by Nick Gisburne
In summer, when the ravening begins,
I find a little clarity of thought.
Perhaps the Sun diminishes my sins,
Or penetrates the trauma I was taught.
The days are slow to settle into dusk.
Such treasure, time, is never quite enough.
The gentle scents of meadow grass and musk
Are smothered in the dark by stronger stuff.
My kind was never destined for the day.
Alone, I seek redemption, love, and light.
It’s not for God’s forgiveness that I prey
Upon the fallen children of the night.
In summer, filled with colour, hope, and heat,
When daylight kneels to darkness I must eat.
Saturday, 2 May 2026
The Vigilance Decree
by Nick Gisburne
It hums and hovers, everywhere I go,
A silver skull, recording all I am,
A sentinel, its tiny eyes aglow,
My government-assigned surveillance cam.
I point my gun directly at the head,
And as it backs away I simply smile.
The beacon fixed below it flashes red,
My first infraction ticket for a while.
I wonder what they really want to see,
The people watching everything we do.
Whoever signed the Vigilance Decree
Was paranoid and petty, through and through.
They tell us we are safe when we are seen,
But danger hides in sight, in this machine.
It hums and hovers, everywhere I go,
A silver skull, recording all I am,
A sentinel, its tiny eyes aglow,
My government-assigned surveillance cam.
I point my gun directly at the head,
And as it backs away I simply smile.
The beacon fixed below it flashes red,
My first infraction ticket for a while.
I wonder what they really want to see,
The people watching everything we do.
Whoever signed the Vigilance Decree
Was paranoid and petty, through and through.
They tell us we are safe when we are seen,
But danger hides in sight, in this machine.
Penetration Protocols
by Nick Gisburne
A thick emulsion drips from every deck,
A slurry of contaminated oils.
The ship, once gleaming, now a twisted wreck,
Is choked with curdled coolant from its coils.
The salvage bandits, itching to descend,
Await a final scan to get their ‘go’.
All penetration protocols depend
On who survived. How many. Any? No.
They crack the hull, and watch their baby bleed,
A thousand bodies thick, a human tide,
The richest of the rich, their brazen greed
Irrational, irrelevant. They died.
The auto-pilot, sabotaged in flight,
A simple act of jealousy and spite.
A thick emulsion drips from every deck,
A slurry of contaminated oils.
The ship, once gleaming, now a twisted wreck,
Is choked with curdled coolant from its coils.
The salvage bandits, itching to descend,
Await a final scan to get their ‘go’.
All penetration protocols depend
On who survived. How many. Any? No.
They crack the hull, and watch their baby bleed,
A thousand bodies thick, a human tide,
The richest of the rich, their brazen greed
Irrational, irrelevant. They died.
The auto-pilot, sabotaged in flight,
A simple act of jealousy and spite.
The River Card
by Nick Gisburne
I’m tuned for dropout, cranked and blasted, bad,
A supermax injection in the feed.
They hit me with a hundred mils of mad,
And spun me sick, but sick is what I need.
Reactivate the system. Punch the key,
The final, filthy button. Hit it, hard.
Incinerate the Dark Electra? Me?
Your fuckboys folded. I’m the river card.
Remember, when I bring that baby down,
Who’s laughing at your fat-infected fear.
Jacked up, jacked in, the only game in town,
You hear me? Good. Well listen hard - she’s here.
I’m going solo. Comms are off in five.
Be glad I’ve come to keep you cunts alive.
I’m tuned for dropout, cranked and blasted, bad,
A supermax injection in the feed.
They hit me with a hundred mils of mad,
And spun me sick, but sick is what I need.
Reactivate the system. Punch the key,
The final, filthy button. Hit it, hard.
Incinerate the Dark Electra? Me?
Your fuckboys folded. I’m the river card.
Remember, when I bring that baby down,
Who’s laughing at your fat-infected fear.
Jacked up, jacked in, the only game in town,
You hear me? Good. Well listen hard - she’s here.
I’m going solo. Comms are off in five.
Be glad I’ve come to keep you cunts alive.
Friday, 1 May 2026
Hello Mom
by Nick Gisburne
Elated to be here, at home, at last,
With all the deadly elements I need,
I contemplate the carnage of the blast,
The filthy, faithless traitors who will bleed.
My enemies will not unmask me now;
An alibi awaits me at the church.
The sacrilege in every spoken vow
Deflects them from the signs for which they search.
A simple, standard x-ray could reveal
That all my human organs were replaced.
Unchallenged, I was able to conceal
A quantity of high-explosive paste.
I send a coded message: HELLO MOM.
On cue, on Mars, it detonates the bomb.
Elated to be here, at home, at last,
With all the deadly elements I need,
I contemplate the carnage of the blast,
The filthy, faithless traitors who will bleed.
My enemies will not unmask me now;
An alibi awaits me at the church.
The sacrilege in every spoken vow
Deflects them from the signs for which they search.
A simple, standard x-ray could reveal
That all my human organs were replaced.
Unchallenged, I was able to conceal
A quantity of high-explosive paste.
I send a coded message: HELLO MOM.
On cue, on Mars, it detonates the bomb.
Government Guidelines: New Government
by Nick Gisburne
We’re back, and we apologise, of course.
Apocalypse was not a great success,
But rather than regale you with remorse,
We come to bring a drug for your distress.
We see that some who served us still survive,
But barely - this is not a pretty place.
Submit, and we will keep you all alive,
Though some we will imprison and replace.
Our guidance is an offering, a choice,
A future that we dare you to defy.
New government will take away your voice,
But in the end, without it, you will die.
Oppression is the price that you must pay,
And soon you’ll wish we never went away.
We’re back, and we apologise, of course.
Apocalypse was not a great success,
But rather than regale you with remorse,
We come to bring a drug for your distress.
We see that some who served us still survive,
But barely - this is not a pretty place.
Submit, and we will keep you all alive,
Though some we will imprison and replace.
Our guidance is an offering, a choice,
A future that we dare you to defy.
New government will take away your voice,
But in the end, without it, you will die.
Oppression is the price that you must pay,
And soon you’ll wish we never went away.
Government Guidelines: The Crucial Vote
by Nick Gisburne
To simplify the coming crucial vote,
Significant improvements will be made.
Before you try to register, please note:
The mandatory levy must be paid.
For those who pledge to please us, this is waived,
While those opposed will pay a polling tax.
You’ll need to give us every cent you’ve saved,
But only if you’re voting, so relax.
Anonymous no more, you may proceed,
Submitting to the biometric scan.
To legislate the unity we need,
Your government is pleased to push to this plan.
Persuaded to support the other side?
Remember. You can vote. You cannot hide.
To simplify the coming crucial vote,
Significant improvements will be made.
Before you try to register, please note:
The mandatory levy must be paid.
For those who pledge to please us, this is waived,
While those opposed will pay a polling tax.
You’ll need to give us every cent you’ve saved,
But only if you’re voting, so relax.
Anonymous no more, you may proceed,
Submitting to the biometric scan.
To legislate the unity we need,
Your government is pleased to push to this plan.
Persuaded to support the other side?
Remember. You can vote. You cannot hide.
Thursday, 30 April 2026
A Poisonous Compulsion
by Nick Gisburne
In Theodore’s creations, fear is art,
The touch of terror, always out of sight.
He tries to prise a hunger from the heart,
A shivering, the cold collapse of night.
A surrogate of death, he gives it space
To speak, to spread, to wander as it will.
In suicide he does not see disgrace.
In murder there is karma in the kill.
When Theodore demands it from the dead,
A poisonous compulsion stains his soul.
The trauma, seen but rarely ever said,
Becomes a dream he captures to control.
His art was always dark, disordered, dense.
Today he strips it bare of all pretence.
In Theodore’s creations, fear is art,
The touch of terror, always out of sight.
He tries to prise a hunger from the heart,
A shivering, the cold collapse of night.
A surrogate of death, he gives it space
To speak, to spread, to wander as it will.
In suicide he does not see disgrace.
In murder there is karma in the kill.
When Theodore demands it from the dead,
A poisonous compulsion stains his soul.
The trauma, seen but rarely ever said,
Becomes a dream he captures to control.
His art was always dark, disordered, dense.
Today he strips it bare of all pretence.
The Whisper of the Steel
by Nick Gisburne
The sinister magician slits her throat,
A prince of misdirection and panache.
His followers relentlessly devote
Their passions to deciphering the slash.
The girl returns, alive, uncut, of course,
But how can his illusion seem so real?
He slices with such devastating force
That all can hear the whisper of the steel.
In truth, a simple substitution trick
Delivers the deception to their eyes,
A switch so smooth, so staggeringly quick,
That no one can discern who lives or dies.
Another girl is butchered for the show,
And only he and her will ever know.
The sinister magician slits her throat,
A prince of misdirection and panache.
His followers relentlessly devote
Their passions to deciphering the slash.
The girl returns, alive, uncut, of course,
But how can his illusion seem so real?
He slices with such devastating force
That all can hear the whisper of the steel.
In truth, a simple substitution trick
Delivers the deception to their eyes,
A switch so smooth, so staggeringly quick,
That no one can discern who lives or dies.
Another girl is butchered for the show,
And only he and her will ever know.
The Last
by Nick Gisburne
The wise man’s words were nothing. He was wrong.
His wickedness beguiled us with a lie.
Our trust was true, our faith insanely strong,
But all he ever he did for us will die.
We listened, and we followed. Blind, we bled,
Renouncing what was precious in our past.
He laid his hands upon us, gave us bread,
The manna of the True, the Few, the Last.
When scattered seeds of doubt began to grow,
He coloured each uncertainty with shame,
For only he, of all of us, could know
The mysteries he never seemed to name.
Revealed, we watch him grovel in his guilt,
Bewildered we are breaking what he built.
The wise man’s words were nothing. He was wrong.
His wickedness beguiled us with a lie.
Our trust was true, our faith insanely strong,
But all he ever he did for us will die.
We listened, and we followed. Blind, we bled,
Renouncing what was precious in our past.
He laid his hands upon us, gave us bread,
The manna of the True, the Few, the Last.
When scattered seeds of doubt began to grow,
He coloured each uncertainty with shame,
For only he, of all of us, could know
The mysteries he never seemed to name.
Revealed, we watch him grovel in his guilt,
Bewildered we are breaking what he built.
Wednesday, 29 April 2026
Gwenola Bambercronky
by Nick Gisburne
Gwenola Bambercronky’s only crime
Is maiming those who mock her middle name.
She tolerates their titters for a time,
But rising bile and spite are tough to tame.
With meaty knuckle sandwiches for all,
A pugilistic banquet for their teeth,
The bitchiest become the first to fall.
She knees them in the nachos, underneath.
She’s never met a creep she couldn’t crush,
Or pummel to a puking pool of paste.
When every bone is broken, in the hush,
She whispers that their mischief was misplaced.
She blames her dad’s first dog - the name was his.
Beware before you ask her what it is.
Gwenola Bambercronky’s only crime
Is maiming those who mock her middle name.
She tolerates their titters for a time,
But rising bile and spite are tough to tame.
With meaty knuckle sandwiches for all,
A pugilistic banquet for their teeth,
The bitchiest become the first to fall.
She knees them in the nachos, underneath.
She’s never met a creep she couldn’t crush,
Or pummel to a puking pool of paste.
When every bone is broken, in the hush,
She whispers that their mischief was misplaced.
She blames her dad’s first dog - the name was his.
Beware before you ask her what it is.
Horace
by Nick Gisburne
Poor Horace. This is not the world he knows,
A future he was not supposed to see.
The skies are still and stagnant. Nothing grows.
A pestilence has taken every tree.
His purpose as a playmate, as a friend,
A buddy for a cheeky little boy,
Abruptly met a sudden, silent end.
The dead do not play dress up with a toy.
Adaptable and eager, Horace waits.
Synaptic servo systems hiss and hum,
But each attempted transfer terminates.
Corrections to his coding cannot come.
A subroutine he never knew was there
Deploys new data: darkness and despair.
Poor Horace. This is not the world he knows,
A future he was not supposed to see.
The skies are still and stagnant. Nothing grows.
A pestilence has taken every tree.
His purpose as a playmate, as a friend,
A buddy for a cheeky little boy,
Abruptly met a sudden, silent end.
The dead do not play dress up with a toy.
Adaptable and eager, Horace waits.
Synaptic servo systems hiss and hum,
But each attempted transfer terminates.
Corrections to his coding cannot come.
A subroutine he never knew was there
Deploys new data: darkness and despair.
Tuesday, 28 April 2026
Climbing to a Cloud
by Nick Gisburne
It feels like mine, the sanctum where I sit,
A hundred stories up, a hundred down.
I climb to see the sunrise and commit
My body to this godforsaken town.
Ironic that I’m grounded in this place,
Imagining I’m climbing to a cloud.
Of all the precious moments I embrace,
Not one began below me in the crowd.
If life must peak before its quick decline,
Perhaps I picked the perfect place to go.
We’re challenged by our choices. This is mine.
Simplicity defines it - yes, or no?
The sun, my mentor, meets me in the sky,
Insisting this is not my day to die.
It feels like mine, the sanctum where I sit,
A hundred stories up, a hundred down.
I climb to see the sunrise and commit
My body to this godforsaken town.
Ironic that I’m grounded in this place,
Imagining I’m climbing to a cloud.
Of all the precious moments I embrace,
Not one began below me in the crowd.
If life must peak before its quick decline,
Perhaps I picked the perfect place to go.
We’re challenged by our choices. This is mine.
Simplicity defines it - yes, or no?
The sun, my mentor, meets me in the sky,
Insisting this is not my day to die.
The Callow Girl
by Nick Gisburne
She wears a crown of horns and splintered bones,
To bind the sick perversions of her reign.
The throne, where thunder cracked its cornerstones,
Is bloody with depravity and pain.
A fractured line of coldly butchered kings.
Her father, brothers, murdered in their beds.
By morning she was given golden rings,
A queen before the priests could hide their heads.
Installed by those who power lies in her,
A puppet of their making, caged and bound,
They bow and scrape to clumsily confer
A kingdom to the callow girl they crowned.
But vengeance is a force without finesse.
Before the dawn their blood will stain her dress.
She wears a crown of horns and splintered bones,
To bind the sick perversions of her reign.
The throne, where thunder cracked its cornerstones,
Is bloody with depravity and pain.
A fractured line of coldly butchered kings.
Her father, brothers, murdered in their beds.
By morning she was given golden rings,
A queen before the priests could hide their heads.
Installed by those who power lies in her,
A puppet of their making, caged and bound,
They bow and scrape to clumsily confer
A kingdom to the callow girl they crowned.
But vengeance is a force without finesse.
Before the dawn their blood will stain her dress.
A Viper
by Nick Gisburne
Our cultures breed a blending of beliefs,
As waves of wisdom mix and merge and flow.
We build upon a pantheon our chiefs
Are passionate to cultivate, to grow.
New gods explain new mysteries, new tribes.
Where all are welcome, none can be denied.
Divinities recorded by the scribes
Are woven in the fabric of our pride.
The day the strangers told us we were wrong,
A stain began to taint us as it grew,
And when we tried to help their god belong
Its curse corrupted all we thought we knew.
We welcomed in a viper to our nest,
Whose god would have us crucify the rest.
Our cultures breed a blending of beliefs,
As waves of wisdom mix and merge and flow.
We build upon a pantheon our chiefs
Are passionate to cultivate, to grow.
New gods explain new mysteries, new tribes.
Where all are welcome, none can be denied.
Divinities recorded by the scribes
Are woven in the fabric of our pride.
The day the strangers told us we were wrong,
A stain began to taint us as it grew,
And when we tried to help their god belong
Its curse corrupted all we thought we knew.
We welcomed in a viper to our nest,
Whose god would have us crucify the rest.
Monday, 27 April 2026
Five
by Nick Gisburne
He’ll die today, but not for faith or hope,
For both were burned before he wore the noose.
He does not preach a sermon from the rope,
Or stir a crowd with cries of bleak abuse.
He stands like those before him, silent, still,
A man without a cause, without a care.
They wait for him to weep. He never will.
His sorrow will not sanctify the air.
No name is now recorded. None survives,
But those who took it could not steal his soul.
They brand such men malevolent, the Fives,
Submission to the state their only goal.
Cold eyes despise the time in every town.
At five o’clock the lever drops him down.
He’ll die today, but not for faith or hope,
For both were burned before he wore the noose.
He does not preach a sermon from the rope,
Or stir a crowd with cries of bleak abuse.
He stands like those before him, silent, still,
A man without a cause, without a care.
They wait for him to weep. He never will.
His sorrow will not sanctify the air.
No name is now recorded. None survives,
But those who took it could not steal his soul.
They brand such men malevolent, the Fives,
Submission to the state their only goal.
Cold eyes despise the time in every town.
At five o’clock the lever drops him down.
A Trinity of Witches
by Nick Gisburne
A trinity of witches - three’s the key -
Know sorcery is not their strongest suit.
Belinda brews a wicked tombstone tea,
While Hanna has a taste for toasted newt.
The spells they strive to summon, frowning, fraught,
Are small, appalling miracles at most,
And even when Griselda grows a wart,
Her victory is far too tame to toast.
They find a Necronomicon for sale,
Exhausting all their savings on a fake.
In desperation, fearing they will fail,
They vow to fix their coven’s grave mistake.
Surrendering to evil, grim, grotesque,
They sell insurance, bored, behind a desk.
A trinity of witches - three’s the key -
Know sorcery is not their strongest suit.
Belinda brews a wicked tombstone tea,
While Hanna has a taste for toasted newt.
The spells they strive to summon, frowning, fraught,
Are small, appalling miracles at most,
And even when Griselda grows a wart,
Her victory is far too tame to toast.
They find a Necronomicon for sale,
Exhausting all their savings on a fake.
In desperation, fearing they will fail,
They vow to fix their coven’s grave mistake.
Surrendering to evil, grim, grotesque,
They sell insurance, bored, behind a desk.
This Far North
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.
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.
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.