by Nick Gisburne
“I’ll tell you where you are, and where you’re not.”
She tongues the soggy tip of her cheroot.
“These docks are damned, and you are in the snot,
A chicken-livered saddo in a suit.
You’re tall, but that won’t help you when they come.
They’ll tear you into pieces with their teeth.
I have a lot influence... well, some,
So follow me, beyond the Dark Beneath.
Behold the portal. Close your eyes and jump.
Remember not to scream, you’ll scare the troll.”
Emerging in a cavern, with a bump,
She rummages around to find a scroll.
“A passport to the Kingdom of the Dead.
Let’s find my uncle - he’s the one in red.”
Friday, 8 May 2026
The Genesis
by Nick Gisburne
The streets are filled with life, but not our own.
What clings and climbs was never meant to be.
A moist, mutating parasite has grown,
A swiftly-spreading fungus, wild and free.
It thrives in darkness, flowers in the rain,
And multiplies with spores we cannot kill.
To touch it is to suffer from such pain
It violates the mind and saps the will.
As brick begins to crumble into dust,
Our bleak, beleaguered cities tumble down.
Defenceless, we discover with disgust
The genesis, pristine, untouched, a town.
The parasite protects it from our fate.
What nightmare did these criminals create?
The streets are filled with life, but not our own.
What clings and climbs was never meant to be.
A moist, mutating parasite has grown,
A swiftly-spreading fungus, wild and free.
It thrives in darkness, flowers in the rain,
And multiplies with spores we cannot kill.
To touch it is to suffer from such pain
It violates the mind and saps the will.
As brick begins to crumble into dust,
Our bleak, beleaguered cities tumble down.
Defenceless, we discover with disgust
The genesis, pristine, untouched, a town.
The parasite protects it from our fate.
What nightmare did these criminals create?
The Weaving
by Nick Gisburne
The creatures weave their cloth on bended knee,
A tapestry of nightmares they have known,
But those who fall behind, or fade, or flee,
Are rendered into shadows, to be sewn.
The legends of millennia, and more,
Chronologies of long-forgotten kings,
Are faithfully depicted. Worlds at war
Become the source of raw rememberings.
They never pause to question what they are.
The worth of it, the weaving, is their joy,
The annals of no ordinary star,
A legacy one secret must destroy:
The wonders that they weave with twisted strands
Are stories no one sees or understands.
The creatures weave their cloth on bended knee,
A tapestry of nightmares they have known,
But those who fall behind, or fade, or flee,
Are rendered into shadows, to be sewn.
The legends of millennia, and more,
Chronologies of long-forgotten kings,
Are faithfully depicted. Worlds at war
Become the source of raw rememberings.
They never pause to question what they are.
The worth of it, the weaving, is their joy,
The annals of no ordinary star,
A legacy one secret must destroy:
The wonders that they weave with twisted strands
Are stories no one sees or understands.
Driven by the Blood
by Nick Gisburne
I feed in all dimensions, but my thirst
Is driven by the blood of humankind.
The shivering, delivered as they burst,
Directs a deep eruption to the mind.
Their elders, often difficult to peel,
Are bitter, with an aromatic twist.
Exceptional to serve with any meal,
I find them quite a challenge to resist.
I squeeze, and smile to see the screamer split,
Disposing of the bones and empty flesh.
If ever there was Heaven, this is it,
A smorgasbord of flavours, full and fresh.
While other worlds delight me with their meat,
A bowl of human blood is hard to beat.
I feed in all dimensions, but my thirst
Is driven by the blood of humankind.
The shivering, delivered as they burst,
Directs a deep eruption to the mind.
Their elders, often difficult to peel,
Are bitter, with an aromatic twist.
Exceptional to serve with any meal,
I find them quite a challenge to resist.
I squeeze, and smile to see the screamer split,
Disposing of the bones and empty flesh.
If ever there was Heaven, this is it,
A smorgasbord of flavours, full and fresh.
While other worlds delight me with their meat,
A bowl of human blood is hard to beat.
Thursday, 7 May 2026
The Bane From Which I Bend
by Nick Gisburne
Her candy-coloured lipstick tastes of pain,
A portent of her punishing embrace.
She bellows in the winter’s burning rain
To drive the painted whispers from her face.
A nightingale tornado tips the sky,
Reviving ancient deities of dust,
Who carve their names in cotton as they fly
Beyond the world’s obscene, corrupted crust.
She cracks, and as the puzzled planets crash,
Her gills return their glamour to the sea,
But in the toxic, elemental ash
She offers immortality to me.
Temptation is the bane from which I bend,
But heroin I highly recommend.
Her candy-coloured lipstick tastes of pain,
A portent of her punishing embrace.
She bellows in the winter’s burning rain
To drive the painted whispers from her face.
A nightingale tornado tips the sky,
Reviving ancient deities of dust,
Who carve their names in cotton as they fly
Beyond the world’s obscene, corrupted crust.
She cracks, and as the puzzled planets crash,
Her gills return their glamour to the sea,
But in the toxic, elemental ash
She offers immortality to me.
Temptation is the bane from which I bend,
But heroin I highly recommend.
One in Ten
by Nick Gisburne
I swore that I would never sell my soul,
However deep the danger I was in,
But this is more, a bleaker, blacker hole.
Forget about the spirit, take my skin.
If I defy the order, if I fail,
More innocents will die because of me,
But these are women, mothers, frightened, frail.
They’ll suffer if I try to set them free.
The chancellor commands it: one in ten.
No doubt. No deviation from the line.
I don’t know how I came here, why, or when,
But somehow this atrocity is mine.
I’m done. I’ll never do it, don’t know how.
I offer them the rifle. Kill me now.
I swore that I would never sell my soul,
However deep the danger I was in,
But this is more, a bleaker, blacker hole.
Forget about the spirit, take my skin.
If I defy the order, if I fail,
More innocents will die because of me,
But these are women, mothers, frightened, frail.
They’ll suffer if I try to set them free.
The chancellor commands it: one in ten.
No doubt. No deviation from the line.
I don’t know how I came here, why, or when,
But somehow this atrocity is mine.
I’m done. I’ll never do it, don’t know how.
I offer them the rifle. Kill me now.
Rebellion Begins
by Nick Gisburne
Breathe in, above the city of your birth.
Breathe out, beneath the streets, to find your place.
Breathe deeper. Tell me, what is freedom worth?
Betrayal. Let me see it in your face.
Metallic towers, beautiful and sleek,
Monopolise a skyline filled with smoke.
The promises they made were doublespeak.
Above us, and below, our people choke.
Ejected from the boroughs we belong,
We permeate the sewers and the sky.
Tomorrow they’ll remember we are strong.
Tomorrow, when they plead, and bleed, and die.
Breathe in, my friend. Rebellion begins.
No mercy. No forgiveness for their sins.
Breathe in, above the city of your birth.
Breathe out, beneath the streets, to find your place.
Breathe deeper. Tell me, what is freedom worth?
Betrayal. Let me see it in your face.
Metallic towers, beautiful and sleek,
Monopolise a skyline filled with smoke.
The promises they made were doublespeak.
Above us, and below, our people choke.
Ejected from the boroughs we belong,
We permeate the sewers and the sky.
Tomorrow they’ll remember we are strong.
Tomorrow, when they plead, and bleed, and die.
Breathe in, my friend. Rebellion begins.
No mercy. No forgiveness for their sins.
Copper Wires and Code
by Nick Gisburne
We don’t need bodies. Brains alone will do.
A sack of skin of is just a waste of space.
Our nerves transmit sensations, yes, but you?
A simple simulation with a face.
You’d suffer if electrons never flowed,
So why not leave the physical behind?
A basic box of copper wires and code
Could let you choose what feeds and fills your mind.
At Brainercom we recognise the pain
When flesh begins fail or fade away,
So let our computations take the strain -
Sign up and feel invincible, today.
Remember, all subscriptions are for life.
Your brain stem will be severed with a knife.
We don’t need bodies. Brains alone will do.
A sack of skin of is just a waste of space.
Our nerves transmit sensations, yes, but you?
A simple simulation with a face.
You’d suffer if electrons never flowed,
So why not leave the physical behind?
A basic box of copper wires and code
Could let you choose what feeds and fills your mind.
At Brainercom we recognise the pain
When flesh begins fail or fade away,
So let our computations take the strain -
Sign up and feel invincible, today.
Remember, all subscriptions are for life.
Your brain stem will be severed with a knife.
Wednesday, 6 May 2026
Stories in the Smoke
by Nick Gisburne
Projected pictures, stories in the smoke,
Transport his mind to moments, way back when,
So shy he barely whispered when he spoke,
But not for someone, not for her, not then.
Her beauty was a broader, brighter light.
She shimmered, but her heart was tempered, tough.
Her face became her fortune, overnight,
But only he was ever quite enough.
Their meeting came too soon for him to know
That what she would become could never stay,
But later, when he tried to let her go,
She took his hand and gave her fame away.
They lived without regret, without a plan.
In mourning, he remembers what he can.
Projected pictures, stories in the smoke,
Transport his mind to moments, way back when,
So shy he barely whispered when he spoke,
But not for someone, not for her, not then.
Her beauty was a broader, brighter light.
She shimmered, but her heart was tempered, tough.
Her face became her fortune, overnight,
But only he was ever quite enough.
Their meeting came too soon for him to know
That what she would become could never stay,
But later, when he tried to let her go,
She took his hand and gave her fame away.
They lived without regret, without a plan.
In mourning, he remembers what he can.
Government Guidelines: Statute R-16
by Nick Gisburne
You purposely unplugged your safety screen,
Through which you are unable to be scanned.
For violating Statute R-16
Surveillance of your sex life will expand.
A first infraction means you must disrobe,
On penalty of pain if you refuse.
Your body will be fitted with a probe,
Within whichever orifice we choose.
Unpack the pump provided. Keep it clean,
Disposing of the fluids you produce.
A sensory recording of the scene
Will show us any signs of self-abuse.
Abandon hopes of hiding from our sight.
Be sure we will be watching you tonight.
You purposely unplugged your safety screen,
Through which you are unable to be scanned.
For violating Statute R-16
Surveillance of your sex life will expand.
A first infraction means you must disrobe,
On penalty of pain if you refuse.
Your body will be fitted with a probe,
Within whichever orifice we choose.
Unpack the pump provided. Keep it clean,
Disposing of the fluids you produce.
A sensory recording of the scene
Will show us any signs of self-abuse.
Abandon hopes of hiding from our sight.
Be sure we will be watching you tonight.
The Greater Good
by Nick Gisburne
The cocktail is a blend of blood and gin,
The scarlet syphoned from a sailor’s wrist.
A ripe, reluctant rodent, dangled in,
Secretes a bitter tonic with a twist.
We drink because we cannot break the curse.
The winds will never blow, we know, again.
On this, our hundredth sunrise, each one worse,
We pass around the glass, tormented men.
Tomorrow, when the gin is drained and drunk,
When blood and bleak disease is all we see,
Despair will choke our hopes, already shrunk.
Tomorrow we must feed upon the three.
Three passengers, imprisoned by the crew.
The greater good. What else are we to do?
The cocktail is a blend of blood and gin,
The scarlet syphoned from a sailor’s wrist.
A ripe, reluctant rodent, dangled in,
Secretes a bitter tonic with a twist.
We drink because we cannot break the curse.
The winds will never blow, we know, again.
On this, our hundredth sunrise, each one worse,
We pass around the glass, tormented men.
Tomorrow, when the gin is drained and drunk,
When blood and bleak disease is all we see,
Despair will choke our hopes, already shrunk.
Tomorrow we must feed upon the three.
Three passengers, imprisoned by the crew.
The greater good. What else are we to do?
Tuesday, 5 May 2026
The Benefits of Breeding
by Nick Gisburne
Our pissing on the peasantry, below,
Is more than spite or venomous contempt.
It gives them aspirations; now they know
In time they might achieve what they attempt.
Unworthy as these thugs and thieves may be,
Bewildered, and with nothing left to lose,
Perhaps we’ll seek their services. We’ll see.
Their finest may be fit to shine our shoes.
Of course, if they were born from better stock,
The benefits of breeding would apply,
But every man of means who lifts his cock
Will send a steaming statement from the sky:
The mumblecrusts and geezers at the gate
Should never be allowed to procreate.
Our pissing on the peasantry, below,
Is more than spite or venomous contempt.
It gives them aspirations; now they know
In time they might achieve what they attempt.
Unworthy as these thugs and thieves may be,
Bewildered, and with nothing left to lose,
Perhaps we’ll seek their services. We’ll see.
Their finest may be fit to shine our shoes.
Of course, if they were born from better stock,
The benefits of breeding would apply,
But every man of means who lifts his cock
Will send a steaming statement from the sky:
The mumblecrusts and geezers at the gate
Should never be allowed to procreate.
Tea and Cakes
by Nick Gisburne
She brings him tea and pretty little cakes,
The height of hospitality and joy,
But one more sullen shrug is all takes
To liberate her loathing for the boy.
She warns him she is not to be abused,
Despite his pater’s status in the court.
Civility should never be confused
With tolerance for one so small, so short.
The whipping chair awaits him if he whines,
Authority invested in her hands.
Abandoning her bitterness, she shines.
His fears, his tears, suggest he understands.
The etiquette is noble. He is not.
Before the dawn he plans to have her shot.
She brings him tea and pretty little cakes,
The height of hospitality and joy,
But one more sullen shrug is all takes
To liberate her loathing for the boy.
She warns him she is not to be abused,
Despite his pater’s status in the court.
Civility should never be confused
With tolerance for one so small, so short.
The whipping chair awaits him if he whines,
Authority invested in her hands.
Abandoning her bitterness, she shines.
His fears, his tears, suggest he understands.
The etiquette is noble. He is not.
Before the dawn he plans to have her shot.
A Shadow
by Nick Gisburne
A creeping sickness saturates the air
With suffocating clouds of toxic smog.
We both become increasingly aware
That something else is with us in the fog.
Escape would be unthinkable, insane,
Without the isolation suits we stole.
These vapours quickly liquify the brain,
Yet here a shadow shuffles, black as coal.
Before we take another step, it stops,
And points towards a fault beneath the floor.
The gangway just beyond it twists and drops;
We’d find our deaths before we found the door.
The shadow takes a turning, dimly lit.
Surrendering our fear, we follow it.
A creeping sickness saturates the air
With suffocating clouds of toxic smog.
We both become increasingly aware
That something else is with us in the fog.
Escape would be unthinkable, insane,
Without the isolation suits we stole.
These vapours quickly liquify the brain,
Yet here a shadow shuffles, black as coal.
Before we take another step, it stops,
And points towards a fault beneath the floor.
The gangway just beyond it twists and drops;
We’d find our deaths before we found the door.
The shadow takes a turning, dimly lit.
Surrendering our fear, we follow it.
Monday, 4 May 2026
Bridges of Bones
by Nick Gisburne
Our bridges are the bones of broken men.
They stretch to straddle cold, collapsing skies.
Where waterfalls of blood are born again,
The armies of insane extinction rise.
From cities filled with parasites they pour,
A pestilence ten thousand nightmares wide.
Whatever brutal carnage came before
Was just a ripple. Now we see the tide.
The screeching horrors death does not destroy,
With misery and mutilating pain,
Are burned beneath us, whether beast or boy.
By sunrise only smoke and bones remain.
We force their shattered rabble to retreat,
But more will come, and more will find defeat.
Our bridges are the bones of broken men.
They stretch to straddle cold, collapsing skies.
Where waterfalls of blood are born again,
The armies of insane extinction rise.
From cities filled with parasites they pour,
A pestilence ten thousand nightmares wide.
Whatever brutal carnage came before
Was just a ripple. Now we see the tide.
The screeching horrors death does not destroy,
With misery and mutilating pain,
Are burned beneath us, whether beast or boy.
By sunrise only smoke and bones remain.
We force their shattered rabble to retreat,
But more will come, and more will find defeat.
The Keeper of the Light
by Nick Gisburne
The Keeper of the Light arrives too late,
His prophecy already burned to ash.
He begs them, “Tell me why you never wait,
Embracing each inevitable crash.”
“We do not seek your bittersweet concern.
When finding us fulfilled, you interfere,
Yet in our greatest need you let us burn.
Our dreams are deeper when you disappear.”
He listens to their brutal words and weeps,
But understands the sense of what they say.
“The boldest man among you, when he leaps,
Will always risk tomorrow for today.”
Rejected by the world he sought to save,
The Keeper shines his brightness on the brave.
The Keeper of the Light arrives too late,
His prophecy already burned to ash.
He begs them, “Tell me why you never wait,
Embracing each inevitable crash.”
“We do not seek your bittersweet concern.
When finding us fulfilled, you interfere,
Yet in our greatest need you let us burn.
Our dreams are deeper when you disappear.”
He listens to their brutal words and weeps,
But understands the sense of what they say.
“The boldest man among you, when he leaps,
Will always risk tomorrow for today.”
Rejected by the world he sought to save,
The Keeper shines his brightness on the brave.
One Bullet
by Nick Gisburne
One bullet. Only one. It’s all she needs.
One bullet in the chamber. Cold. Alone.
She shivers as his twitching torso bleeds.
He should have seen it coming, should have known.
She’ll never find the innocence he took,
Or learn to turn her focus from the fear.
She staggers to the mirror. One more look,
Before the bullet makes it disappear.
He’s silent now, at last. It’s been a while.
The bullets in his body did their job.
She manages a small, dismissive smile,
Then whispers down the barrel with a sob.
One bullet and her dreams will all be dead.
She sends it through his evil heart instead.
One bullet. Only one. It’s all she needs.
One bullet in the chamber. Cold. Alone.
She shivers as his twitching torso bleeds.
He should have seen it coming, should have known.
She’ll never find the innocence he took,
Or learn to turn her focus from the fear.
She staggers to the mirror. One more look,
Before the bullet makes it disappear.
He’s silent now, at last. It’s been a while.
The bullets in his body did their job.
She manages a small, dismissive smile,
Then whispers down the barrel with a sob.
One bullet and her dreams will all be dead.
She sends it through his evil heart instead.
Sunday, 3 May 2026
The Secrets of the Mind
by Nick Gisburne
The mystery is more than magic now,
A secret no clairvoyant could explain.
The strangest science fails to fathom how
Her pure and perfect soul was sent insane.
The book. Was that the trigger of her fate?
She saw, she said, the secrets of the mind.
Her many letters never deviate,
In awe of it, astonished at her find.
Her later missives, frequently opaque,
Are detailed in a most disturbing way.
A final note, discovered at the lake,
Describes a creature. More I cannot say.
Restrained in chains, she babbles like a brook,
And cries, then tries to offer me the book.
The mystery is more than magic now,
A secret no clairvoyant could explain.
The strangest science fails to fathom how
Her pure and perfect soul was sent insane.
The book. Was that the trigger of her fate?
She saw, she said, the secrets of the mind.
Her many letters never deviate,
In awe of it, astonished at her find.
Her later missives, frequently opaque,
Are detailed in a most disturbing way.
A final note, discovered at the lake,
Describes a creature. More I cannot say.
Restrained in chains, she babbles like a brook,
And cries, then tries to offer me the book.
Henry
by Nick Gisburne
Excitement simmers. Henry takes the stage.
The crowd erupts in passionate applause.
He nails the presentation, page by page,
Establishing his comfort in the cause.
When crucial points and paradigms are stressed,
He tempers any tensions with a joke.
Expected interjections, all addressed,
Uncover nothing wrong they can’t revoke.
Euphoria resounds around the hall,
But now the crux, the cornerstone, the key,
A final cry, to sign and seal it all:
“Believe in what I bring. Believe in me!”
He sells deception, very keenly priced,
The market leader, Jesus Henry Christ.
Excitement simmers. Henry takes the stage.
The crowd erupts in passionate applause.
He nails the presentation, page by page,
Establishing his comfort in the cause.
When crucial points and paradigms are stressed,
He tempers any tensions with a joke.
Expected interjections, all addressed,
Uncover nothing wrong they can’t revoke.
Euphoria resounds around the hall,
But now the crux, the cornerstone, the key,
A final cry, to sign and seal it all:
“Believe in what I bring. Believe in me!”
He sells deception, very keenly priced,
The market leader, Jesus Henry Christ.
Coils of Colour
by Nick Gisburne
The corridors of power seem to sigh,
Their walls adorned with portraits from the past.
For he who found a way to catch their eye,
The faces come alive again at last.
His fingertips extend to feed their flesh,
To give them grim deliverance from death,
And stirred by something human, something fresh,
Each kindled spirit steals a broken breath.
Convulsing on the canvas, tortured souls,
Tormented by revival’s toxic thrill,
Resist the reach of he whose touch controls
Their revenance, but not their need to kill.
With coils of colour, tongues of tight restraint,
They drag him to the prison of their paint.
The corridors of power seem to sigh,
Their walls adorned with portraits from the past.
For he who found a way to catch their eye,
The faces come alive again at last.
His fingertips extend to feed their flesh,
To give them grim deliverance from death,
And stirred by something human, something fresh,
Each kindled spirit steals a broken breath.
Convulsing on the canvas, tortured souls,
Tormented by revival’s toxic thrill,
Resist the reach of he whose touch controls
Their revenance, but not their need to kill.
With coils of colour, tongues of tight restraint,
They drag him to the prison of their paint.