by Nick Gisburne
What stories could you tell us, Tiny Bird,
If only you could whistle to a cloud?
Your feathers fade, your songs will not be heard,
But while you soared above us we were proud.
What stories could you tell us, Master Mouse,
Of roaming in the sultry summer haze?
We found you cold and quiet in the house,
But still remember all your yesterdays.
What stories could you tell us, Lady Frog,
Before you slept forever in the pond?
You never tired of hopping from your log.
Of you, and all your antics, we were fond.
What stories could you tell us, Little Man?
The silence fell before your life began.
Sunday, 24 May 2026
How to Walk Among the Dead
by Nick Gisburne
We’re not supposed to dream in black and white.
I never did, until I met a man.
He whispered from the corner of my sight,
A mystic, born before the world began.
If I would drain the colours from my head,
And mix them in a wish, as one, for him,
He’d show me how to walk among the dead,
A miracle, however grey or grim.
I took the solemn stranger at his word,
And gave him all the colours of my mind.
His laughter was the only thing I heard
Before I felt his magic make me blind.
Although the mystic never spoke a lie,
To wander with the dead I had to die.
We’re not supposed to dream in black and white.
I never did, until I met a man.
He whispered from the corner of my sight,
A mystic, born before the world began.
If I would drain the colours from my head,
And mix them in a wish, as one, for him,
He’d show me how to walk among the dead,
A miracle, however grey or grim.
I took the solemn stranger at his word,
And gave him all the colours of my mind.
His laughter was the only thing I heard
Before I felt his magic make me blind.
Although the mystic never spoke a lie,
To wander with the dead I had to die.
The Quarter: Kin
by Nick Gisburne
The Quarter Kin, though legion, work alone.
We scratch beneath the surface of the beast.
Unseen, untouched by twilight, we have grown,
Disrupting where the state expects us least.
A cable, cut. A tracker, broken, blind.
A small contamination of the code.
We chew like termites, difficult to find,
Reclaiming, piece by piece, what we are owed.
Procedures, stacked as walls of lies and laws,
Are paper castles, waiting for the rain.
We pick and pry, to weaken with our claws,
To violate their blood, their bones, their brain.
We test. We touch. We set our baited traps.
We work to watch authority collapse.
The Quarter Kin, though legion, work alone.
We scratch beneath the surface of the beast.
Unseen, untouched by twilight, we have grown,
Disrupting where the state expects us least.
A cable, cut. A tracker, broken, blind.
A small contamination of the code.
We chew like termites, difficult to find,
Reclaiming, piece by piece, what we are owed.
Procedures, stacked as walls of lies and laws,
Are paper castles, waiting for the rain.
We pick and pry, to weaken with our claws,
To violate their blood, their bones, their brain.
We test. We touch. We set our baited traps.
We work to watch authority collapse.
Saturday, 23 May 2026
Government Guidelines: Irregular Announcement GGY
by Nick Gisburne
The conjugal surveillance we employ,
Though currently inert, will be rebuilt.
We trust you will continue to enjoy
Your short, unscheduled freedoms, without guilt.
In other news, the double-ration dole
Delivered to the populace today
Was issued by a faulty feed control,
But this will be addressed without delay.
And finally, the Execution Court,
Demolished by a clerical mistake,
Will pause until a government report
Identifies the moves we need to make.
Irregular Announcement GGY.
More bulletins are imminent. Stand by.
The conjugal surveillance we employ,
Though currently inert, will be rebuilt.
We trust you will continue to enjoy
Your short, unscheduled freedoms, without guilt.
In other news, the double-ration dole
Delivered to the populace today
Was issued by a faulty feed control,
But this will be addressed without delay.
And finally, the Execution Court,
Demolished by a clerical mistake,
Will pause until a government report
Identifies the moves we need to make.
Irregular Announcement GGY.
More bulletins are imminent. Stand by.
The Pleasure Palace
by Nick Gisburne
Accept that we will never let you in.
Convince yourself your cravings don’t exist.
The blush of passion painted on your skin
Was copied there from lips you never kissed.
Our vices are too sickening, too stark,
To swim within the stomach of your soul.
You cannot give the signal, make the mark,
Or learn to twist a finger through the hole.
Persistence will not penetrate these doors,
Whatever hammer beats to break them down.
Naive, you are what wickedness abhors.
Exploited, you would suffocate or drown.
The pleasure palace decadence designed
Would shatter and consume your tiny mind.
Accept that we will never let you in.
Convince yourself your cravings don’t exist.
The blush of passion painted on your skin
Was copied there from lips you never kissed.
Our vices are too sickening, too stark,
To swim within the stomach of your soul.
You cannot give the signal, make the mark,
Or learn to twist a finger through the hole.
Persistence will not penetrate these doors,
Whatever hammer beats to break them down.
Naive, you are what wickedness abhors.
Exploited, you would suffocate or drown.
The pleasure palace decadence designed
Would shatter and consume your tiny mind.
The Quarter: The Turning
by Nick Gisburne
The old regime’s repression has returned,
Delivered as a ‘liberating force’,
But we are not the dead these demons burned.
We lived, endured, survived the dark divorce.
Their venomous dystopia is back.
We kneel to it, surrendering, for now,
But cudgels, bats and billysticks will crack
When struck with something stronger. We know how.
We suffer every statute, ruled by rules.
They preach, then punish, just because they can,
But we are not the same submissive fools.
We played this game before. We have a plan.
The Turning is already under way.
Our time will come, but this is not the day.
The old regime’s repression has returned,
Delivered as a ‘liberating force’,
But we are not the dead these demons burned.
We lived, endured, survived the dark divorce.
Their venomous dystopia is back.
We kneel to it, surrendering, for now,
But cudgels, bats and billysticks will crack
When struck with something stronger. We know how.
We suffer every statute, ruled by rules.
They preach, then punish, just because they can,
But we are not the same submissive fools.
We played this game before. We have a plan.
The Turning is already under way.
Our time will come, but this is not the day.
Friday, 22 May 2026
Between the Stacks and Coils
by Nick Gisburne
She climbs to steal the current where she can,
Between the stacks and coils, where power leaks.
Her fingers touch two terminals to span
The strongest dirty feed she’s found for weeks.
A leecher stream connects her to the grid,
But nothing there is tracking her tonight.
To know she roams these clusters as a kid
Would set her troubled mother’s hair alight.
The volta vessel, reading fat and full,
Is quickly capped, another put in place.
With both on board she wipes with diesel wool,
The scene soon clean of any telling trace.
Enough to lift her mother’s weary smile.
Enough to keep her breathing, for a while.
She climbs to steal the current where she can,
Between the stacks and coils, where power leaks.
Her fingers touch two terminals to span
The strongest dirty feed she’s found for weeks.
A leecher stream connects her to the grid,
But nothing there is tracking her tonight.
To know she roams these clusters as a kid
Would set her troubled mother’s hair alight.
The volta vessel, reading fat and full,
Is quickly capped, another put in place.
With both on board she wipes with diesel wool,
The scene soon clean of any telling trace.
Enough to lift her mother’s weary smile.
Enough to keep her breathing, for a while.
Without a War
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?”
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?”
The Quarter: Burning Bones
by Nick Gisburne
The end for some, the 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, the 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.