by Nick Gisburne
We don’t get many your type, this far north.
I’d have to count their faces. I forget.
I don’t like all this busy back and forth,
So when I close my mind up, that’s me set.
You’ll stay with us. My boy will make the bed.
I like to keep him busy since the crash.
He’ll ask you for some butterscotch, or bread,
But never let him know you carry cash.
My sister died a month or two ago,
But come inside and see her, if you like.
She’s hanging in the cellar, with the crow,
But now I’ll need her shackles, and a spike.
You’ll feel a little dizzy, dear, but then
You’ll never have to walk this way again.
Monday, 27 April 2026
Sunday, 26 April 2026
The Separation Protocol
by Nick Gisburne
Humanity, the sequel, version two,
Would crumble if it made the same mistakes.
Aggression? Gone, renounced, because we knew
That when we crash together something breaks.
Deciding that societies should spread,
To keep conflicting factions far apart,
The moment any problem reared its head
The Separation Protocol would start.
No matter what the reason, what the cause,
More distance was the concept we devised.
The governing foundation of our laws
Could never be repealed, reviewed, revised.
We celebrate a system working well,
Confined, divided, each inside a cell.
Humanity, the sequel, version two,
Would crumble if it made the same mistakes.
Aggression? Gone, renounced, because we knew
That when we crash together something breaks.
Deciding that societies should spread,
To keep conflicting factions far apart,
The moment any problem reared its head
The Separation Protocol would start.
No matter what the reason, what the cause,
More distance was the concept we devised.
The governing foundation of our laws
Could never be repealed, reviewed, revised.
We celebrate a system working well,
Confined, divided, each inside a cell.
Unseelie Specimens
by Nick Gisburne
The sick, Unseelie specimens, in jars,
Convulse as they are haunted by the heat.
Beyond the glass, behind corroded bars,
The wizard moans, his misery complete.
The spells he cast, the sorcery he shaped,
To rescue Fey infantas from their fate,
Begat these worthless, rancid peasants, scraped
From streets and sewers; none are good or great.
The king will not reward his deeds today.
No banners, pennants, kites or flags will fly.
His daughters, who the warlock stole to slay,
Were gone before a sunrise broke the sky.
He taps the jars, tormenting those he took,
And seasons them for flavour as they cook.
The sick, Unseelie specimens, in jars,
Convulse as they are haunted by the heat.
Beyond the glass, behind corroded bars,
The wizard moans, his misery complete.
The spells he cast, the sorcery he shaped,
To rescue Fey infantas from their fate,
Begat these worthless, rancid peasants, scraped
From streets and sewers; none are good or great.
The king will not reward his deeds today.
No banners, pennants, kites or flags will fly.
His daughters, who the warlock stole to slay,
Were gone before a sunrise broke the sky.
He taps the jars, tormenting those he took,
And seasons them for flavour as they cook.
Bait
by Nick Gisburne
They pull another monster from his mind,
Relentless, digging deeper than before.
Resistance makes it difficult to find
The strongest roots, the lowest, foulest floor.
At last they strike a fuller, fatter seam,
Where evil clings in clusters, clumps and knots.
The surgery is brutal now, extreme,
Uncovering the reasons why he rots.
A crack, a defect, darker than the night,
Beyond the depth of those they found before,
Entices his assailants. Bait. They bite.
The trap is something stronger, something more.
The body on the table breaks its chains.
Unleashed, it sucks the shadows from their veins.
They pull another monster from his mind,
Relentless, digging deeper than before.
Resistance makes it difficult to find
The strongest roots, the lowest, foulest floor.
At last they strike a fuller, fatter seam,
Where evil clings in clusters, clumps and knots.
The surgery is brutal now, extreme,
Uncovering the reasons why he rots.
A crack, a defect, darker than the night,
Beyond the depth of those they found before,
Entices his assailants. Bait. They bite.
The trap is something stronger, something more.
The body on the table breaks its chains.
Unleashed, it sucks the shadows from their veins.
Saturday, 25 April 2026
Blood and Marriage
by Nick Gisburne
The bride is dressed in black, from claws to veil.
The groom, of course, is naked, and in chains.
Their celebrant, in scarlet, twists his tail,
And steps across the usher’s cold remains.
“If anyone has cause to raise a doubt
About the victim, or his bride-to-be,
Say nothing. I will rip your liver out
If I am not in Tartarus by three.”
He turns to face the maid of honour. “You!”
Her neck is bared abruptly, with a jerk.
“I need a pint of blood, or maybe two.
Damnation can be very thirsty work.”
He sucks, and soon the marriage may begin,
Two fiends, exchanging semen, sweat, and skin.
The bride is dressed in black, from claws to veil.
The groom, of course, is naked, and in chains.
Their celebrant, in scarlet, twists his tail,
And steps across the usher’s cold remains.
“If anyone has cause to raise a doubt
About the victim, or his bride-to-be,
Say nothing. I will rip your liver out
If I am not in Tartarus by three.”
He turns to face the maid of honour. “You!”
Her neck is bared abruptly, with a jerk.
“I need a pint of blood, or maybe two.
Damnation can be very thirsty work.”
He sucks, and soon the marriage may begin,
Two fiends, exchanging semen, sweat, and skin.
The Chromium Sarcoma
by Nick Gisburne
The chromium sarcoma strikes, but shines,
Its beauty laced with agony and death.
The silver of its tyranny defines
The pain behind each patient’s crippled breath.
The courts become a battlefield, a war,
As families, disfigured, slowly die.
Some shame the claim - coincidence, no more -
But fifty thousand voices curse the lie.
A chemical contaminant. It’s clear
The company responsible must pay.
The litigation lingers, year by year,
But now, triumphant, justice has its day.
A statement of the settlement is read,
But every plaintiff named in it is dead.
The chromium sarcoma strikes, but shines,
Its beauty laced with agony and death.
The silver of its tyranny defines
The pain behind each patient’s crippled breath.
The courts become a battlefield, a war,
As families, disfigured, slowly die.
Some shame the claim - coincidence, no more -
But fifty thousand voices curse the lie.
A chemical contaminant. It’s clear
The company responsible must pay.
The litigation lingers, year by year,
But now, triumphant, justice has its day.
A statement of the settlement is read,
But every plaintiff named in it is dead.
Cold Remorse
by Nick Gisburne
I feel the wild inferno, yet I freeze.
Immune, I find no fury in its heat.
Is this the supernatural disease
The shaman spoke of when he pricked my feet?
That sacrilege is seven summers gone.
The memories had faded, until now.
Today, revealed, released, I look upon
The carnage I created here, somehow.
Remembering his whispers, glazed with glee,
A speech I long regarded as a joke,
The power of the gift he gave to me
Is clearer than the moment that he spoke.
“The city of your birth will fall in flame,
And you, with cold remorse, will take the blame.”
I feel the wild inferno, yet I freeze.
Immune, I find no fury in its heat.
Is this the supernatural disease
The shaman spoke of when he pricked my feet?
That sacrilege is seven summers gone.
The memories had faded, until now.
Today, revealed, released, I look upon
The carnage I created here, somehow.
Remembering his whispers, glazed with glee,
A speech I long regarded as a joke,
The power of the gift he gave to me
Is clearer than the moment that he spoke.
“The city of your birth will fall in flame,
And you, with cold remorse, will take the blame.”
Experimental Science
by Nick Gisburne
His tunnels feed a sewer of disease,
Experimental science tipped away.
Regurgitated tissues taint the seas,
The pieces of participants, his prey.
With every study, every failed attempt,
With every bleeding innocent he steals,
Ambition, steeped in murderous contempt,
Is deaf to their delirious appeals.
He barely half-remembers what he needs
To conquer his abominable quest.
Today he grinds fermented, toxic seeds,
Implanted in a screaming victim’s chest.
He damns the imperfection, but their tea
Reminds him of the taste of KFC.
His tunnels feed a sewer of disease,
Experimental science tipped away.
Regurgitated tissues taint the seas,
The pieces of participants, his prey.
With every study, every failed attempt,
With every bleeding innocent he steals,
Ambition, steeped in murderous contempt,
Is deaf to their delirious appeals.
He barely half-remembers what he needs
To conquer his abominable quest.
Today he grinds fermented, toxic seeds,
Implanted in a screaming victim’s chest.
He damns the imperfection, but their tea
Reminds him of the taste of KFC.
The Spices of Disguise
by Nick Gisburne
Awakened, watching spring confront the cold,
As winter, fast forgotten, fades, she flies.
She laughs as life, electric green and gold,
Surrounds her with the spices of disguise.
In summer she’s a butterfly, a bird,
A bee, collecting nectar for the hive.
She listens to their language, word by word,
And vows to keep their mysteries alive.
At last, the leaves and seeds begin to fall.
Their colours blaze with glorious goodbyes.
The showers turn to snow. The seasons stall.
The sun does not remember how to rise.
She sheds her fur and feathers, makes a wish,
And spends the wilds of winter with the fish.
Awakened, watching spring confront the cold,
As winter, fast forgotten, fades, she flies.
She laughs as life, electric green and gold,
Surrounds her with the spices of disguise.
In summer she’s a butterfly, a bird,
A bee, collecting nectar for the hive.
She listens to their language, word by word,
And vows to keep their mysteries alive.
At last, the leaves and seeds begin to fall.
Their colours blaze with glorious goodbyes.
The showers turn to snow. The seasons stall.
The sun does not remember how to rise.
She sheds her fur and feathers, makes a wish,
And spends the wilds of winter with the fish.
Friday, 24 April 2026
Risen From the Dust
by Nick Gisburne
Mortality has risen from the dust
To sit in perfect silence at your feet.
Untroubled by rejection or disgust,
He senses that the sequence is complete.
What passion set in motion, he will halt,
A chronicle of moments, sold or spent.
He bears no malice, brings no blame, no fault,
A force of nature nothing can prevent.
He whispers, and his eyes, beguiling, burn.
“Behold. The final twist of time is set.
I come because I must, but my return
Is not without remorse, without regret.
Your life, at last, is over. You will die.
But I am tethered, trapped, immortal. Why?”
Mortality has risen from the dust
To sit in perfect silence at your feet.
Untroubled by rejection or disgust,
He senses that the sequence is complete.
What passion set in motion, he will halt,
A chronicle of moments, sold or spent.
He bears no malice, brings no blame, no fault,
A force of nature nothing can prevent.
He whispers, and his eyes, beguiling, burn.
“Behold. The final twist of time is set.
I come because I must, but my return
Is not without remorse, without regret.
Your life, at last, is over. You will die.
But I am tethered, trapped, immortal. Why?”
Government Guidelines: Three Chemicals
by Nick Gisburne
You stand accused of tampering with fate,
By damaging devices of control,
The instruments inserted by the state
To simulate the liberties we stole.
Obedience, a mandatory choice,
Is not to be discarded or abused.
Your government provides you with a voice,
But legally forbids it to be used.
You think to change the system, to rebel,
To exercise the rights you never had.
Summarily convicted, in your cell,
Accept our sweet injections and be glad.
Reclaiming what you took and tried to break,
Three chemicals will cancel your mistake.
You stand accused of tampering with fate,
By damaging devices of control,
The instruments inserted by the state
To simulate the liberties we stole.
Obedience, a mandatory choice,
Is not to be discarded or abused.
Your government provides you with a voice,
But legally forbids it to be used.
You think to change the system, to rebel,
To exercise the rights you never had.
Summarily convicted, in your cell,
Accept our sweet injections and be glad.
Reclaiming what you took and tried to break,
Three chemicals will cancel your mistake.
Thursday, 23 April 2026
The Crippled Haruspex
by Nick Gisburne
Anarchic tribal dancers brave the storm,
Disgusting garlands wrapped around their necks.
The patterns of their footsteps twist to form
A pathway to the crippled haruspex.
His rotten smile, the vomit-speckled chin,
Belie the noble nature of his rank,
And as he plucks a broken violin
He points to where the sacred entrails sank.
The signs and omens only he can read,
Delivered by the spirits of the slain,
Are whispered to the audience at speed,
A marvel only magic can explain:
“The gods decree the skies will overflow,
So wear your woolly mittens. Could be snow.”
Anarchic tribal dancers brave the storm,
Disgusting garlands wrapped around their necks.
The patterns of their footsteps twist to form
A pathway to the crippled haruspex.
His rotten smile, the vomit-speckled chin,
Belie the noble nature of his rank,
And as he plucks a broken violin
He points to where the sacred entrails sank.
The signs and omens only he can read,
Delivered by the spirits of the slain,
Are whispered to the audience at speed,
A marvel only magic can explain:
“The gods decree the skies will overflow,
So wear your woolly mittens. Could be snow.”
Aether Navigati
by Nick Gisburne
When Aether Navigati touch the stars,
They pull together folds of phantom space,
But each uncovered pathway leaves the scars
Of pain without relief upon a face.
Obsessives, they are born by chance, not bred.
Their talents blaze too bright for love or life.
When chosen, Navigati, stripped and bled,
Become the blades of angels, each a knife.
A cut of cosmic fabric, needle-thin,
Impossible for us, but not for them,
Allows the swarming sickness - humans - in,
A curse no breath or whisper will condemn.
With devastation written in their eyes,
They serve the scourge, the people they despise.
When Aether Navigati touch the stars,
They pull together folds of phantom space,
But each uncovered pathway leaves the scars
Of pain without relief upon a face.
Obsessives, they are born by chance, not bred.
Their talents blaze too bright for love or life.
When chosen, Navigati, stripped and bled,
Become the blades of angels, each a knife.
A cut of cosmic fabric, needle-thin,
Impossible for us, but not for them,
Allows the swarming sickness - humans - in,
A curse no breath or whisper will condemn.
With devastation written in their eyes,
They serve the scourge, the people they despise.
Abednego Waluffin
by Nick Gisburne
Abednego Waluffin scratched his bum
And wondered where he came from, what he was.
Adopted by a puffin as a mum,
His father was a walrus, just because.
“I need to find my roots, my clan, my kin,
Whatever bird or beast begat my birth.”
Befuddled by the mystery within,
He sought the source, to find what he was worth.
He trudged, and then he plodded, stomped and slogged,
Far longer than a string can ever stretch,
But older now, his creaky mind befogged,
He cursed himself, a rude, ungrateful wretch.
Lamenting what he squandered, what he had,
He shuffled home to hug his mum and dad.
Abednego Waluffin scratched his bum
And wondered where he came from, what he was.
Adopted by a puffin as a mum,
His father was a walrus, just because.
“I need to find my roots, my clan, my kin,
Whatever bird or beast begat my birth.”
Befuddled by the mystery within,
He sought the source, to find what he was worth.
He trudged, and then he plodded, stomped and slogged,
Far longer than a string can ever stretch,
But older now, his creaky mind befogged,
He cursed himself, a rude, ungrateful wretch.
Lamenting what he squandered, what he had,
He shuffled home to hug his mum and dad.
Mister Shakespeare
by Nick Gisburne
I see you, Mister Shakespeare. Here we are,
The ghost of someone greater than us all,
And I, the grim pretender. Just how far
Could any words I whisper creep or crawl?
Your sonnets have a majesty, but mine
Are filled with dark and devastating truth.
Corruption cracks the form, each twisted line
A torment, resurrected from my youth.
I bleed these paper shadows as I sink
Beneath a frozen ocean of despair,
To revel in the misery, the stink,
But always, in the margins, you are there.
I do not strive to match or mock your name.
I write to fight, with fury, fear and flame.
I see you, Mister Shakespeare. Here we are,
The ghost of someone greater than us all,
And I, the grim pretender. Just how far
Could any words I whisper creep or crawl?
Your sonnets have a majesty, but mine
Are filled with dark and devastating truth.
Corruption cracks the form, each twisted line
A torment, resurrected from my youth.
I bleed these paper shadows as I sink
Beneath a frozen ocean of despair,
To revel in the misery, the stink,
But always, in the margins, you are there.
I do not strive to match or mock your name.
I write to fight, with fury, fear and flame.
Wednesday, 22 April 2026
Classroom Twenty-Four
by Nick Gisburne
Eleven violations tell the tale:
Christina, in detention one more time.
Her wild, combative moods, beyond the pale,
Confirm she could be crossing into crime.
The governors can tolerate no more.
A radical solution is proposed.
Within the walls of classroom twenty-four
Her skull, inside a scanner, is enclosed.
It isolates the corners of her mind
Where dark, destructive urges breathe and breed,
And pours a new persona, redesigned.
They wait, and watch Christina’s eyeballs bleed.
But only she, triumphant, now departs,
And from that place of shame she takes their hearts.
Eleven violations tell the tale:
Christina, in detention one more time.
Her wild, combative moods, beyond the pale,
Confirm she could be crossing into crime.
The governors can tolerate no more.
A radical solution is proposed.
Within the walls of classroom twenty-four
Her skull, inside a scanner, is enclosed.
It isolates the corners of her mind
Where dark, destructive urges breathe and breed,
And pours a new persona, redesigned.
They wait, and watch Christina’s eyeballs bleed.
But only she, triumphant, now departs,
And from that place of shame she takes their hearts.
On the Menu
by Nick Gisburne
The choices - boiled or roasted, grilled or fried -
Are tastefully presented to the guest.
No culinary detail is denied,
The patron’s predilections all addressed.
The chef’s assistants, specialised and skilled,
Prepare their stations. ready to begin.
The man himself, the maestro, watches, thrilled.
The meat arrives. The butcher brings it in.
The customer, invited to undress,
Has come too far, too quickly, to decline.
When asked if he is ready, nodding, “Yes,”
He savours one more sip of Spanish wine.
All answered, almost: dinner will be grilled.
One final option - how will he be killed?
The choices - boiled or roasted, grilled or fried -
Are tastefully presented to the guest.
No culinary detail is denied,
The patron’s predilections all addressed.
The chef’s assistants, specialised and skilled,
Prepare their stations. ready to begin.
The man himself, the maestro, watches, thrilled.
The meat arrives. The butcher brings it in.
The customer, invited to undress,
Has come too far, too quickly, to decline.
When asked if he is ready, nodding, “Yes,”
He savours one more sip of Spanish wine.
All answered, almost: dinner will be grilled.
One final option - how will he be killed?
Tuesday, 21 April 2026
He Who Bleeds Below
by Nick Gisburne
The demons find me deep within the dark.
A tangled horror snatched me out of space.
I bear the sign of Lucifer; his mark
Delineates my purpose and my place.
The son of something sinister, unclean,
My birth betrayed a mother, torn in twain.
I feed upon the lies of men, obscene,
And snatch their souls, infected with my stain.
While those who seek my spirit in this place
Pretend to bring me back to what I know,
I hatch a machination to replace
The King of Shadows, he who bleeds below.
My father trembles. Satan fears his son,
For now he knows his work will be undone.
The demons find me deep within the dark.
A tangled horror snatched me out of space.
I bear the sign of Lucifer; his mark
Delineates my purpose and my place.
The son of something sinister, unclean,
My birth betrayed a mother, torn in twain.
I feed upon the lies of men, obscene,
And snatch their souls, infected with my stain.
While those who seek my spirit in this place
Pretend to bring me back to what I know,
I hatch a machination to replace
The King of Shadows, he who bleeds below.
My father trembles. Satan fears his son,
For now he knows his work will be undone.
The Battle I Begin
by Nick Gisburne
You win. You always do. I can’t compete.
Your arguments are mightier than mine.
I crumble in predictable defeat.
When called upon to counter, I decline.
Is this the way two lovers have to be?
Is this how you and I will spend our days?
The second-placed contender, always me,
Degraded by the glower of your gaze?
I plan. I plot. I know what I must do.
Without a way to fight, a way to win,
Without a way to worry, without you,
My life will be the battle I begin.
Tomorrow, let the sunrise break the day,
And shine upon my future, far away.
You win. You always do. I can’t compete.
Your arguments are mightier than mine.
I crumble in predictable defeat.
When called upon to counter, I decline.
Is this the way two lovers have to be?
Is this how you and I will spend our days?
The second-placed contender, always me,
Degraded by the glower of your gaze?
I plan. I plot. I know what I must do.
Without a way to fight, a way to win,
Without a way to worry, without you,
My life will be the battle I begin.
Tomorrow, let the sunrise break the day,
And shine upon my future, far away.
A Green Machine
by Nick Gisburne
The garden was a symptom of his rage,
A deep disdain for any living thing.
He cut and slashed and killed it to assuage
The vitriol to which his core must cling.
But life, a green machine, kept coming back.
The shoots, at first so delicate, grew strong.
Relentless, each malevolent attack
Persuaded him their leaves did not belong.
The sun, his bitter enemy, bore down
To burn his body, while it fed his foe,
And even when he purged it, baked and brown,
Another day would dawn, and it would grow.
They found him there, defeated, on his knees,
With seeds and spores delivered by the breeze.
The garden was a symptom of his rage,
A deep disdain for any living thing.
He cut and slashed and killed it to assuage
The vitriol to which his core must cling.
But life, a green machine, kept coming back.
The shoots, at first so delicate, grew strong.
Relentless, each malevolent attack
Persuaded him their leaves did not belong.
The sun, his bitter enemy, bore down
To burn his body, while it fed his foe,
And even when he purged it, baked and brown,
Another day would dawn, and it would grow.
They found him there, defeated, on his knees,
With seeds and spores delivered by the breeze.