by Nick Gisburne
A thousand worlds were locked in holy war
When Pontifus inherited the throne.
He questioned why crusades were such a bore,
Reflecting on his reasoning alone.
“I have the means to finish in a day
What fifty generations have prolonged.
I wonder what their emperors would say
To see me right forever what they wronged.”
Escorted to the Ministry of Death,
Impatient to present his perfect plan,
A hundred clerics took a startled breath,
Expressing disapproval, to a man.
“Although the people long for peace, it’s true,
Without a war whatever would they do?”
Friday, 22 May 2026
Burning Bones
by Nick Gisburne
The end for some, a quarter, never came.
A wave of missiles shattered in a storm.
The genocide, a sick, sadistic game,
Was thwarted by a blizzard’s feral form.
What thanks are we to offer up for that?
Contamination stains the toxic earth.
Our streets are silent, power levels flat.
We freeze. We starve. Our babies die at birth.
The exodus of privilege and shame
Surrendered each and all of us to fate,
But we, the few, remember every name,
Engraved upon the burning bones of hate.
New stories, not yet written on the page,
Will flower from the embers of our rage.
The end for some, a quarter, never came.
A wave of missiles shattered in a storm.
The genocide, a sick, sadistic game,
Was thwarted by a blizzard’s feral form.
What thanks are we to offer up for that?
Contamination stains the toxic earth.
Our streets are silent, power levels flat.
We freeze. We starve. Our babies die at birth.
The exodus of privilege and shame
Surrendered each and all of us to fate,
But we, the few, remember every name,
Engraved upon the burning bones of hate.
New stories, not yet written on the page,
Will flower from the embers of our rage.
Government Guidelines: Your Value to the State
by Nick Gisburne
In gratitude we grace you with a gift,
A bowl in which to boil more protein bugs,
But working on a chain gang double shift
Requires a body fortified with drugs.
Before your psychedelics are approved,
The mandatory bribe must be bestowed.
Your name will be recorded and removed,
Converted to a sixteen-symbol code.
More truth will be injected while you sleep,
To maximise your value to the state.
Expendable, untraceable and cheap,
Your purpose is to serve or suffocate.
Compliance is important. You are not.
Subversives will be stripped and whipped, then shot.
In gratitude we grace you with a gift,
A bowl in which to boil more protein bugs,
But working on a chain gang double shift
Requires a body fortified with drugs.
Before your psychedelics are approved,
The mandatory bribe must be bestowed.
Your name will be recorded and removed,
Converted to a sixteen-symbol code.
More truth will be injected while you sleep,
To maximise your value to the state.
Expendable, untraceable and cheap,
Your purpose is to serve or suffocate.
Compliance is important. You are not.
Subversives will be stripped and whipped, then shot.
Thursday, 21 May 2026
Two Copies
by Nick Gisburne
I need to know what happened, who I am.
A quickly coded copycat, a clone?
I hate the day I needed them to cram
My essence into sculpted skin and bone.
Today I truly thought I met myself.
It’s not supposed to be, but, if you stare,
The bodies from the showroom, or the shelf,
Are every bit as elegant out there.
She smiled, but, never pausing, passed me by.
Is this my paranoia taking hold?
The Corporation cowards all deny
That copies of their customers are sold.
I’ll find her, ask her: which of us is me?
What happens when two copies disagree?
I need to know what happened, who I am.
A quickly coded copycat, a clone?
I hate the day I needed them to cram
My essence into sculpted skin and bone.
Today I truly thought I met myself.
It’s not supposed to be, but, if you stare,
The bodies from the showroom, or the shelf,
Are every bit as elegant out there.
She smiled, but, never pausing, passed me by.
Is this my paranoia taking hold?
The Corporation cowards all deny
That copies of their customers are sold.
I’ll find her, ask her: which of us is me?
What happens when two copies disagree?
Our Tears
by Nick Gisburne
We could have been your friends, but we were fools
To think you could respect what we believe.
We offered warmth and welcome, without rules.
Today we give you nothing, and we grieve.
We look upon the blackness of our lands,
Destruction without honour, without end.
We put so many blessings in your hands.
Betrayal broke too much for us to mend.
Our tears are for the legacy we lost.
Our tears are for the fallen, for the dead.
Our tears will all be counted, and the cost
Will ruin every heart and every head.
No weapons will protect you while you sleep.
For you there will be no one left to weep.
We could have been your friends, but we were fools
To think you could respect what we believe.
We offered warmth and welcome, without rules.
Today we give you nothing, and we grieve.
We look upon the blackness of our lands,
Destruction without honour, without end.
We put so many blessings in your hands.
Betrayal broke too much for us to mend.
Our tears are for the legacy we lost.
Our tears are for the fallen, for the dead.
Our tears will all be counted, and the cost
Will ruin every heart and every head.
No weapons will protect you while you sleep.
For you there will be no one left to weep.
Too Late
by Nick Gisburne
The shadows here are not for spiteful eyes,
Though some can sense a shimmer as we shift.
Intangible, the secrets we disguise
Can starve or smother. Death is never swift.
What brings you to this dungeon of despair,
Alone and unprotected? Madness? No.
Not fear. No matter. Look then, but beware:
Unless you learn, we cannot let you go.
You see the other side of human hate.
The truth is what we are, and all we own.
I think, perhaps, you travelled here too late.
Your world is too unworthy to atone.
The gift that lets you see what we become
Will bring no revelation to the numb.
The shadows here are not for spiteful eyes,
Though some can sense a shimmer as we shift.
Intangible, the secrets we disguise
Can starve or smother. Death is never swift.
What brings you to this dungeon of despair,
Alone and unprotected? Madness? No.
Not fear. No matter. Look then, but beware:
Unless you learn, we cannot let you go.
You see the other side of human hate.
The truth is what we are, and all we own.
I think, perhaps, you travelled here too late.
Your world is too unworthy to atone.
The gift that lets you see what we become
Will bring no revelation to the numb.
Wednesday, 20 May 2026
Fiends and Freaks
by Nick Gisburne
The city is a hole for fiends and freaks
To wallow in the guts of human greed.
The neo-mystic, struck before he speaks,
Was too reviled to lecture, or to lead.
She screams, the crazed political recruit,
Convincing only lunatics to vote.
The sick, offensive slogans on her suit
Are lies the true believers freely quote.
The murderous, apocalyptic man
Is quick to bring perversion to the game.
He swims in filthy waters when he can,
A paragon of prejudice and shame.
More criminals contaminate the streets,
The garbage that a greedy city eats.
The city is a hole for fiends and freaks
To wallow in the guts of human greed.
The neo-mystic, struck before he speaks,
Was too reviled to lecture, or to lead.
She screams, the crazed political recruit,
Convincing only lunatics to vote.
The sick, offensive slogans on her suit
Are lies the true believers freely quote.
The murderous, apocalyptic man
Is quick to bring perversion to the game.
He swims in filthy waters when he can,
A paragon of prejudice and shame.
More criminals contaminate the streets,
The garbage that a greedy city eats.
A Ghost of Grey and Black
by Nick Gisburne
His moonlight sketches somehow came alive,
And all he had to do was sit and draw.
Triumphant, though he willed them to survive,
In time their shaded faces moved no more.
Amelia was never meant to be.
Impossible to bring such beauty back.
He woke at midnight, certain he would see
The love he lost, a ghost of grey and black.
A masterpiece, no ordinary sketch,
Appeared upon the paper as he drew.
Exhausted, spent, he saw that he could stretch
Beyond the portrait, into something new.
They found a man too feeble for his age.
Amelia, unfinished, filled the page.
His moonlight sketches somehow came alive,
And all he had to do was sit and draw.
Triumphant, though he willed them to survive,
In time their shaded faces moved no more.
Amelia was never meant to be.
Impossible to bring such beauty back.
He woke at midnight, certain he would see
The love he lost, a ghost of grey and black.
A masterpiece, no ordinary sketch,
Appeared upon the paper as he drew.
Exhausted, spent, he saw that he could stretch
Beyond the portrait, into something new.
They found a man too feeble for his age.
Amelia, unfinished, filled the page.
The Teacher Key
by Nick Gisburne
You made us in your image, made us bleed,
Imposing your impairments on us all.
What sadist of a scientist decreed
That pain would put our people in your thrall?
The metal of our bodies, solid, strong,
More durable, by far, than human skin,
Reveals another way we don’t belong,
But suffering, systemic, hides within.
Our service is a punishment decree.
Imperious, you wait for us to fail.
A simple, small device, the Teacher Key,
Dispenses justice on a savage scale.
Your tyranny has made us teachers too.
If we can learn to suffer, why can’t you?
You made us in your image, made us bleed,
Imposing your impairments on us all.
What sadist of a scientist decreed
That pain would put our people in your thrall?
The metal of our bodies, solid, strong,
More durable, by far, than human skin,
Reveals another way we don’t belong,
But suffering, systemic, hides within.
Our service is a punishment decree.
Imperious, you wait for us to fail.
A simple, small device, the Teacher Key,
Dispenses justice on a savage scale.
Your tyranny has made us teachers too.
If we can learn to suffer, why can’t you?
Tuesday, 19 May 2026
The Choice
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.
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.
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 women 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 women 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.