
How come that you’re resisting the humane hate?
How come that we may share ordinary lives?

Benyamin Bensalah

07.11.2020

Wild race

Whether you are a parent,
or it’s not yet apparent,

I do call upon you
– for the sake of everybody,
and for my sake as well
(since I had no such education),
but you,
you need to enlighten your child.

People are wild –
animals living in the wild will be less;
less brutal, brute and brutish than man.

Real predators have language –
the tongue of people kills and torments;
not for the weekly nutrition,
not for meat or blood,
but for their own pleasure
they kill and wound by their words.

Tell your child the truth:
that fear that makes you jump feets
from spiders or snakes,
that fear that freezes you with a cramp
from rabid dogs or wolves
have all mistaken the real object of fear:
Man.

(the merchant, the classmate,
the servant, the stagnate,
the young and the old and even the dead,
then even the poet by whom this lecture is said)

are all worse then animals,
so, son-
fear people
from the bottom of your heart,
for that fear may save your heart
may save your heart from becoming like us.

Benyamin Bensalah

05.07.2018

A rhymeless gentleman

The first morning beams of the shining giant’s
Chased my train and its hundred clients,
Dying on their face a golden curiosity:

Their beany questions might disdain Horace;
What treasure is the day hiding for us?
How we enslave ourselves to succeed?

They might be the opiated words of the daylight
While others’ shady face merged with the night;
Their eyes were in sleepy marsupium.

The trancelike music of the wheels’ tuc-tuc
Choked and chopped up the time’s tic-tac;
Asken asleep: what time is it?

The cockeyed carriage with many Sir and Madam
Of Sun-and-Moon, Dead-and-Alive amalgam
Ended by a gentleman’s advent.

The man flashed up frighteningly brightening;
Noble whiteness, but eyes with black cunning.
What omen has brought him to this world?

He aimed the corner, though there were seats,
He was frozen, though his presence seethes
The air and the atmosphere.

Misty curiousity raised around the Mysterious Man;
Teacher? Agent? Man of letters and pen?
He caused a misery.

He looked beyond the crowd once, scanning
As if he memorized all at once the setting;
He retired to the shade of his crown.

Oh no! Surely, he must pretend or it’s an accident.
Why is he so insanely confident,
Has a Special Force?

With blueish, cold-blooded jeans, shoes and vest,
Reddish, vehement beard borne as his crest;
He was the manly elegance.

The long white collar under his beard
Made ways to other words unheard:
East? West? What continent?

The gentleman kept his corner as a throne;
A store of wisdom under his hat’s dome,
All hidden in his closed eyes.

Does he see me while I’m committing the crime,
Watching him and looking for a fitting rhyme?
Were his eyes ever-seeing?

Since I could feel anything but his eyes
As a magician who can hypnotize;
I daydreamt about him.

Difficult, tho I describe him just as myself;
I close my eyes and imagine myself,
As a person who’s able to rhyme.

Writing in the corner is truly priceless!
Even if I’m somewhat rhymeless.
Could I forget who I am?

A rhymeless gentleman.

Benyamin Bensalah

10.10.2017

A Strange generation

Camus died years ago.
I can’t be sure, even with Wikipedia.
The truth is so flexible;
every head has a couple of truths
about everything.

He died in a car accident
as it was written,
but we can’t know what’s behind –
surely, we want to hear A Story
about a strange death.

What was he thinking, planning
when he got into that car?
Would he be happy with that death?
Was he ever be happy in his life?
He was aware.

He was aware of the indifference,
insignificance of life.
This is a curse,
barely letting you fall asleep.
Awareness is awakenedness.

Having dreams is luxury
for one who’s awake of dreaming,
believing we exist
while someone who’s awake
sees we don’t.

We live and die;
laugh or cry, we die.
There’s no superior fact above
dying meaninglessly
in our own self-created scenes.

Had he ever been happy?
I ask again –
of course he had;
happiness comes up and leaves
in an absurdly meaningful moment.

That moment is absurd
because it ends.
Then, it leaves no meaning behind.
Love, wine, other hallucinogens
leave us empty as We Are.

If someone’s aware of such facts,
it doesn’t matter whether happy,
living or dead is the person
because we’ll be up to everything
and never belonging to a thing.

So, just get into that car,
send our grandson
To buy our last pack of cigarette
because what happens happens.
Then, it ends. Absurd.

Benyamin Bensalah

13.02.2020

A Promenade in Strange City

The taps are just steps on this land,
No old friend calls me from the childhood,
No near familiarity where I stand,
Nor from the far place where I stood.

My mind, eye and heart are all out,
Only my ears are listening to my strange steps,
Where’s all the peace I heard about,
Wandering on the new, strange lands.

Then, a tap is sounded; a tap and another,
My childhood is echoing back from a dimension,
I can’t drop a tear, so I walk rather,
Walk, walk, walk… Maybe out of sensation.

Benyamin Bensalah

20.11.2017