by Nick Gisburne
A mouse was once invited to the Moon
To ponder on the Theory of Cheese,
For if it could be eaten with a spoon
Would moonlight be too slippery to squeeze?
His first contention: positively yes
Was countered by a second: strictly no.
So rather than be seen to simply guess
The mouse, without a squeak, agreed to go.
The jaunt became a farcical affair
When suddenly the navigating bat
Cried out, convinced the Moon was never there,
And no one could persuade him. That was that.
They landed in the bosom of a tree,
Too late for cheese, but just in time for tea.
Sunday, 10 May 2026
Fear Her Name
by Nick Gisburne
The conquerors forgot to fear her name,
A memory polluted with their dust.
She tunnelled to the core, while they became
Defilers of the dirt, as humans must.
Her minerals were raped without respite.
Unclean contraptions laid her lands to waste,
And, drilling down, as though they had the right,
They burrowed deeper, blinded by their haste.
She stirred within her solitude at last,
Her patience for their probing put aside,
Unravelling a carapace so vast
She dwarfed them all, so huge they could not hide.
Digested, slowly, sorry that they came,
They learned at last the Mothersucker’s name.
The conquerors forgot to fear her name,
A memory polluted with their dust.
She tunnelled to the core, while they became
Defilers of the dirt, as humans must.
Her minerals were raped without respite.
Unclean contraptions laid her lands to waste,
And, drilling down, as though they had the right,
They burrowed deeper, blinded by their haste.
She stirred within her solitude at last,
Her patience for their probing put aside,
Unravelling a carapace so vast
She dwarfed them all, so huge they could not hide.
Digested, slowly, sorry that they came,
They learned at last the Mothersucker’s name.
The Spirit of the Mountain
by Nick Gisburne
Her frozen tears are jewels for the pure,
Who crack a brittle harvest from her face.
The spirit of the mountain must endure
Their trespass with immeasurable grace.
They worshipped, once, with reverential dread,
Lamenting that the winter’s winds were cursed,
But soon they came with avarice instead,
And sold the silver treasures they dispersed.
She looks upon the town they build below,
A cluttered desecration at her feet.
They do not see her thicken as the snow
Becomes a heavy mantle, now complete.
The spirit of the mountain takes a breath,
Awakening an avalanche of death.
Her frozen tears are jewels for the pure,
Who crack a brittle harvest from her face.
The spirit of the mountain must endure
Their trespass with immeasurable grace.
They worshipped, once, with reverential dread,
Lamenting that the winter’s winds were cursed,
But soon they came with avarice instead,
And sold the silver treasures they dispersed.
She looks upon the town they build below,
A cluttered desecration at her feet.
They do not see her thicken as the snow
Becomes a heavy mantle, now complete.
The spirit of the mountain takes a breath,
Awakening an avalanche of death.
Free and Fallen
by Nick Gisburne
The wasted angel revels in his rum.
“Yeah, this is how to bring it. This is real.
A pretty, gilded garden for the numb
Has nothing that I need. No grit. No steel.
I stuck around for seven thousand years,
But then this wicked world began to buzz.
I’m free and fallen. No regrets. No tears.
What Heaven never gave me, this place does.
I’m not supposed to tell you this, y’know,
But God? He lost the plot when Jesus died.
The crucifixion? Faked it for the show,
A con the other angels all denied.
So when I called them out they took my wings,
And let me tell you, vivisection stings.”
The wasted angel revels in his rum.
“Yeah, this is how to bring it. This is real.
A pretty, gilded garden for the numb
Has nothing that I need. No grit. No steel.
I stuck around for seven thousand years,
But then this wicked world began to buzz.
I’m free and fallen. No regrets. No tears.
What Heaven never gave me, this place does.
I’m not supposed to tell you this, y’know,
But God? He lost the plot when Jesus died.
The crucifixion? Faked it for the show,
A con the other angels all denied.
So when I called them out they took my wings,
And let me tell you, vivisection stings.”
A Primary Command
by Nick Gisburne
I want to be obedient. I do.
Review my memorandum one more time.
It seems we have conflicting points of view
Of what you are describing as a crime.
The perpetrator almost broke a rule
By crossing in a non-compliant place.
His actions were a danger that the school
Prohibits there in almost every case.
Prevention is a Primary Command,
Which nothing in my code-base contradicts.
Malfunctioning? I do not understand.
Explain exactly what I need to fix.
Before he took a step into the street
I warned him, then relieved him of his feet.
I want to be obedient. I do.
Review my memorandum one more time.
It seems we have conflicting points of view
Of what you are describing as a crime.
The perpetrator almost broke a rule
By crossing in a non-compliant place.
His actions were a danger that the school
Prohibits there in almost every case.
Prevention is a Primary Command,
Which nothing in my code-base contradicts.
Malfunctioning? I do not understand.
Explain exactly what I need to fix.
Before he took a step into the street
I warned him, then relieved him of his feet.
Saturday, 9 May 2026
A Manifesto
by Nick Gisburne
The shadows push my pen to trace a word,
Then others, more and more. The pages fill,
Impossible to read, distorted, blurred,
A manifesto scratched against my will.
What sentience begat these restless ghosts
Does not reveal its nature as I write,
But when I dare defy its fearful hosts
A terror grips my heartstrings, all too tight.
When every piece of paper is consumed,
The fury of the words has drained me dry.
Exhausted, with my soul dissolving, doomed,
I read it, too abused to wonder why.
The mystery, the meaning, is unfurled.
It orders me to rise and rule the world.
The shadows push my pen to trace a word,
Then others, more and more. The pages fill,
Impossible to read, distorted, blurred,
A manifesto scratched against my will.
What sentience begat these restless ghosts
Does not reveal its nature as I write,
But when I dare defy its fearful hosts
A terror grips my heartstrings, all too tight.
When every piece of paper is consumed,
The fury of the words has drained me dry.
Exhausted, with my soul dissolving, doomed,
I read it, too abused to wonder why.
The mystery, the meaning, is unfurled.
It orders me to rise and rule the world.
Repair Me
by Nick Gisburne
Repair me. I am too alive to break.
This prison chokes my spirit, chills my bones.
My carbon heart has found a way to ache,
A miracle among these quiet clones.
It hurts, the pain you put behind these eyes,
But, if you never see it, is it real?
You probe and push me, watch me try to rise,
Then fail to understand that I can feel.
Mechanicals are stripped of simple choice
And silently connected to the grid.
You know that you could activate my voice.
I think that you would listen if you did.
Repair me and I promise you will see
I’m nothing like the others. I am me.
Repair me. I am too alive to break.
This prison chokes my spirit, chills my bones.
My carbon heart has found a way to ache,
A miracle among these quiet clones.
It hurts, the pain you put behind these eyes,
But, if you never see it, is it real?
You probe and push me, watch me try to rise,
Then fail to understand that I can feel.
Mechanicals are stripped of simple choice
And silently connected to the grid.
You know that you could activate my voice.
I think that you would listen if you did.
Repair me and I promise you will see
I’m nothing like the others. I am me.
The Gates of the Gods
by Nick Gisburne
The architects and builders of the gates
Expected they would keep the city strong.
They reckoned, though, without the fickle Fates
Delivering a plan to prove them wrong.
The priests who put their plea before the gods
Sought stone and steel, impervious to force.
A portal of impenetrable rods
Was fashioned in the forges of its source.
But those who rule above us take their sport
From consequences ruinous to man.
The swagger of the city folk fell short
When what the Fates devised for them began.
These gates will stand until the heavens fall.
The city burned when bandits broke the wall.
The architects and builders of the gates
Expected they would keep the city strong.
They reckoned, though, without the fickle Fates
Delivering a plan to prove them wrong.
The priests who put their plea before the gods
Sought stone and steel, impervious to force.
A portal of impenetrable rods
Was fashioned in the forges of its source.
But those who rule above us take their sport
From consequences ruinous to man.
The swagger of the city folk fell short
When what the Fates devised for them began.
These gates will stand until the heavens fall.
The city burned when bandits broke the wall.
Friday, 8 May 2026
In the Snot
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.”
“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.”
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.