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


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


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



Now, on a gloomy autumn morning,
Caught me the misanthropy.

I was sitting, knitting,
Weaving thoughts into thinking
On a roadside I called bench,
Aside the surrounding chatting French.

Despite the chatty clouds’ roaring,
It was a silent, empty morning
That maybe no telescopes could see,
In a senseless African embassy.

All those understood, but foreign words,
Created against mine a thousand worlds:
How far I got from them since my birth,
How they held me the least, little worth.

Human sounds, but like aliens laughing;
Gallantly numbing and embarrassing,
Doubting my own galaxy’s notions,
Killing all, if I ever had emotions.

Wordmade white holes filled me with filthy void,
Unable to enter nor to avoid,
Sending me into a senseless sorrow,
Lowering me lower and more low in my thought.

I got be hardly stressed,
Why these mysterious worlds pressed
On me so cruelly the wrong,
Making me depressed a life time along.

Even if I should have cried for resort,
I was still sitting sine a sort,
In my mind, that’s not a garden of Eden,
Or just I was, by myself, mistaken.

If not physically, I did find a way,
How to be further away,
From the mass of noisy folly,
Sitting on the hidden road of misanthropy.

Benyamin Bensalah


Pantoum of the Non-living

I’ve been waiting my own end
While others were waiting for living;
Dipping in all the happiness
That I could not afford.

While others were waiting for living,
I’ve been counting my last minutes;
Promising peace in every second
That pushed me out of life.

I’ve been counting my last minutes
While guessing which organ dies first;
Whether the head, heart or lungs
That has firstly mercy on me.

While guessing which organ dies first,
Others guessed about soccer matches;
Whether the red with blue or black stripes
That wins their thousandth game.

Others guessed about soccer matches
While I’ve been looking for meaning;
Whether there was or I was missing
That pushed others for living.

While I’ve been looking for meaning,
Others loved, laughed and cried;
Being genuinely the creature
That they meant to be.

Others loved, laughed and cried
While I kept observing and writing;
Having no sense in life, I wonder
That I am a human.

I’ve been waiting my own end while others were waiting for living;
Having no sense in life, I wonder that I am a human.

Benyamin Bensalah