by Nick Gisburne
They bathe the boy, but paint his fingers black.
A folded linen cloth adorns his head.
A candle’s wax, now cooled, allowed to crack,
Is pounded to a paste with bones and bread.
With heated needles, dipped within the mix,
The Piyutan begin to prick and paint.
His flesh infused with agony, they fix
The symbols of their sect without complaint.
Still raw, the shamen force the boy to stand,
And lead him to the altar, to the Choice.
Commanding him to raise, on high, one hand,
They wonder which tradition will rejoice.
Appalled, they watch him lift not one but two.
They kneel. They know. The prophecy is true.
Tuesday, 19 May 2026
The Bride of Bathory
by Nick Gisburne
Of all the brides of Bathory, her tastes
Are more than mere carnivory describes.
When flesh is flayed alive she only wastes
A fraction of the fluids she imbibes.
To peel a man, from screaming head to foot,
Is quite the demonstration of finesse.
Aroused, she glides with elegance to put
The victim’s clutching hands upon her dress.
Delirious, she helps him rip away
The sacramental vestments of her vice,
And, opening his throat, a steaming spray
Of crimson is the final, fatal price.
To sate the carnal hunger of her needs,
With ravenous depravity, she feeds.
Of all the brides of Bathory, her tastes
Are more than mere carnivory describes.
When flesh is flayed alive she only wastes
A fraction of the fluids she imbibes.
To peel a man, from screaming head to foot,
Is quite the demonstration of finesse.
Aroused, she glides with elegance to put
The victim’s clutching hands upon her dress.
Delirious, she helps him rip away
The sacramental vestments of her vice,
And, opening his throat, a steaming spray
Of crimson is the final, fatal price.
To sate the carnal hunger of her needs,
With ravenous depravity, she feeds.
The Better Fletcher
by Nick Gisburne
When Fletcher felt his body start to fail,
Deliveries provided him with parts.
Though many could be quickly shipped by mail,
In time he chose to try the darker arts.
With limbs and organs fresh and firm and clean,
Improvement, not renewal, made him strong.
The better Fletcher, hard, athletic, lean,
Was happy this was how to get along.
So confident that magic maketh man,
He teased and toned and modified his face,
But destiny could not approve the plan,
And sent the cops to put him in his place.
His magic spells were murders. In a day
A hundred bodies matched his DNA.
When Fletcher felt his body start to fail,
Deliveries provided him with parts.
Though many could be quickly shipped by mail,
In time he chose to try the darker arts.
With limbs and organs fresh and firm and clean,
Improvement, not renewal, made him strong.
The better Fletcher, hard, athletic, lean,
Was happy this was how to get along.
So confident that magic maketh man,
He teased and toned and modified his face,
But destiny could not approve the plan,
And sent the cops to put him in his place.
His magic spells were murders. In a day
A hundred bodies matched his DNA.
Monday, 18 May 2026
Reflections
by Nick Gisburne
Reflections are the enemy, the lie,
Exposing stricken victims to the crime,
But fear becomes a pressure to defy.
She said that she would never look. It’s time.
The bandages became a second skin,
But buried underneath them hides the first.
She whispers to the nurses to begin,
Expecting nothing better than the worst.
The soft, surrounding lamplight filters through
To slowly let her vision readjust.
The mirror shows her everything she knew.
She studies what she sees, because she must.
Enough, for now. She smiles and turns away.
Tomorrow she will cry, but not today.
Reflections are the enemy, the lie,
Exposing stricken victims to the crime,
But fear becomes a pressure to defy.
She said that she would never look. It’s time.
The bandages became a second skin,
But buried underneath them hides the first.
She whispers to the nurses to begin,
Expecting nothing better than the worst.
The soft, surrounding lamplight filters through
To slowly let her vision readjust.
The mirror shows her everything she knew.
She studies what she sees, because she must.
Enough, for now. She smiles and turns away.
Tomorrow she will cry, but not today.
A Big Wig
by Nick Gisburne
The little queen rolled over in her bed,
Complaining that the crown was twice too big.
Before they shot him, daddy always said,
“A bold, ambitious monarch needs a wig.”
She summoned Lady Wick, the wiggerette.
“I need to fit my noggin in the crown,
And if I look distinguished I’ll forget
To push you in my pleasure pool to drown.”
The wiggerette, now worried, went to work,
Her hairy reputation on the line,
And finally presented, with a smirk,
A wig so bold it bordered on divine.
The dim, delighted queen forgot to check
The weight of it, which broke her little neck.
The little queen rolled over in her bed,
Complaining that the crown was twice too big.
Before they shot him, daddy always said,
“A bold, ambitious monarch needs a wig.”
She summoned Lady Wick, the wiggerette.
“I need to fit my noggin in the crown,
And if I look distinguished I’ll forget
To push you in my pleasure pool to drown.”
The wiggerette, now worried, went to work,
Her hairy reputation on the line,
And finally presented, with a smirk,
A wig so bold it bordered on divine.
The dim, delighted queen forgot to check
The weight of it, which broke her little neck.
Superburst
by Nick Gisburne
I listen. Was this message meant for me,
A code that only I can understand?
They tell me they are coming, forced to flee,
But not in any way their planet planned.
A superburst. I haven’t heard of that.
Too technical to tell me more. No time.
They need a stronger signal. Mine is flat.
I bump it up, then watch the vectors climb.
No matter moves beyond the speed of light,
So how can I accept the bounds they break?
Insisting more than science feeds their flight,
They puncture through a wormhole’s quantum quake.
The sky ignites with trails of black and red.
I listen to the scanner. Nothing. Dead.
I listen. Was this message meant for me,
A code that only I can understand?
They tell me they are coming, forced to flee,
But not in any way their planet planned.
A superburst. I haven’t heard of that.
Too technical to tell me more. No time.
They need a stronger signal. Mine is flat.
I bump it up, then watch the vectors climb.
No matter moves beyond the speed of light,
So how can I accept the bounds they break?
Insisting more than science feeds their flight,
They puncture through a wormhole’s quantum quake.
The sky ignites with trails of black and red.
I listen to the scanner. Nothing. Dead.
Dear Old Dad
by Nick Gisburne
A clockwork bird. A stolen piece of cheese.
An apple, bright, but close to going bad.
They’re all I have. I bring them to appease
The wrath of my demented, dear old Dad.
He’s hasn’t been as chipper as he was
Before he had the rigmarole, the thing.
They never quite explained it all, because
He wanted to me to paint a piece of string.
We’re so alike, two carrots in a pod.
I feel as though I’ve known him all my life.
I wheel him in the garden, like he’s God.
He mixes up his mother and his wife.
I know he’s old. I know he’s lost the plot.
I love him. He’s the only Dad I’ve got.
A clockwork bird. A stolen piece of cheese.
An apple, bright, but close to going bad.
They’re all I have. I bring them to appease
The wrath of my demented, dear old Dad.
He’s hasn’t been as chipper as he was
Before he had the rigmarole, the thing.
They never quite explained it all, because
He wanted to me to paint a piece of string.
We’re so alike, two carrots in a pod.
I feel as though I’ve known him all my life.
I wheel him in the garden, like he’s God.
He mixes up his mother and his wife.
I know he’s old. I know he’s lost the plot.
I love him. He’s the only Dad I’ve got.
Mister Bird
by Nick Gisburne
Tobias didn’t know that it was dead,
So brought the bird, a raven, to his room.
He poked and prodded, lifted up its head,
Then slumped and sighed with melancholy gloom.
He tried to wish or whisper it awake.
The raven rested, resolutely still.
Tobias understood that it would take
More effort than his overwhelming will.
Beneath a pillow seemed to be the place
Where miracles would guarantee success.
It worked for teeth, so fairy charms would chase
The sleep from Mister Bird, with fey finesse.
But as the bird, reborn, began to glow,
It cawed, “I’m not a raven, I’m a crow.”
Tobias didn’t know that it was dead,
So brought the bird, a raven, to his room.
He poked and prodded, lifted up its head,
Then slumped and sighed with melancholy gloom.
He tried to wish or whisper it awake.
The raven rested, resolutely still.
Tobias understood that it would take
More effort than his overwhelming will.
Beneath a pillow seemed to be the place
Where miracles would guarantee success.
It worked for teeth, so fairy charms would chase
The sleep from Mister Bird, with fey finesse.
But as the bird, reborn, began to glow,
It cawed, “I’m not a raven, I’m a crow.”
Sunday, 17 May 2026
Sleepy Jack
by Nick Gisburne
They call me Sleepy Jack, the broken boy,
But cannot comprehend what I can see.
My gift is no beguiling, borrowed toy.
The strangeness I explore belongs to me.
Connected to the long, forever night,
Its doorways always open to my touch.
Another world, another dream’s delight.
New people, friends. We talk, perhaps too much.
They wonder why I sleep but never stay.
Awakened by reality, they fade.
When all I see in daylight is the grey,
I think I could, but then I feel afraid.
Tonight I know I’m braver than before.
I step inside and let them lock the door.
They call me Sleepy Jack, the broken boy,
But cannot comprehend what I can see.
My gift is no beguiling, borrowed toy.
The strangeness I explore belongs to me.
Connected to the long, forever night,
Its doorways always open to my touch.
Another world, another dream’s delight.
New people, friends. We talk, perhaps too much.
They wonder why I sleep but never stay.
Awakened by reality, they fade.
When all I see in daylight is the grey,
I think I could, but then I feel afraid.
Tonight I know I’m braver than before.
I step inside and let them lock the door.
A Storm Will Break
by Nick Gisburne
She doesn’t need a coat to keep her warm,
Or borrow any boots to shield her feet.
Obsession is her shelter from the storm.
She waits for it, impatient, incomplete.
Of all the broken dreams across its course,
She saw it spread more suffering on hers.
Destruction without reason or remorse
Knows nothing of the fury it confers.
A glimpse, but from a distance. Is it real?
The silence is deceptive, never still.
Behind the tiny window she can feel
The fever at the focus of her will.
The footsteps on the path approach the door.
A storm will break, like none he’s felt before.
She doesn’t need a coat to keep her warm,
Or borrow any boots to shield her feet.
Obsession is her shelter from the storm.
She waits for it, impatient, incomplete.
Of all the broken dreams across its course,
She saw it spread more suffering on hers.
Destruction without reason or remorse
Knows nothing of the fury it confers.
A glimpse, but from a distance. Is it real?
The silence is deceptive, never still.
Behind the tiny window she can feel
The fever at the focus of her will.
The footsteps on the path approach the door.
A storm will break, like none he’s felt before.
The Many-Fingered Man
by Nick Gisburne
The stories of the many-fingered man
Are fables twisted tight around the truth.
Beginning as no other teacher can,
He grins, revealing each metallic tooth.
Extending seven fingers and a thumb,
His whispers hiss, insisting on a choice.
The ritual, already, has become
A test to be endured to hear his voice.
The middle of the seven. Never wrong.
He breathes to let the mystery unfold.
A human finger never seemed so long,
Foreshadowing the story to be told.
He bites, and as he rips it from the hand,
He tells a tale as grim as it is grand.
The stories of the many-fingered man
Are fables twisted tight around the truth.
Beginning as no other teacher can,
He grins, revealing each metallic tooth.
Extending seven fingers and a thumb,
His whispers hiss, insisting on a choice.
The ritual, already, has become
A test to be endured to hear his voice.
The middle of the seven. Never wrong.
He breathes to let the mystery unfold.
A human finger never seemed so long,
Foreshadowing the story to be told.
He bites, and as he rips it from the hand,
He tells a tale as grim as it is grand.
Saturday, 16 May 2026
Give Me Something Good
by Nick Gisburne
You killed another man, but won’t say why.
No reason? Really? Murder, just for kicks?
You’re telling me you don’t deserve to die,
But add some fat or flavour to the mix.
I wouldn’t have to bring a body back.
Alive or not, the bounty’s on your head.
You call it, soldier. Bet on red or black,
But give me something good before you’re dead.
I won’t believe a word of it. Who cares?
You’ll never get a trial you can win.
We’re docking soon for critical repairs,
So take your time, before I take you in.
Consider this. I’ll say it nice and slow.
Who else will ever listen? Let me know.
You killed another man, but won’t say why.
No reason? Really? Murder, just for kicks?
You’re telling me you don’t deserve to die,
But add some fat or flavour to the mix.
I wouldn’t have to bring a body back.
Alive or not, the bounty’s on your head.
You call it, soldier. Bet on red or black,
But give me something good before you’re dead.
I won’t believe a word of it. Who cares?
You’ll never get a trial you can win.
We’re docking soon for critical repairs,
So take your time, before I take you in.
Consider this. I’ll say it nice and slow.
Who else will ever listen? Let me know.
No One Asks for Mutton
by Nick Gisburne
I haven’t been selected for a while,
But maybe soon. Today? Tonight? Who knows?
I have a little rust around my smile,
But never so conspicuous it shows.
I’m really quite a catch for what I am,
The pride of Level One a while ago,
But no one asks for mutton when there’s lamb,
And what they want replaces what they know.
I’m listed now as Level Three. The nerve!
The bargain bin we call it in the trade.
A four-point-five for pleasure, every curve
Refurbished, and my friction will not fade.
They’ll put me in the crusher with the junk,
So pick me, someone, even if you’re drunk.
I haven’t been selected for a while,
But maybe soon. Today? Tonight? Who knows?
I have a little rust around my smile,
But never so conspicuous it shows.
I’m really quite a catch for what I am,
The pride of Level One a while ago,
But no one asks for mutton when there’s lamb,
And what they want replaces what they know.
I’m listed now as Level Three. The nerve!
The bargain bin we call it in the trade.
A four-point-five for pleasure, every curve
Refurbished, and my friction will not fade.
They’ll put me in the crusher with the junk,
So pick me, someone, even if you’re drunk.
The Shimmer-Neth
by Nick Gisburne
They stagger through the black and broken trees,
Too weary to be troubled by the smoke,
And, while a stinking sickness taints the breeze,
No grief can save the fallen, those who choke.
One crime, the most forbidden of the Fey,
Brings misery, disaster, pain, and death.
Submission to their hated human prey
Begets a child of shame, a Shimmer-Neth.
Contaminated magic, twisted lore,
And all the dark atrocities of man,
Create a creature, bleak like none before,
A cancer at the heart of every clan.
The forest burns. Its peoples bend and break.
The Shimmer-Neth, they know, is their mistake.
They stagger through the black and broken trees,
Too weary to be troubled by the smoke,
And, while a stinking sickness taints the breeze,
No grief can save the fallen, those who choke.
One crime, the most forbidden of the Fey,
Brings misery, disaster, pain, and death.
Submission to their hated human prey
Begets a child of shame, a Shimmer-Neth.
Contaminated magic, twisted lore,
And all the dark atrocities of man,
Create a creature, bleak like none before,
A cancer at the heart of every clan.
The forest burns. Its peoples bend and break.
The Shimmer-Neth, they know, is their mistake.
The Quintocrats of Justice
by Nick Gisburne
The Quintocrats of Justice take their seats,
Despite the dismal pleadings of the town.
Already, from the filth-infested streets,
All symbols of dissent are taken down.
They motion that the young defendant’s cage
Be lowered from the ceiling where it swings.
In manacles and chains, his tender age
Means nothing to the darkness judgment brings.
The figure at the centre of the five
Removes the crimson gauntlets from his hands,
And whispers that the boy will not survive
To see another sunrise in these lands.
Too numb to watch him dragged away to die,
The Quintocrat, his father, turns to cry.
The Quintocrats of Justice take their seats,
Despite the dismal pleadings of the town.
Already, from the filth-infested streets,
All symbols of dissent are taken down.
They motion that the young defendant’s cage
Be lowered from the ceiling where it swings.
In manacles and chains, his tender age
Means nothing to the darkness judgment brings.
The figure at the centre of the five
Removes the crimson gauntlets from his hands,
And whispers that the boy will not survive
To see another sunrise in these lands.
Too numb to watch him dragged away to die,
The Quintocrat, his father, turns to cry.
Veronica’s Dolls
by Nick Gisburne
Veronica adored her dolls so much
That silly old pretending wouldn’t do.
She mixed a little miracle. Her touch
Was just enough to waken one or two.
When two became a dozen, then a crowd,
She taught them all the proper way to sit,
Until at last the first to speak aloud
Looked up at her and shouted, “This is shit!”
Veronica, significantly shocked,
Lamented, “But I bought you scarves and shoes!”
Her protestations mercilessly mocked,
They told her what they really wanted. “Booze!”
The playroom soon descended into sin,
But, far too young, they wouldn’t let her in.
Veronica adored her dolls so much
That silly old pretending wouldn’t do.
She mixed a little miracle. Her touch
Was just enough to waken one or two.
When two became a dozen, then a crowd,
She taught them all the proper way to sit,
Until at last the first to speak aloud
Looked up at her and shouted, “This is shit!”
Veronica, significantly shocked,
Lamented, “But I bought you scarves and shoes!”
Her protestations mercilessly mocked,
They told her what they really wanted. “Booze!”
The playroom soon descended into sin,
But, far too young, they wouldn’t let her in.
Friday, 15 May 2026
Charlie Two
by Nick Gisburne
Of all the people, somehow it was me,
The first to meet a man from outer space.
I offered him a sausage, poured the tea,
And smiled at where there should have been a face.
His name was something simple: Charlie Two,
Which wasn’t very alien at all.
I wondered, so I asked him, if he knew
A simple way to wrap a rubber ball.
He didn’t, so if that could stump his brain
I knew the world was absolutely safe.
Two further questions: why is weather vain,
And will a new bikini always chafe?
He left in quite a hurry. To this day
I’ll always wonder why he went away.
Of all the people, somehow it was me,
The first to meet a man from outer space.
I offered him a sausage, poured the tea,
And smiled at where there should have been a face.
His name was something simple: Charlie Two,
Which wasn’t very alien at all.
I wondered, so I asked him, if he knew
A simple way to wrap a rubber ball.
He didn’t, so if that could stump his brain
I knew the world was absolutely safe.
Two further questions: why is weather vain,
And will a new bikini always chafe?
He left in quite a hurry. To this day
I’ll always wonder why he went away.
Take My Hand
by Nick Gisburne
You don’t know why I cut myself again,
So don’t pretend you’ll ever understand.
I’m not the same inside as other men,
But go ahead and do it. Take my hand.
You’re stronger than expected, I admit.
Is that way you try to take control?
No sympathy, no questions, is this it?
I thought you were supposed to save my soul.
I like the silence. Thank you, just for that.
From me, the grim ungrateful, it’s a lot.
I think that this, the moment, where I’m at,
It could have been enormous, but it’s not.
It’s small, and that’s important too, you know?
I think it’s what I needed. Don’t let go.
You don’t know why I cut myself again,
So don’t pretend you’ll ever understand.
I’m not the same inside as other men,
But go ahead and do it. Take my hand.
You’re stronger than expected, I admit.
Is that way you try to take control?
No sympathy, no questions, is this it?
I thought you were supposed to save my soul.
I like the silence. Thank you, just for that.
From me, the grim ungrateful, it’s a lot.
I think that this, the moment, where I’m at,
It could have been enormous, but it’s not.
It’s small, and that’s important too, you know?
I think it’s what I needed. Don’t let go.
Cuckoo
by Nick Gisburne
Our pity for the orphan and her plight
Was kindled when we found her at the door.
We took her in to save her from the night,
And fed her, though she soon demanded more.
The children shared their bed to let her sleep,
Until she kicked them out and claimed it all.
Their toys were taken, tangled in a heap,
Then sabotaged and smashed against the wall.
When disciplined she whistled through her teeth,
And grew to be aggressive, tall and strong.
We saw frustration seething underneath,
But never knew exactly what was wrong.
Unable to expel our vicious guest,
The spiteful cuckoo threw us from the nest.
Our pity for the orphan and her plight
Was kindled when we found her at the door.
We took her in to save her from the night,
And fed her, though she soon demanded more.
The children shared their bed to let her sleep,
Until she kicked them out and claimed it all.
Their toys were taken, tangled in a heap,
Then sabotaged and smashed against the wall.
When disciplined she whistled through her teeth,
And grew to be aggressive, tall and strong.
We saw frustration seething underneath,
But never knew exactly what was wrong.
Unable to expel our vicious guest,
The spiteful cuckoo threw us from the nest.
Abusive Beats
by Nick Gisburne
The music pounds a hammer on her soul,
Abusive beats, repeating through the wall.
Besieged, bewildered, under its control,
She cracks, unable now to cry, or crawl.
The silence was the only friend she had,
A comforting envelopment of calm.
Despite her isolation, she was glad
The quiet let her live without alarm.
No longer. As the frequencies distort,
They penetrate her finger-tangled hair,
Awakening a dark, dismembered thought,
A long-forgotten feeling of despair.
Her peace will come again. She lifts the knife,
And leaves the room to take another life.
The music pounds a hammer on her soul,
Abusive beats, repeating through the wall.
Besieged, bewildered, under its control,
She cracks, unable now to cry, or crawl.
The silence was the only friend she had,
A comforting envelopment of calm.
Despite her isolation, she was glad
The quiet let her live without alarm.
No longer. As the frequencies distort,
They penetrate her finger-tangled hair,
Awakening a dark, dismembered thought,
A long-forgotten feeling of despair.
Her peace will come again. She lifts the knife,
And leaves the room to take another life.