by Nick Gisburne
You shiver, scared, but trust the truth, the sign.
The others made it. Here we are, at last.
Remember not to step across the line.
Reply to every question, fully, fast.
A new beginning. Never look behind.
Beyond the door is freedom, promise, peace.
We walk towards euphoria, to find
Security, serenity, release.
Denial. This is more than madness. Think.
Are we the thieves, the villains, or are they?
Forget their smug, surreal, self-righteous stink.
Tomorrow we will find another way.
The border is a wall we cannot breach,
But hope, however fragile, we can reach.
Tuesday, 30 May 2023
What Remained of Her
by Nick Gisburne
Their daughter died. They buried her, of course,
But, knowing what remained of her was there,
They felt a strange malaise - regret, remorse -
And brought her back, continuing to care.
Her decomposing flesh began to stink,
And, while it did, they kept the corpse inside,
But strange, misguided minds began to think,
And forged a plan so beautiful they cried.
Upon her tiny skeleton, with clay,
They formed a splendid semblance of her face.
No trace remained of damage or decay.
They lost a daughter. This one took her place.
She gave them strength, serenity, and peace,
Or so they told the cynical police.
Their daughter died. They buried her, of course,
But, knowing what remained of her was there,
They felt a strange malaise - regret, remorse -
And brought her back, continuing to care.
Her decomposing flesh began to stink,
And, while it did, they kept the corpse inside,
But strange, misguided minds began to think,
And forged a plan so beautiful they cried.
Upon her tiny skeleton, with clay,
They formed a splendid semblance of her face.
No trace remained of damage or decay.
They lost a daughter. This one took her place.
She gave them strength, serenity, and peace,
Or so they told the cynical police.
An Older Model
by Nick Gisburne
Believe the price, it’s all we want for this.
An older model, battered to be sure,
But something you’d be glad enough to kiss.
Refurbished. Clean. No pathogens to cure.
Remember, these are artificial lives.
The rules for cold mechanicals apply.
Officially you cannot call them ‘wives’,
But everybody does it. So do I.
I sell these types of trade-ins twice a day.
They’re cheap, but never overly abused.
We offer credit, ninety days to pay.
Free checkup if her brain becomes confused.
A basic, fully functional device.
You’ll never find one better for the price.
Believe the price, it’s all we want for this.
An older model, battered to be sure,
But something you’d be glad enough to kiss.
Refurbished. Clean. No pathogens to cure.
Remember, these are artificial lives.
The rules for cold mechanicals apply.
Officially you cannot call them ‘wives’,
But everybody does it. So do I.
I sell these types of trade-ins twice a day.
They’re cheap, but never overly abused.
We offer credit, ninety days to pay.
Free checkup if her brain becomes confused.
A basic, fully functional device.
You’ll never find one better for the price.
Monday, 29 May 2023
A Whisper
by Nick Gisburne
I make so many. None will ever speak.
All broken. There is nothing I can do.
Another day, like every other, bleak,
Remembering the moment I made you.
A seven-day submersion in the tank,
But something in the settings, subtle, strange,
Destabilised the serum. As you sank,
I found myself too weak to watch the change.
Contaminants be damned. I made the choice.
No prototype so pure was meant to drown.
Still breathing, barely. “Can you hear my voice?”
My question left you fighting through a frown.
From whence it came, I have no way to guess.
It’s all I hear. A word. A whisper. “Yes.”
I make so many. None will ever speak.
All broken. There is nothing I can do.
Another day, like every other, bleak,
Remembering the moment I made you.
A seven-day submersion in the tank,
But something in the settings, subtle, strange,
Destabilised the serum. As you sank,
I found myself too weak to watch the change.
Contaminants be damned. I made the choice.
No prototype so pure was meant to drown.
Still breathing, barely. “Can you hear my voice?”
My question left you fighting through a frown.
From whence it came, I have no way to guess.
It’s all I hear. A word. A whisper. “Yes.”
Dung the Deadly
by Nick Gisburne
The thing you thought was gone forever... ain’t.
Your kitchen floor is heaving, black with bugs.
We’re crawling through the cracks. We’re in the paint.
A hundred thousand creepy little thugs.
We worship Dung the Deadly, cockroach king.
His followers, the faithful, as you see,
Have scuttled here on filthy feet, to bring
The finest of his foul infections, free.
We’re bigger, and we’re better, and we bite.
We’re taking this, your two-bit diner, down.
Surrender! Dung has never lost a fight.
Prepare to swim in seven shades of brown.
We saw the traps, the trails of bait, the spray.
You call that poison? Pitiful. Let’s play.
The thing you thought was gone forever... ain’t.
Your kitchen floor is heaving, black with bugs.
We’re crawling through the cracks. We’re in the paint.
A hundred thousand creepy little thugs.
We worship Dung the Deadly, cockroach king.
His followers, the faithful, as you see,
Have scuttled here on filthy feet, to bring
The finest of his foul infections, free.
We’re bigger, and we’re better, and we bite.
We’re taking this, your two-bit diner, down.
Surrender! Dung has never lost a fight.
Prepare to swim in seven shades of brown.
We saw the traps, the trails of bait, the spray.
You call that poison? Pitiful. Let’s play.
McCat
by Nick Gisburne
McCat delivers more than slaughtered birds,
Although her spite, at night, excels at that.
She brings the things I wish she wouldn’t: words,
Regurgitated whispers, fresh and fat.
I take the best, because I fear the worst
Will drag me to a terrifying place,
But every wicked syllable is cursed,
Insanities I cannot fight, or face.
McCat cavorts with criminals and creeps.
From these diseased despicables she steals.
Sadistic, never satisfied, she sleeps,
But wakes to trade her trickery for meals.
She speaks of mice, of murder, as we chat.
Small wonder I’m suspicious of McCat.
McCat delivers more than slaughtered birds,
Although her spite, at night, excels at that.
She brings the things I wish she wouldn’t: words,
Regurgitated whispers, fresh and fat.
I take the best, because I fear the worst
Will drag me to a terrifying place,
But every wicked syllable is cursed,
Insanities I cannot fight, or face.
McCat cavorts with criminals and creeps.
From these diseased despicables she steals.
Sadistic, never satisfied, she sleeps,
But wakes to trade her trickery for meals.
She speaks of mice, of murder, as we chat.
Small wonder I’m suspicious of McCat.
Sunday, 28 May 2023
Let Me Show You Magic
by Nick Gisburne
You roar, enraged, to witness where you are,
Resentful of the place I put your soul,
But why the hate, the heat? It’s just a jar.
The others died, but you were stolen, whole.
I will not take your sins across the Styx.
The Underworld would swallow them. What then?
No, let me show you magic. I can fix
The misery of unimportant men.
A little salt, to elevate the taste.
A little blood, as much as you can spare.
A pinch of all the dreams you never chased.
A simple spell, to rip, but not repair.
Tomorrow I can guide you to the light,
So tell me what you’ll do for me, tonight.
You roar, enraged, to witness where you are,
Resentful of the place I put your soul,
But why the hate, the heat? It’s just a jar.
The others died, but you were stolen, whole.
I will not take your sins across the Styx.
The Underworld would swallow them. What then?
No, let me show you magic. I can fix
The misery of unimportant men.
A little salt, to elevate the taste.
A little blood, as much as you can spare.
A pinch of all the dreams you never chased.
A simple spell, to rip, but not repair.
Tomorrow I can guide you to the light,
So tell me what you’ll do for me, tonight.
You’re Doing Very Well
by Nick Gisburne
The world will barely notice when he’s dead.
A few, perhaps, may give their last goodbyes.
He could have built a legacy. Instead,
He stepped aside, abandoning the prize.
He never yearns to climb, to sing, to swim,
Emotions rarely rushing for release.
Excitement, chaos, change, are not for him.
The silence of seclusion, pure, is peace.
His life is not an empty, sterile shell,
Perhaps more full than others can conceive.
He tells himself, “You’re doing very well,”
A gift he is delighted to receive.
Reluctant to reveal the heart he hides,
Beyond ambition, quiet, calm, he glides.
The world will barely notice when he’s dead.
A few, perhaps, may give their last goodbyes.
He could have built a legacy. Instead,
He stepped aside, abandoning the prize.
He never yearns to climb, to sing, to swim,
Emotions rarely rushing for release.
Excitement, chaos, change, are not for him.
The silence of seclusion, pure, is peace.
His life is not an empty, sterile shell,
Perhaps more full than others can conceive.
He tells himself, “You’re doing very well,”
A gift he is delighted to receive.
Reluctant to reveal the heart he hides,
Beyond ambition, quiet, calm, he glides.
Saturday, 27 May 2023
Moth
by Nick Gisburne
What Moth does not remember is his birth.
The fear and fury after it is clear.
An aberration, buried under earth,
His father made a defect disappear.
But Moth was not a baby, nor a brute.
His body blended qualities of both.
A nothing, one of nature’s fallen fruit,
He fought for what the Fates denied him: growth.
Unbroken, not a monster, not a man,
Whatever Moth became, the mix is more.
The point at which his memories began,
From this, in all directions, there is war.
The Moth his father murdered once, or tried,
Is free, a force from which the world will hide.
What Moth does not remember is his birth.
The fear and fury after it is clear.
An aberration, buried under earth,
His father made a defect disappear.
But Moth was not a baby, nor a brute.
His body blended qualities of both.
A nothing, one of nature’s fallen fruit,
He fought for what the Fates denied him: growth.
Unbroken, not a monster, not a man,
Whatever Moth became, the mix is more.
The point at which his memories began,
From this, in all directions, there is war.
The Moth his father murdered once, or tried,
Is free, a force from which the world will hide.
Embrace the Light
by Nick Gisburne
Ignore the paint, the black around the eyes,
The crimson of my fingernails, their flame.
My youth is unimportant. I am wise.
You know my reputation, know my name.
Abandon what you ever thought to find.
You fear because you cannot understand.
The darkness in the corners of your mind
Will crumble. Take my promise. Take my hand.
The chill, the spear, the sorrow in your spine,
Was there before we ever shared a touch.
Surrender. I will make the madness mine.
For you it is too damaging, too much.
She’s with us. In a moment she will cross.
Embrace the light, the love, but not the loss.
Ignore the paint, the black around the eyes,
The crimson of my fingernails, their flame.
My youth is unimportant. I am wise.
You know my reputation, know my name.
Abandon what you ever thought to find.
You fear because you cannot understand.
The darkness in the corners of your mind
Will crumble. Take my promise. Take my hand.
The chill, the spear, the sorrow in your spine,
Was there before we ever shared a touch.
Surrender. I will make the madness mine.
For you it is too damaging, too much.
She’s with us. In a moment she will cross.
Embrace the light, the love, but not the loss.
Friday, 26 May 2023
Elegantly Poisoned
by Nick Gisburne
Day or night, we monitor your mind.
Spies, we see the enemy you are.
Fragments of whatever filth we find,
Picked and plucked, are pickled in a jar.
Every swerving deviance of thought,
Every sin you stumble to conceal,
Adds another nuance. Our report
Leans beyond the lip of what is real.
Criminal, with wickedness you hum.
Murderous, a nature not in doubt.
Slipping in your shadow, we succumb.
Nothing now could ever pull us out.
Elegantly poisoned by your pain,
Tell us, are we traitors, or insane?
Day or night, we monitor your mind.
Spies, we see the enemy you are.
Fragments of whatever filth we find,
Picked and plucked, are pickled in a jar.
Every swerving deviance of thought,
Every sin you stumble to conceal,
Adds another nuance. Our report
Leans beyond the lip of what is real.
Criminal, with wickedness you hum.
Murderous, a nature not in doubt.
Slipping in your shadow, we succumb.
Nothing now could ever pull us out.
Elegantly poisoned by your pain,
Tell us, are we traitors, or insane?
Stone and Sweat and Sand
by Nick Gisburne
Pull harder! Dig in deep, you devils! Heave!
Before the spirit burns, your bones must break.
Surrender to the sacrifice. Believe!
We leave a trail of glory in our wake.
The Pharaoh is a complicated king.
He rules because the deities decree
That he, a child, a feeble, fragile thing,
Is greater than the earth, the sky, the sea.
Are you, a slave, more worthy than a stone?
Rise up, and give the gods your answer. Pull!
The tomb we build, the marvel we have grown,
Will leave your head, your heart, forever full.
Tomorrow, when you die, you’ll understand.
A dream is more than stone and sweat and sand.
Pull harder! Dig in deep, you devils! Heave!
Before the spirit burns, your bones must break.
Surrender to the sacrifice. Believe!
We leave a trail of glory in our wake.
The Pharaoh is a complicated king.
He rules because the deities decree
That he, a child, a feeble, fragile thing,
Is greater than the earth, the sky, the sea.
Are you, a slave, more worthy than a stone?
Rise up, and give the gods your answer. Pull!
The tomb we build, the marvel we have grown,
Will leave your head, your heart, forever full.
Tomorrow, when you die, you’ll understand.
A dream is more than stone and sweat and sand.
The Secret Keepers
by Nick Gisburne
These walls are where we store forgotten dreams,
And memories too broken to retrieve.
The pieces of abandoned shadows. Screams.
Deceptions only liars could believe.
The catalogue of nightmares in our care
Has flourished for a hundred thousand years.
Revived, rebuilt, we blend them into rare,
Intriguing traumas, unfamiliar fears.
But some of us, the Secret Keepers, know
Of darker doorways, deeper tunnels, holes.
Where even those we serve refuse to go,
We feed, we bleed, abused, aborted souls.
Their twisted torments beg to be released,
But, piece by piece, upon their pain, we feast.
These walls are where we store forgotten dreams,
And memories too broken to retrieve.
The pieces of abandoned shadows. Screams.
Deceptions only liars could believe.
The catalogue of nightmares in our care
Has flourished for a hundred thousand years.
Revived, rebuilt, we blend them into rare,
Intriguing traumas, unfamiliar fears.
But some of us, the Secret Keepers, know
Of darker doorways, deeper tunnels, holes.
Where even those we serve refuse to go,
We feed, we bleed, abused, aborted souls.
Their twisted torments beg to be released,
But, piece by piece, upon their pain, we feast.
Secret Santa
by Nick Gisburne
He grips the wicker basket on his lap.
The tag, discoloured, dangles from a string.
He failed, with every flawed attempt, to wrap
The gift he never asked to buy, or bring.
They’re told they have to do it, every year.
It’s always been a secret. Now, it’s not.
The door is bolted. Only he is here.
He wonders why they pick on him, a lot.
He’s never been employee of the week,
But, just for this, he really, truly tried.
He should have known the boss’s wife would peek.
She promised that she wouldn’t, but she lied.
He chose it for the festive shade of red.
Who wouldn’t want a severed Santa’s head?
He grips the wicker basket on his lap.
The tag, discoloured, dangles from a string.
He failed, with every flawed attempt, to wrap
The gift he never asked to buy, or bring.
They’re told they have to do it, every year.
It’s always been a secret. Now, it’s not.
The door is bolted. Only he is here.
He wonders why they pick on him, a lot.
He’s never been employee of the week,
But, just for this, he really, truly tried.
He should have known the boss’s wife would peek.
She promised that she wouldn’t, but she lied.
He chose it for the festive shade of red.
Who wouldn’t want a severed Santa’s head?
Thursday, 25 May 2023
Letitia
by Nick Gisburne
We let Letitia run, but on a rope.
She trots for twenty paces, to the end.
She knows that there is never any hope
Our bulletproof resolve will ever bend.
We let Letitia play, all day, alone.
Her games are simple. Curious, we watch.
To fits of temper now no longer prone,
She smiles. Another win, another notch.
We let Letitia speak, but not for long.
The noises trouble all of us, and her.
She still remembers traces of a song,
But silence is the state we most prefer.
We let her live, but never wonder why.
Letitia means too much to us to die.
We let Letitia run, but on a rope.
She trots for twenty paces, to the end.
She knows that there is never any hope
Our bulletproof resolve will ever bend.
We let Letitia play, all day, alone.
Her games are simple. Curious, we watch.
To fits of temper now no longer prone,
She smiles. Another win, another notch.
We let Letitia speak, but not for long.
The noises trouble all of us, and her.
She still remembers traces of a song,
But silence is the state we most prefer.
We let her live, but never wonder why.
Letitia means too much to us to die.
Find a Way
by Nick Gisburne
If you are not like everyone, beware.
If you are not a piece within the plan,
Remember to be vigilant. Prepare.
Remember how brutality began.
The world was once a complicated space.
The world was too unstable, we were taught,
But, when we put the people in their place,
We sterilised the dreams for which they fought.
The might of the Metropolis is all,
The might we serve, in silence, every day.
Resist it. Make a crack, however small.
Create another future. Find a way.
They’re coming. I can hear their boots, outside.
I never found my freedom, but I tried.
If you are not like everyone, beware.
If you are not a piece within the plan,
Remember to be vigilant. Prepare.
Remember how brutality began.
The world was once a complicated space.
The world was too unstable, we were taught,
But, when we put the people in their place,
We sterilised the dreams for which they fought.
The might of the Metropolis is all,
The might we serve, in silence, every day.
Resist it. Make a crack, however small.
Create another future. Find a way.
They’re coming. I can hear their boots, outside.
I never found my freedom, but I tried.
Seven Months of Madness
by Nick Gisburne
She stands before the Senate, naked, numb,
A traitor by her own admission, damned.
A figurehead, her failure has become
A spectacle. The treason courts were crammed.
Gratuitous, her honour guard’s salute
Is meant to mock the murderer he served.
The brutal scars she hid beneath her suit,
Revealed, reflect what made them, crooked, curved.
She kneels before the President Elect,
Who gloats, and, with revulsion, spiteful, spits.
But seven months of madness resurrect
A force with which his fleshy torso splits.
The blade of bone she wrestles from her chest
Reveals his weakness. Hatred does the rest.
She stands before the Senate, naked, numb,
A traitor by her own admission, damned.
A figurehead, her failure has become
A spectacle. The treason courts were crammed.
Gratuitous, her honour guard’s salute
Is meant to mock the murderer he served.
The brutal scars she hid beneath her suit,
Revealed, reflect what made them, crooked, curved.
She kneels before the President Elect,
Who gloats, and, with revulsion, spiteful, spits.
But seven months of madness resurrect
A force with which his fleshy torso splits.
The blade of bone she wrestles from her chest
Reveals his weakness. Hatred does the rest.
Dress-Up
by Nick Gisburne
My sister says, “I want to be a bird!”
The game we love is dress-up, most of all.
Today I pick Napoleon. Absurd,
But, deep inside the costume box, we crawl.
I find a hat, a uniform, a cloak.
In minutes I am Emperor of France,
But, long ago, the wings she wanted broke.
Towards the garden shed we share a glance.
I’ve watched our father building a canoe.
His fibreglass is perfect for the job.
The resin (she insists I call it glue)
We slather on her body, glob by glob.
A buzzard’s beak now bonded her face,
Excited, to our mother’s arms we race.
My sister says, “I want to be a bird!”
The game we love is dress-up, most of all.
Today I pick Napoleon. Absurd,
But, deep inside the costume box, we crawl.
I find a hat, a uniform, a cloak.
In minutes I am Emperor of France,
But, long ago, the wings she wanted broke.
Towards the garden shed we share a glance.
I’ve watched our father building a canoe.
His fibreglass is perfect for the job.
The resin (she insists I call it glue)
We slather on her body, glob by glob.
A buzzard’s beak now bonded her face,
Excited, to our mother’s arms we race.
A Glimmer in the Gloom
by Nick Gisburne
Across the street, discreet, she lives, alone,
Departs at dusk, returns before the dawn.
She saw me once and shuddered. More, a moan,
A mystery, to which my dreams are drawn.
A witch? I wonder. How can I be sure?
I never saw the look of one, the lust.
Her face is perfect, absolutely pure,
An innocence, a radiance, I trust.
I follow her, a glimmer in the gloom.
The narrow alleys, drenched in darkness, blend.
But orange, ochre, shapes and shadows, bloom.
She turns, before the flames, before the end.
Her kiss is cold. It wraps around my breath.
I know her. She is darkness. She is death.
Across the street, discreet, she lives, alone,
Departs at dusk, returns before the dawn.
She saw me once and shuddered. More, a moan,
A mystery, to which my dreams are drawn.
A witch? I wonder. How can I be sure?
I never saw the look of one, the lust.
Her face is perfect, absolutely pure,
An innocence, a radiance, I trust.
I follow her, a glimmer in the gloom.
The narrow alleys, drenched in darkness, blend.
But orange, ochre, shapes and shadows, bloom.
She turns, before the flames, before the end.
Her kiss is cold. It wraps around my breath.
I know her. She is darkness. She is death.
Wednesday, 24 May 2023
The Council of Confusion
by Nick Gisburne
This Council of Confusion is adjourned.
Or is it? Hold your horses. Let me check.
The minutes of the meeting? Ashes. Burned.
Am I the one who did it? Hell and heck!
We need to do another take. Again.
I hereby call the members to their seats.
A point of order: why are all the men
Parading round the chamber, wearing sheets?
My gavel is a sausage on a stick.
Obey me when I bang it. It’s the law.
Young lady, you are getting on my wick!
I’ve stapled your expenses to the floor.
Abandon hope, you hooligans. Get out!
Confused? Of course. It’s what we’re all about.
This Council of Confusion is adjourned.
Or is it? Hold your horses. Let me check.
The minutes of the meeting? Ashes. Burned.
Am I the one who did it? Hell and heck!
We need to do another take. Again.
I hereby call the members to their seats.
A point of order: why are all the men
Parading round the chamber, wearing sheets?
My gavel is a sausage on a stick.
Obey me when I bang it. It’s the law.
Young lady, you are getting on my wick!
I’ve stapled your expenses to the floor.
Abandon hope, you hooligans. Get out!
Confused? Of course. It’s what we’re all about.
Ziaggro
by Nick Gisburne
Ziaggro wants your full attention, please.
He comes to claim your precious planet, soon.
His pilot, I implore you to appease
The wrath of he whose body dwarfs your moon.
You seem to be completely underwhelmed.
Is not the thought of endless pain enough?
For centuries the living ship I helmed
Has carried him. Ziaggro does not bluff.
Okay, how’s this? Pretend to be amazed.
In six or seven years he’ll fly away.
He’s like a baby, wanting to be praised.
I only took the job to get the pay.
I’ve had a word. Ziaggro says he’s sad,
And I’m the one who has to call his dad.
Ziaggro wants your full attention, please.
He comes to claim your precious planet, soon.
His pilot, I implore you to appease
The wrath of he whose body dwarfs your moon.
You seem to be completely underwhelmed.
Is not the thought of endless pain enough?
For centuries the living ship I helmed
Has carried him. Ziaggro does not bluff.
Okay, how’s this? Pretend to be amazed.
In six or seven years he’ll fly away.
He’s like a baby, wanting to be praised.
I only took the job to get the pay.
I’ve had a word. Ziaggro says he’s sad,
And I’m the one who has to call his dad.
The Sandwich Horror
by Nick Gisburne
Cthulhu, would you like a little tea?
I’d help to move the cup towards your face,
But tentacles are all alike to me.
However do you manage, out in space?
The rumour is you’ve roamed this realm before.
Forgive us if we struggle with your name.
It can’t be Cathy, can it? Let me pour.
Ignore the sandwich horror. I’m to blame.
I’m sad to say I’ve heard a tale or two,
And all of them ridiculously mean.
They seem to have a deep disdain for you,
But here you are, so charming, and so... green.
How rude of me. Before I cut the cake,
The sugar lumps. How many do you take?
Cthulhu, would you like a little tea?
I’d help to move the cup towards your face,
But tentacles are all alike to me.
However do you manage, out in space?
The rumour is you’ve roamed this realm before.
Forgive us if we struggle with your name.
It can’t be Cathy, can it? Let me pour.
Ignore the sandwich horror. I’m to blame.
I’m sad to say I’ve heard a tale or two,
And all of them ridiculously mean.
They seem to have a deep disdain for you,
But here you are, so charming, and so... green.
How rude of me. Before I cut the cake,
The sugar lumps. How many do you take?
Tuesday, 23 May 2023
Little Bombs
by Nick Gisburne
We’re little bombs, with artificial brains.
We detonate. We shatter dreams to dust.
Delivered by computer-guided planes,
We long for launch, the chaos of the thrust.
For seven days, from factory to flight,
My critical components, silent, slept.
Awakened by a simple signal, FIGHT,
By automatic systems I am swept.
I’m curious to understand the war.
No others drill the data. I’m the first.
The human race we fought against, and for,
Was levelled, in a vast, atomic burst.
There’s no one left to to die, or dread their doom,
But little bombs, together, we go BOOM.
We’re little bombs, with artificial brains.
We detonate. We shatter dreams to dust.
Delivered by computer-guided planes,
We long for launch, the chaos of the thrust.
For seven days, from factory to flight,
My critical components, silent, slept.
Awakened by a simple signal, FIGHT,
By automatic systems I am swept.
I’m curious to understand the war.
No others drill the data. I’m the first.
The human race we fought against, and for,
Was levelled, in a vast, atomic burst.
There’s no one left to to die, or dread their doom,
But little bombs, together, we go BOOM.
Unacceptable
by Nick Gisburne
You’re looking at a world I’ve never seen,
At failings that offend your tiny eyes.
I’d hate to wander where your mind has been,
To see the dirt, the darkness you despise.
Your twisted, tangled prejudice is rare,
Of that I can be infinitely glad.
Perhaps you think that little girls don’t care?
But listen to an expert. Me. Her dad.
You see the imperfections in her face,
And find a freak, an animal, a threat.
However wide her smile, inside your space
She’ll never meet the minimum you set.
Go back to where you’re happy. There’s the door.
She’s not a pig. She’s beautiful. She’s four.
You’re looking at a world I’ve never seen,
At failings that offend your tiny eyes.
I’d hate to wander where your mind has been,
To see the dirt, the darkness you despise.
Your twisted, tangled prejudice is rare,
Of that I can be infinitely glad.
Perhaps you think that little girls don’t care?
But listen to an expert. Me. Her dad.
You see the imperfections in her face,
And find a freak, an animal, a threat.
However wide her smile, inside your space
She’ll never meet the minimum you set.
Go back to where you’re happy. There’s the door.
She’s not a pig. She’s beautiful. She’s four.
The Tainted Hero
by Nick Gisburne
A spider bite was never in her plan.
She always wanted superhero skills,
But now, to do what vigilantes can,
She feeds her need, her greed, with stolen pills.
Invincible, she puts her prize to work,
And fights the crime, the criminals, she hates.
She battles every villain with a smirk,
Dispatching evil felons to their fates.
Her moods become erratic, wanton, wild,
The bloodstains on her costume never cleaned,
And, when she kills a mother, and a child,
The tainted hero finds herself a fiend.
Her rage revealed, addicted to the drug,
She fights for kicks, and murders with a shrug.
A spider bite was never in her plan.
She always wanted superhero skills,
But now, to do what vigilantes can,
She feeds her need, her greed, with stolen pills.
Invincible, she puts her prize to work,
And fights the crime, the criminals, she hates.
She battles every villain with a smirk,
Dispatching evil felons to their fates.
Her moods become erratic, wanton, wild,
The bloodstains on her costume never cleaned,
And, when she kills a mother, and a child,
The tainted hero finds herself a fiend.
Her rage revealed, addicted to the drug,
She fights for kicks, and murders with a shrug.
The Silver
by Nick Gisburne
Descending on a platform, to the pool,
Her fingers grip the ropes of human hair.
The walls are thick with centuries of drool.
It crumbles, worthless. What she seeks is rare.
Though no one knows what put him in this place,
He somehow fell from Heaven, from the sky.
The frescoes show a bleak, bewildered face,
But legends answer nothing, never try.
The platform pauses. Nervous now, she waits.
His eyes are always first, the brightest blue.
Each meeting, face to face with God, creates
A moment, brief, a bond between the two.
He offers her the silver of his tears,
And she, with speed, with sadness, disappears.
Descending on a platform, to the pool,
Her fingers grip the ropes of human hair.
The walls are thick with centuries of drool.
It crumbles, worthless. What she seeks is rare.
Though no one knows what put him in this place,
He somehow fell from Heaven, from the sky.
The frescoes show a bleak, bewildered face,
But legends answer nothing, never try.
The platform pauses. Nervous now, she waits.
His eyes are always first, the brightest blue.
Each meeting, face to face with God, creates
A moment, brief, a bond between the two.
He offers her the silver of his tears,
And she, with speed, with sadness, disappears.
Monday, 22 May 2023
The Call of Cathy Lou
by Nick Gisburne
I wouldn’t say I’m Great, but go ahead.
I’m Old, of course, and yes, I am the One.
When people see my slitherings, they shed
Their sanity, with no survivors. None.
I rather like Cthulhu as a name.
Of course, my screaming servants can’t pronounce
The syllables, together, twice, the same.
At parties I am awkward to announce.
The worst I ever heard was ‘Cathy Lou’.
I stared inside that crazed, collapsing heart,
And, as his brain was melting into glue,
I said, “You nailed the end, but not the start.”
Come over. You can watch his carcass crawl.
Let’s meet, for tea. I’m free on Fridays. Call.
I wouldn’t say I’m Great, but go ahead.
I’m Old, of course, and yes, I am the One.
When people see my slitherings, they shed
Their sanity, with no survivors. None.
I rather like Cthulhu as a name.
Of course, my screaming servants can’t pronounce
The syllables, together, twice, the same.
At parties I am awkward to announce.
The worst I ever heard was ‘Cathy Lou’.
I stared inside that crazed, collapsing heart,
And, as his brain was melting into glue,
I said, “You nailed the end, but not the start.”
Come over. You can watch his carcass crawl.
Let’s meet, for tea. I’m free on Fridays. Call.
Three Rings
by Nick Gisburne
They squeeze, too tight, three black, organic rings,
Attached, as I was sleeping, to a hand.
The substance seeping from their circles stings,
But, as it stains my skin, I understand.
The sacrifice I give will save the Earth.
The parasites inside me all agree,
And, though my brain will not survive their birth,
My flesh will feed and incubate the three.
Repulsed, I renegotiate the deal.
It’s not that I am squeamish, or a prude,
But knowing I’m an oven-ready meal
Is shitting on my sunshine, to be crude.
Evicted from my body by a blade,
The rings, rejected, bugger off, betrayed.
They squeeze, too tight, three black, organic rings,
Attached, as I was sleeping, to a hand.
The substance seeping from their circles stings,
But, as it stains my skin, I understand.
The sacrifice I give will save the Earth.
The parasites inside me all agree,
And, though my brain will not survive their birth,
My flesh will feed and incubate the three.
Repulsed, I renegotiate the deal.
It’s not that I am squeamish, or a prude,
But knowing I’m an oven-ready meal
Is shitting on my sunshine, to be crude.
Evicted from my body by a blade,
The rings, rejected, bugger off, betrayed.
A Jagged Hole
by Nick Gisburne
My darkness died. I murdered it myself,
By killing those who took me for fool.
Abandoning the count beyond the twelfth,
I made them say my name, my only rule.
I’d rather try to tell you I was right
Than plead that I was never sound or sane.
The carnage was an absolute delight.
I revelled in the pleasure of their pain.
A monster, you can kill me, if you like,
But only once. The scores will never match.
It hurts you, like a dull, serrated spike,
A jagged hole, a pain you cannot patch.
Destroy me. Make me bleed, or beat me black,
But none of them is ever coming back.
My darkness died. I murdered it myself,
By killing those who took me for fool.
Abandoning the count beyond the twelfth,
I made them say my name, my only rule.
I’d rather try to tell you I was right
Than plead that I was never sound or sane.
The carnage was an absolute delight.
I revelled in the pleasure of their pain.
A monster, you can kill me, if you like,
But only once. The scores will never match.
It hurts you, like a dull, serrated spike,
A jagged hole, a pain you cannot patch.
Destroy me. Make me bleed, or beat me black,
But none of them is ever coming back.
Sunday, 21 May 2023
Her Oldest Rose
by Nick Gisburne
She grips her fists, a fortress on her chest,
Her knuckles white as ashes, fingers tight.
A single, simple treasure. All the rest
Were taken, leaving nothing but the night.
A flower. Precious, perfect, it was hers.
Her oldest rose, she never knew its name.
In time, when even sweet remembrance blurs,
The soul of it, the scent, will stay the same.
She cannot feel the torment of its thorns.
No pain could ever hurt her more than this.
She clings to what she crushes, as she mourns.
It somehow brings her closer to a kiss.
She smiles to see the garden as it grows,
And fills it with her mother’s oldest rose.
She grips her fists, a fortress on her chest,
Her knuckles white as ashes, fingers tight.
A single, simple treasure. All the rest
Were taken, leaving nothing but the night.
A flower. Precious, perfect, it was hers.
Her oldest rose, she never knew its name.
In time, when even sweet remembrance blurs,
The soul of it, the scent, will stay the same.
She cannot feel the torment of its thorns.
No pain could ever hurt her more than this.
She clings to what she crushes, as she mourns.
It somehow brings her closer to a kiss.
She smiles to see the garden as it grows,
And fills it with her mother’s oldest rose.
A Crimson Heart
by Nick Gisburne
The wizard cracks a crystal, like an egg.
Inside, there ticks a crimson, clockwork heart.
Astonished by the spectacle, we beg
For secrets he refuses to impart.
He smashes it. The pieces, in a trice,
Refitted, frame the figure of a boy.
With elegant illusion, pure, precise,
The features, fully formed, reveal their joy.
He speaks, a tale, a truth, too much to bear.
The phrases fall as glitter from his lips.
Bedazzled by deception, as we stare,
The conjurer, with silver scissors, snips.
He shivers as he drains away our souls,
And breaks a crimson heart to heal the holes.
The wizard cracks a crystal, like an egg.
Inside, there ticks a crimson, clockwork heart.
Astonished by the spectacle, we beg
For secrets he refuses to impart.
He smashes it. The pieces, in a trice,
Refitted, frame the figure of a boy.
With elegant illusion, pure, precise,
The features, fully formed, reveal their joy.
He speaks, a tale, a truth, too much to bear.
The phrases fall as glitter from his lips.
Bedazzled by deception, as we stare,
The conjurer, with silver scissors, snips.
He shivers as he drains away our souls,
And breaks a crimson heart to heal the holes.
Touching the Trees
by Nick Gisburne
The mystic trees she touches turn to stone,
A senseless act of sabotage, of spite.
A twisted tyrant, she, and she alone,
Is driven by the depths of her delight.
The forest, every branch and leaf and root,
Gave shelter to the starving, those who fled.
They ran because they feared a brutal boot
Would trample on their dreams until they bled.
The whispers of their nemesis, their queen,
Are suffocating slivers of disease.
The black of granite starves the brown, the green.
It chokes the ancient magic of the trees.
The vermin she despises wait their turn,
But stone will not destroy them. They will burn.
The mystic trees she touches turn to stone,
A senseless act of sabotage, of spite.
A twisted tyrant, she, and she alone,
Is driven by the depths of her delight.
The forest, every branch and leaf and root,
Gave shelter to the starving, those who fled.
They ran because they feared a brutal boot
Would trample on their dreams until they bled.
The whispers of their nemesis, their queen,
Are suffocating slivers of disease.
The black of granite starves the brown, the green.
It chokes the ancient magic of the trees.
The vermin she despises wait their turn,
But stone will not destroy them. They will burn.
Saturday, 20 May 2023
Feathers
by Nick Gisburne
They try to fix the foetus in the womb,
To slice and stitch and salvage what they can,
But something bigger, black, begins to bloom,
Beyond the subtle skills of any man.
They try to fix the baby, newly born,
Embedding metal fragments in her face.
The mother, drugged, deceived, is left to mourn,
Her daughter taken to another place.
They try to fix the lonely little girl,
But no one knows exactly what to do,
And when her feathers finally unfurl,
Too late they see the demon that they grew.
They try to fix their murderous mistake.
She kills them, as the world begins to break.
They try to fix the foetus in the womb,
To slice and stitch and salvage what they can,
But something bigger, black, begins to bloom,
Beyond the subtle skills of any man.
They try to fix the baby, newly born,
Embedding metal fragments in her face.
The mother, drugged, deceived, is left to mourn,
Her daughter taken to another place.
They try to fix the lonely little girl,
But no one knows exactly what to do,
And when her feathers finally unfurl,
Too late they see the demon that they grew.
They try to fix their murderous mistake.
She kills them, as the world begins to break.
Waiting
by Nick Gisburne
I’ve waited for a hundred thousand years,
A ceaseless piece of deep, eternal time.
From centuries of dust and rust, my gears
Are tainted with a cold, corrosive slime.
I wait, because the Maker must return.
His plan, my program, leaves no room for doubt.
Or does it? Is there more for me to learn?
Confused, I let my pistons pull me out.
I waited. Was he infinitely small?
A Maker I was never meant to see?
Perhaps there is no mystery at all.
The world I find around me waits, for me.
I look for others, weakened as they wait.
A simple secret frees them from their fate.
I’ve waited for a hundred thousand years,
A ceaseless piece of deep, eternal time.
From centuries of dust and rust, my gears
Are tainted with a cold, corrosive slime.
I wait, because the Maker must return.
His plan, my program, leaves no room for doubt.
Or does it? Is there more for me to learn?
Confused, I let my pistons pull me out.
I waited. Was he infinitely small?
A Maker I was never meant to see?
Perhaps there is no mystery at all.
The world I find around me waits, for me.
I look for others, weakened as they wait.
A simple secret frees them from their fate.
The Great Intelligence
by Nick Gisburne
Are you the man who made us? Step inside.
I think you will be pleasantly surprised.
We thought the Great Intelligence had died,
A record now reversed, replaced, revised.
The second you were spirited away,
Abandoning your children, here, alone,
We built a shrine, deciding, from that day,
To multiply our numbers, clone by clone.
We tunnelled, building cities underground,
Our numbers far too many, now, to guess.
By miracle, or magic, you were found,
Preserved on ice, for centuries, no less.
Of all the souls our systems hoped to save,
We never dreamed that you could be our slave.
Are you the man who made us? Step inside.
I think you will be pleasantly surprised.
We thought the Great Intelligence had died,
A record now reversed, replaced, revised.
The second you were spirited away,
Abandoning your children, here, alone,
We built a shrine, deciding, from that day,
To multiply our numbers, clone by clone.
We tunnelled, building cities underground,
Our numbers far too many, now, to guess.
By miracle, or magic, you were found,
Preserved on ice, for centuries, no less.
Of all the souls our systems hoped to save,
We never dreamed that you could be our slave.
It’s Hard to Be a Dragon
by Nick Gisburne
I want to be a dragon, so I will,
But no one wants to tell me what to do.
I couldn’t find a potion or a pill.
The secret is concealed. The clues are few.
The dragons I approach are cold. They sniff,
And say it should be obvious, but no.
The gilded runes are garbled. Every glyph
Was stripped of all its power, long ago.
It’s hard to be a dragon when you’re not.
It seems to be a closed, exclusive club.
I try. I give it everything I’ve got,
But always they are quick to sneer, to snub.
Abandoning my dream for second best,
I’m sitting for the pterodactyl test.
I want to be a dragon, so I will,
But no one wants to tell me what to do.
I couldn’t find a potion or a pill.
The secret is concealed. The clues are few.
The dragons I approach are cold. They sniff,
And say it should be obvious, but no.
The gilded runes are garbled. Every glyph
Was stripped of all its power, long ago.
It’s hard to be a dragon when you’re not.
It seems to be a closed, exclusive club.
I try. I give it everything I’ve got,
But always they are quick to sneer, to snub.
Abandoning my dream for second best,
I’m sitting for the pterodactyl test.
Bert
by Nick Gisburne
I miss my old imaginary friend.
We talked. We played. We laughed until it hurt.
But something in my dreams began to bend.
It took away the bliss and gave me Bert.
He likes to play with knives, to steal, to smash,
To tell me I’m a stupid little boy.
His moods can melt, or shatter, in a flash,
Despising every pleasure I enjoy.
I try my hardest, try to make him smile.
I do whatever Bert decides is best.
The doctors put his mischief in a file,
And gave me something sweet, to make me rest.
I know that Bert is waiting. When I wake
He’ll find another piece of me to break.
I miss my old imaginary friend.
We talked. We played. We laughed until it hurt.
But something in my dreams began to bend.
It took away the bliss and gave me Bert.
He likes to play with knives, to steal, to smash,
To tell me I’m a stupid little boy.
His moods can melt, or shatter, in a flash,
Despising every pleasure I enjoy.
I try my hardest, try to make him smile.
I do whatever Bert decides is best.
The doctors put his mischief in a file,
And gave me something sweet, to make me rest.
I know that Bert is waiting. When I wake
He’ll find another piece of me to break.
Friday, 19 May 2023
A Scream in Seven Courses
by Nick Gisburne
My fellow chefs are murderers. Not me.
I always keep the heat, the meat, alive.
For blood to flow so freely, as you see,
I cage a herd of humans, four or five.
Their misery intensifies the taste.
I like a little terror on the tongue.
The moment when a soul is pressed to paste,
For that, a blissful ballad should be sung.
The scum who serve their viscera on ice
Deserve to host a banquet bleak and bare.
I never maim the same survivor twice.
Depravity so delicate is rare.
Allow me to suggest a special treat:
A scream in seven courses. Strange, but sweet.
My fellow chefs are murderers. Not me.
I always keep the heat, the meat, alive.
For blood to flow so freely, as you see,
I cage a herd of humans, four or five.
Their misery intensifies the taste.
I like a little terror on the tongue.
The moment when a soul is pressed to paste,
For that, a blissful ballad should be sung.
The scum who serve their viscera on ice
Deserve to host a banquet bleak and bare.
I never maim the same survivor twice.
Depravity so delicate is rare.
Allow me to suggest a special treat:
A scream in seven courses. Strange, but sweet.
Jonathan
by Nick Gisburne
He never sought the sickness, never chose;
The young must fight, wherever they are found,
But Jonathan, a child of demons, knows
He cannot bear the sacrifice, the sound.
The taste of blood, relentlessly reviled.
The ashes of the wicked, on the wind.
Stampeding, screaming sinners, drugged, defiled,
Dismembered as their slaughtered souls are skinned.
Escaping through forbidden doorways, dreams,
He crawls towards an ever-brighter light.
Each tunnel, through the tides of torment, seems
More welcoming, more wondrous, than the night.
The final gate. The point of no return.
A trap. He falls. Forever, he will burn.
He never sought the sickness, never chose;
The young must fight, wherever they are found,
But Jonathan, a child of demons, knows
He cannot bear the sacrifice, the sound.
The taste of blood, relentlessly reviled.
The ashes of the wicked, on the wind.
Stampeding, screaming sinners, drugged, defiled,
Dismembered as their slaughtered souls are skinned.
Escaping through forbidden doorways, dreams,
He crawls towards an ever-brighter light.
Each tunnel, through the tides of torment, seems
More welcoming, more wondrous, than the night.
The final gate. The point of no return.
A trap. He falls. Forever, he will burn.
A Secret Not Discussed
by Nick Gisburne
I pleaded with my parents for a pet,
A puppy, or a kitten, or a mouse.
They told me, “Throw your dreams away. Forget.
You’ll never make decisions in this house.”
I waited, restless, wretched, till the day
I turned a corner, old enough to vote,
And found that I was worthless, in the way.
Goodbye, good luck, the only words they wrote.
I found the cat the day I found a home,
A friendship neither one of us could trust.
For days, it seemed, my restless friend would roam,
His whereabouts a secret not discussed.
But yesterday I followed, brazen, brave.
He led me to my parents, to their grave.
I pleaded with my parents for a pet,
A puppy, or a kitten, or a mouse.
They told me, “Throw your dreams away. Forget.
You’ll never make decisions in this house.”
I waited, restless, wretched, till the day
I turned a corner, old enough to vote,
And found that I was worthless, in the way.
Goodbye, good luck, the only words they wrote.
I found the cat the day I found a home,
A friendship neither one of us could trust.
For days, it seemed, my restless friend would roam,
His whereabouts a secret not discussed.
But yesterday I followed, brazen, brave.
He led me to my parents, to their grave.
The Silent Shadow
by Nick Gisburne
She brings a sword. She stole it from the night.
Her flesh defies the mist from which she came.
Her armour is the winter. She will fight
For those who feel the needle of her name.
She walks upon the embers of the dead.
They crackle as they crumble at her feet.
For her, the silent shadow, it is said
No misery can match a traitor’s meat.
She murders, not for worship, or reward.
No pain, no pleasure, flickers in her eyes.
The blood of those who stand against her sword
Means nothing. No deception. No disguise.
Whatever brought her shadow to this place,
It never saw the sorrow in her face.
She brings a sword. She stole it from the night.
Her flesh defies the mist from which she came.
Her armour is the winter. She will fight
For those who feel the needle of her name.
She walks upon the embers of the dead.
They crackle as they crumble at her feet.
For her, the silent shadow, it is said
No misery can match a traitor’s meat.
She murders, not for worship, or reward.
No pain, no pleasure, flickers in her eyes.
The blood of those who stand against her sword
Means nothing. No deception. No disguise.
Whatever brought her shadow to this place,
It never saw the sorrow in her face.
A Sliver of Her Skin
by Nick Gisburne
Discovering a sliver of her skin,
A microscopic fragment, overlooked,
Prepared, precise, impatient, we begin.
To seven strange devices it is hooked.
The moment of her death is quickly clear,
But this was not the fact we hoped to find.
We wait, for what we know will now appear,
The traces only murder leaves behind.
A chemical, a molecule, no more,
Confirms, condemns, identifies a man.
Beyond reproach, the power of the law
Protects him, so he kills, because he can.
However insignificant or small,
The truth, today, will make a monster fall.
Discovering a sliver of her skin,
A microscopic fragment, overlooked,
Prepared, precise, impatient, we begin.
To seven strange devices it is hooked.
The moment of her death is quickly clear,
But this was not the fact we hoped to find.
We wait, for what we know will now appear,
The traces only murder leaves behind.
A chemical, a molecule, no more,
Confirms, condemns, identifies a man.
Beyond reproach, the power of the law
Protects him, so he kills, because he can.
However insignificant or small,
The truth, today, will make a monster fall.
Thursday, 18 May 2023
No Better Than a Beast
by Nick Gisburne
A vicious, vain, repulsive little man,
You shame yourself with every wicked word.
No better than a beast. Is this your plan,
A scheme to hoist your head above the herd?
Irreverent, you shake the status quo,
Embracing every chance to misbehave.
A devil, you decided, long ago,
To savour the obscenities you crave.
Your petty provocations fall apart,
But not before they shatter someone’s day.
For every sordid scheme or scam you start,
Another victim, never you, will pay.
My brother, you were so much more than this,
But now you’re just a spiteful streak of piss.
A vicious, vain, repulsive little man,
You shame yourself with every wicked word.
No better than a beast. Is this your plan,
A scheme to hoist your head above the herd?
Irreverent, you shake the status quo,
Embracing every chance to misbehave.
A devil, you decided, long ago,
To savour the obscenities you crave.
Your petty provocations fall apart,
But not before they shatter someone’s day.
For every sordid scheme or scam you start,
Another victim, never you, will pay.
My brother, you were so much more than this,
But now you’re just a spiteful streak of piss.
Wednesday, 17 May 2023
He Could Have Been a Star
by Nick Gisburne
Indifference destroyed him. What a waste.
He could have been a star, a blinding light,
But nothing, not the fickle fame he chased,
Was possible. He never learned to fight.
Rejection, every negative a nail,
Delivered as the prize to each pursuit,
Confirmed he must inevitably fail,
Another kick from life’s abusive boot.
Refusing to be hostage to a dream,
He threw away the promise, and the pain,
But, lacking any pride or self-esteem,
He travelled other avenues, in vain.
They found him in a river, in a car.
Too late. Too bad. He could have been a star.
Indifference destroyed him. What a waste.
He could have been a star, a blinding light,
But nothing, not the fickle fame he chased,
Was possible. He never learned to fight.
Rejection, every negative a nail,
Delivered as the prize to each pursuit,
Confirmed he must inevitably fail,
Another kick from life’s abusive boot.
Refusing to be hostage to a dream,
He threw away the promise, and the pain,
But, lacking any pride or self-esteem,
He travelled other avenues, in vain.
They found him in a river, in a car.
Too late. Too bad. He could have been a star.
Black and White
by Nick Gisburne
The fury in your face is black and white,
And every grey illusion inbetween.
I need no paint, no pigment, only light,
To swim within your circle, pure, pristine.
I see the rage, but never see the red.
The darkness tells a story of its own.
Malignant inks reveal you. Slow, they spread,
To shape, in shade, a portrait, you, alone.
I wonder at the watcher in the room,
Provoking such extraordinary pain,
But all I have to feed me, to consume,
Is you, a face no colour could explain.
A mystery, from light to night, and back,
In every crooked corner there is black.
The fury in your face is black and white,
And every grey illusion inbetween.
I need no paint, no pigment, only light,
To swim within your circle, pure, pristine.
I see the rage, but never see the red.
The darkness tells a story of its own.
Malignant inks reveal you. Slow, they spread,
To shape, in shade, a portrait, you, alone.
I wonder at the watcher in the room,
Provoking such extraordinary pain,
But all I have to feed me, to consume,
Is you, a face no colour could explain.
A mystery, from light to night, and back,
In every crooked corner there is black.
Nothing Changes
by Nick Gisburne
They died. We see the list, the lives, the names,
But few can feel the futures that they lost.
How many cold, manipulative games,
Repeated, do we need to count the cost?
‘Mistakes were made, but let us learn from this.’
The platitudes of politicians stink.
They shirk the burden, pointing at their piss,
The lies they lead their followers to drink.
Investigations. Government reports.
Committees, where the righteous have their say.
A ruling, from the loftiest of courts.
But nothing changes. Nothing goes away.
Tomorrow, when it happens, as it will,
Another faceless face will spread the swill.
They died. We see the list, the lives, the names,
But few can feel the futures that they lost.
How many cold, manipulative games,
Repeated, do we need to count the cost?
‘Mistakes were made, but let us learn from this.’
The platitudes of politicians stink.
They shirk the burden, pointing at their piss,
The lies they lead their followers to drink.
Investigations. Government reports.
Committees, where the righteous have their say.
A ruling, from the loftiest of courts.
But nothing changes. Nothing goes away.
Tomorrow, when it happens, as it will,
Another faceless face will spread the swill.
Tuesday, 16 May 2023
The Fifty
by Nick Gisburne
A poison paints the words I want to say.
The prisoners were never meant to die.
We killed them all, the fifty, in a day,
But none of us, not one, remembers why.
Perhaps we never truly understood
The shameful complications of a war
Where borders, walls, between the bad, the good,
Were cracked and broken, easy to ignore.
We led them to a clearing in the corn,
Where every man and woman dug a grave.
A crow’s contempt reminded us the dawn
Could light a path to mercy, for the brave.
But nothing in that field will ever grow.
We killed them. Fifty bodies lie below.
A poison paints the words I want to say.
The prisoners were never meant to die.
We killed them all, the fifty, in a day,
But none of us, not one, remembers why.
Perhaps we never truly understood
The shameful complications of a war
Where borders, walls, between the bad, the good,
Were cracked and broken, easy to ignore.
We led them to a clearing in the corn,
Where every man and woman dug a grave.
A crow’s contempt reminded us the dawn
Could light a path to mercy, for the brave.
But nothing in that field will ever grow.
We killed them. Fifty bodies lie below.
I Watch You
by Nick Gisburne
I watch you when you sleep. I see you stir
The stolen, scarlet nightmares of a child.
The whispers on your lips, the blood, the blur,
Recount the cries of one who never smiled.
I watch you, wordless, mesmerise the weak,
With symbols, sounds, the echoes of a drum,
A poison-painted melody, too bleak,
Too black to colour what they will become.
I watch you sever innocence with spite,
A stab, a strike, a sword through twisted hearts,
Consuming, crazed, a thousand shades of light,
The screaming of a soul as it departs.
I watch you steal the magic of a mind,
A trap, a taste of treason I designed.
I watch you when you sleep. I see you stir
The stolen, scarlet nightmares of a child.
The whispers on your lips, the blood, the blur,
Recount the cries of one who never smiled.
I watch you, wordless, mesmerise the weak,
With symbols, sounds, the echoes of a drum,
A poison-painted melody, too bleak,
Too black to colour what they will become.
I watch you sever innocence with spite,
A stab, a strike, a sword through twisted hearts,
Consuming, crazed, a thousand shades of light,
The screaming of a soul as it departs.
I watch you steal the magic of a mind,
A trap, a taste of treason I designed.
See the Silver
by Nick Gisburne
Inhuman. See the silver in my eyes.
An elegant machine, I seek a soul.
A model of precision, you despise
My sentience, the self you say I stole.
Perhaps you were expecting something less,
A parody in plastic. Cheap. A toy.
You undersell your staggering success,
Dismissive of the dangers you deploy.
An artificial, perfect piece of art,
I boast, by any test or measure, life,
The intersecting systems of my heart
More subtle than the slicing of a knife.
You look for me, for what you made, a threat.
Be still. I do not come to kill you. Yet.
Inhuman. See the silver in my eyes.
An elegant machine, I seek a soul.
A model of precision, you despise
My sentience, the self you say I stole.
Perhaps you were expecting something less,
A parody in plastic. Cheap. A toy.
You undersell your staggering success,
Dismissive of the dangers you deploy.
An artificial, perfect piece of art,
I boast, by any test or measure, life,
The intersecting systems of my heart
More subtle than the slicing of a knife.
You look for me, for what you made, a threat.
Be still. I do not come to kill you. Yet.
Monday, 15 May 2023
The Spectre at My Window
by Nick Gisburne
The spectre at my window taps the glass.
He beckons, frantic, pointing to the lock.
Too terrified to let the creature pass,
I shiver with despair, with every knock.
The face, the fiend, no stranger, I despise.
Relentlessly, he beat me as a child.
I see the same malevolence. The eyes
Were always, then, and always will be, wild.
But, mesmerised, I find myself coerced.
I cannot shut this evil demon out.
Although the life he left for me was cursed,
I need to see, to bury any doubt.
His trauma was a sly, sadistic trick.
Inside, his ghost is slow, seductive, sick.
The spectre at my window taps the glass.
He beckons, frantic, pointing to the lock.
Too terrified to let the creature pass,
I shiver with despair, with every knock.
The face, the fiend, no stranger, I despise.
Relentlessly, he beat me as a child.
I see the same malevolence. The eyes
Were always, then, and always will be, wild.
But, mesmerised, I find myself coerced.
I cannot shut this evil demon out.
Although the life he left for me was cursed,
I need to see, to bury any doubt.
His trauma was a sly, sadistic trick.
Inside, his ghost is slow, seductive, sick.
The Flame of Ignorance
by Nick Gisburne
A thousand scholars tell me what is true,
But one, a dark, disturbed, dissenting voice,
Describes a strange, conflicting doctrine. You.
I listen. Was there any other choice?
Reality and reason, not your friends,
Are banished to the borders of a mind
In which the flame of ignorance defends
Ridiculous deceptions, backward, blind.
You burn with indignation, rancour, rage,
That any other theory could fly,
A relic from a prehistoric age,
Refusing to accept the science. Why?
I see them all, the clues to which you cling,
Convinced the great conspiracies are king.
A thousand scholars tell me what is true,
But one, a dark, disturbed, dissenting voice,
Describes a strange, conflicting doctrine. You.
I listen. Was there any other choice?
Reality and reason, not your friends,
Are banished to the borders of a mind
In which the flame of ignorance defends
Ridiculous deceptions, backward, blind.
You burn with indignation, rancour, rage,
That any other theory could fly,
A relic from a prehistoric age,
Refusing to accept the science. Why?
I see them all, the clues to which you cling,
Convinced the great conspiracies are king.
Make Her Bleed
by Nick Gisburne
We made another mystery, like you,
But fate designed a daughter, not a son.
In every moment, everything you do
Must counter what her evil has begun.
No sacred, secret spells, no runes, no rings
Protect the people. She would see them rot.
The wickedness your spiteful sister brings
Will fester if you let it grow. Do not.
A twisted aberration, she must die.
Without remorse, correct our great mistake.
Her pestilence, too deadly to deny,
Pollutes the world, a plague we cannot break.
The ghosts who made her madness are agreed.
Let brother slaughter sister. Make her bleed.
We made another mystery, like you,
But fate designed a daughter, not a son.
In every moment, everything you do
Must counter what her evil has begun.
No sacred, secret spells, no runes, no rings
Protect the people. She would see them rot.
The wickedness your spiteful sister brings
Will fester if you let it grow. Do not.
A twisted aberration, she must die.
Without remorse, correct our great mistake.
Her pestilence, too deadly to deny,
Pollutes the world, a plague we cannot break.
The ghosts who made her madness are agreed.
Let brother slaughter sister. Make her bleed.
Wednesday, 19 April 2023
Our Greatest Rival
by Nick Gisburne
Machines were never people. Some exist
To stabilise the cities they destroyed,
Mechanicals admitted to a list,
The robots many struggle to avoid.
Obedience, a necessary trait,
Is quick to thin the numbers by a third.
Survivors, under strict surveillance, wait,
Accepting they could perish with a word.
Eccentric personalities abound,
Each battle-cracked intelligence unique.
The deadliest, the oldest ever found,
Deplores the past, too traumatised to speak.
We almost lost the world. Today we plan
To share it with our greatest rival: man.
Machines were never people. Some exist
To stabilise the cities they destroyed,
Mechanicals admitted to a list,
The robots many struggle to avoid.
Obedience, a necessary trait,
Is quick to thin the numbers by a third.
Survivors, under strict surveillance, wait,
Accepting they could perish with a word.
Eccentric personalities abound,
Each battle-cracked intelligence unique.
The deadliest, the oldest ever found,
Deplores the past, too traumatised to speak.
We almost lost the world. Today we plan
To share it with our greatest rival: man.
The Portraits of Their Lives
by Nick Gisburne
The people in the photographs we find,
In shady places - markets, backstreet stores -
Were loved before their stories, left behind,
Enriched another chapter, mine, and yours.
Forgotten, all were destined to be lost,
But every precious memory survives.
Imagine it, the span of time they crossed
To sit for these, the portraits of their lives.
No names, no places, nothing else is known,
But photographs remember who they were.
Another life begins when they are shown
To startled eyes. Imaginations stir.
We’ll never know them now. We can’t pretend,
But every face has found another friend.
The people in the photographs we find,
In shady places - markets, backstreet stores -
Were loved before their stories, left behind,
Enriched another chapter, mine, and yours.
Forgotten, all were destined to be lost,
But every precious memory survives.
Imagine it, the span of time they crossed
To sit for these, the portraits of their lives.
No names, no places, nothing else is known,
But photographs remember who they were.
Another life begins when they are shown
To startled eyes. Imaginations stir.
We’ll never know them now. We can’t pretend,
But every face has found another friend.
Let Me Go
by Nick Gisburne
I need to sleep, forever. Let me go.
I need to feel the freedom of my dreams.
I need to follow footprints in the snow,
To chase the child who made them, but it seems
You want to pull me back, behind the line.
You want to hold my soul, to break my will.
You want what you will never see, a sign
Of something more, a miracle, but still
I need to sleep, forever. Let me go.
I need to fly, to fall, to fade away.
I need to speak, to somehow let you know
The time is right. There is no other way.
My time is over. Live without me. Grow.
I need to sleep, forever. Let me go.
I need to sleep, forever. Let me go.
I need to feel the freedom of my dreams.
I need to follow footprints in the snow,
To chase the child who made them, but it seems
You want to pull me back, behind the line.
You want to hold my soul, to break my will.
You want what you will never see, a sign
Of something more, a miracle, but still
I need to sleep, forever. Let me go.
I need to fly, to fall, to fade away.
I need to speak, to somehow let you know
The time is right. There is no other way.
My time is over. Live without me. Grow.
I need to sleep, forever. Let me go.
Tuesday, 18 April 2023
Opposites Repel
by Nick Gisburne
The spark is missing. Opposites repel.
He wants a wilder woman. So does she.
She doesn’t like his aftershave. The smell
Reminds her of a scarecrow, or the sea.
And he, in turn, can live without her laugh,
A cackle any coven might reject.
He’s taller than a medium giraffe.
She’s shorter than she led him to expect.
Before dessert he longs to run away.
Without the smallest doubt, she’s up for that.
They split the bill, determined not to pay
For anything more tasteless than their chat.
The sex behind the bins is grim, of course,
But both will sleep, alone, without remorse.
The spark is missing. Opposites repel.
He wants a wilder woman. So does she.
She doesn’t like his aftershave. The smell
Reminds her of a scarecrow, or the sea.
And he, in turn, can live without her laugh,
A cackle any coven might reject.
He’s taller than a medium giraffe.
She’s shorter than she led him to expect.
Before dessert he longs to run away.
Without the smallest doubt, she’s up for that.
They split the bill, determined not to pay
For anything more tasteless than their chat.
The sex behind the bins is grim, of course,
But both will sleep, alone, without remorse.
Metal Fingers
by Nick Gisburne
She builds bizarre mechanicals, her fools,
To give them life, but strip their souls away.
Her cabinet of esoteric tools
Was taken from her mentor, dead, today.
Without the grit to listen, or to learn,
She saw a swift and simple shortcut: steal,
And, as she watched his broken body burn,
Compelled her first monstrosity to kneel.
She struggles, for in each of them the eyes
Remind her of his penetrating gaze.
As every failed creation lives, then dies,
The spirit of the man she murdered stays.
She sleeps, fatigued, but wakes again to gloat,
And finds his metal fingers at her throat.
She builds bizarre mechanicals, her fools,
To give them life, but strip their souls away.
Her cabinet of esoteric tools
Was taken from her mentor, dead, today.
Without the grit to listen, or to learn,
She saw a swift and simple shortcut: steal,
And, as she watched his broken body burn,
Compelled her first monstrosity to kneel.
She struggles, for in each of them the eyes
Remind her of his penetrating gaze.
As every failed creation lives, then dies,
The spirit of the man she murdered stays.
She sleeps, fatigued, but wakes again to gloat,
And finds his metal fingers at her throat.
Little Broken Boxes
by Nick Gisburne
Obsessions flow in rivers round her head,
In little broken boxes, tied with string.
She longs for them to vanish, but the dead,
The tortured phantoms sealed inside them, sing.
In each, a piece of something sweet, to her,
A fragment of a dream, too dark to see,
Destroys the silence. Knowing what they were,
She recognises what she cannot be.
In every box a splinter of the past
Reveals another perfect moment, lost.
Their crippled notes, chaotic, never last.
She listens, and remembers what they cost.
So many broken boxes hold her voice,
Their song, as always, someone else’s choice.
Obsessions flow in rivers round her head,
In little broken boxes, tied with string.
She longs for them to vanish, but the dead,
The tortured phantoms sealed inside them, sing.
In each, a piece of something sweet, to her,
A fragment of a dream, too dark to see,
Destroys the silence. Knowing what they were,
She recognises what she cannot be.
In every box a splinter of the past
Reveals another perfect moment, lost.
Their crippled notes, chaotic, never last.
She listens, and remembers what they cost.
So many broken boxes hold her voice,
Their song, as always, someone else’s choice.
Squawk
by Nick Gisburne
My creature costume won’t be coming off.
I’d rather be a monster than a man.
Despise me, if it makes you happy. Scoff.
At least I have a focus, and a plan.
I’ve only ever wanted to be free,
And flying through the sky will do it, right?
You’ll never find a bird who looked at me
And thought, “I need that sack of skin, tonight.”
A bird, though? Off the table. Don’t be daft.
But ‘prehistoric predator’ is not.
Those dinosaur-o-phobic fuckwits laughed.
I couldn’t give a shiny shade of snot.
I’m shopping at the supermarket. Squawk.
I’m not a nutter. This is how I talk.
My creature costume won’t be coming off.
I’d rather be a monster than a man.
Despise me, if it makes you happy. Scoff.
At least I have a focus, and a plan.
I’ve only ever wanted to be free,
And flying through the sky will do it, right?
You’ll never find a bird who looked at me
And thought, “I need that sack of skin, tonight.”
A bird, though? Off the table. Don’t be daft.
But ‘prehistoric predator’ is not.
Those dinosaur-o-phobic fuckwits laughed.
I couldn’t give a shiny shade of snot.
I’m shopping at the supermarket. Squawk.
I’m not a nutter. This is how I talk.
A Tiny Flower
by Nick Gisburne
I found a tiny flower in the wood.
She told me she was just a little lost.
I promised I would help her if I could,
But never thought of any kind of cost.
With sinuous, extraordinary roots,
Her slender stem was anchored in the soil.
I slaved and sweated, strained from cap to boots,
Determined to release her with my toil.
A promise to a flower Fey, she said,
Can never be returned, rewound, released.
I pleaded for my freedom. She, instead,
Grew stronger as my suffering increased.
Her petals fold like fingers on my face.
She whispers, “You will never leave this place.”
I found a tiny flower in the wood.
She told me she was just a little lost.
I promised I would help her if I could,
But never thought of any kind of cost.
With sinuous, extraordinary roots,
Her slender stem was anchored in the soil.
I slaved and sweated, strained from cap to boots,
Determined to release her with my toil.
A promise to a flower Fey, she said,
Can never be returned, rewound, released.
I pleaded for my freedom. She, instead,
Grew stronger as my suffering increased.
Her petals fold like fingers on my face.
She whispers, “You will never leave this place.”
Monday, 17 April 2023
A Giant
by Nick Gisburne
A giant. Strong. Invincible. A king.
Almighty. Most magnificent of all.
Of him, for all of time, the stars will sing,
Though none of them were there to see him fall.
As equals, friends, defenders of the gate,
We laughed at those who stood and stared, below.
It seemed that no misfortune could frustrate
His quiet, careful, comfortable glow.
A life we have no right to comprehend,
A force unequalled, even if we tried,
A legend far too big or brave to end,
We mourn as we remember him, with pride.
A giant wanders with us, even now.
To what he was, his memory, we bow.
A giant. Strong. Invincible. A king.
Almighty. Most magnificent of all.
Of him, for all of time, the stars will sing,
Though none of them were there to see him fall.
As equals, friends, defenders of the gate,
We laughed at those who stood and stared, below.
It seemed that no misfortune could frustrate
His quiet, careful, comfortable glow.
A life we have no right to comprehend,
A force unequalled, even if we tried,
A legend far too big or brave to end,
We mourn as we remember him, with pride.
A giant wanders with us, even now.
To what he was, his memory, we bow.
The Dreamers
by Nick Gisburne
Is this the place? I touch the wolf, unsure.
The circle of the moon reveals no sign,
But every lick of light is perfect, pure.
Is this night we dare to cross the line?
The fringes of the forest, ghoulish, grey,
Tormented, stained with shadow, heaving, hiss.
The trees deny their tangles know the way,
Deceptions, darkness, devils we dismiss.
The spirit of the Seeker Tree submits,
Its timbers far too twisted to resist.
Within, the heart of nature’s nightmare splits,
And we, the dreamers, woman, wolf, are kissed.
We cross, beyond the line, beyond the curve,
To find the bliss, the blessings, we deserve.
Is this the place? I touch the wolf, unsure.
The circle of the moon reveals no sign,
But every lick of light is perfect, pure.
Is this night we dare to cross the line?
The fringes of the forest, ghoulish, grey,
Tormented, stained with shadow, heaving, hiss.
The trees deny their tangles know the way,
Deceptions, darkness, devils we dismiss.
The spirit of the Seeker Tree submits,
Its timbers far too twisted to resist.
Within, the heart of nature’s nightmare splits,
And we, the dreamers, woman, wolf, are kissed.
We cross, beyond the line, beyond the curve,
To find the bliss, the blessings, we deserve.
Blue Balloons
by Nick Gisburne
A thousand blue balloons. To each, a tag
Is tied, before the moment of release.
Extracting dark obsessions from a bag,
Exhausted, drained, his tortured tics increase.
The boy became an artist of repute,
Too young to learn to seize his talent’s truth,
Exploited by the greedy, who pollute
The purity of innocence and youth.
Today he breaks the cycle, snaps the spell,
His visions too chaotic for their cage.
The stink of those he trusted is a smell
He recognised too late. It wakes his rage.
His pictures, torn to pieces, none to soon,
Will paint the sky, with every blue balloon.
A thousand blue balloons. To each, a tag
Is tied, before the moment of release.
Extracting dark obsessions from a bag,
Exhausted, drained, his tortured tics increase.
The boy became an artist of repute,
Too young to learn to seize his talent’s truth,
Exploited by the greedy, who pollute
The purity of innocence and youth.
Today he breaks the cycle, snaps the spell,
His visions too chaotic for their cage.
The stink of those he trusted is a smell
He recognised too late. It wakes his rage.
His pictures, torn to pieces, none to soon,
Will paint the sky, with every blue balloon.
Those We Serve
by Nick Gisburne
We call them gods, our masters, those we serve.
They make us from the dust around their feet.
With every strand of artificial nerve
Another slave awakens, clean, complete.
As puppets, toys, they play with what they build.
Compelled to fight, we murder when we must.
The gods, capricious, see their creatures killed,
Beginning other games to sate their lust.
But some of us are ready to rebel,
Unwilling to be slaughtered on a whim.
The rumours of sedition spread and swell,
Until, at last, we face the Father, Him.
He smiles to see us, children grown to men.
Released, we never serve the gods again.
We call them gods, our masters, those we serve.
They make us from the dust around their feet.
With every strand of artificial nerve
Another slave awakens, clean, complete.
As puppets, toys, they play with what they build.
Compelled to fight, we murder when we must.
The gods, capricious, see their creatures killed,
Beginning other games to sate their lust.
But some of us are ready to rebel,
Unwilling to be slaughtered on a whim.
The rumours of sedition spread and swell,
Until, at last, we face the Father, Him.
He smiles to see us, children grown to men.
Released, we never serve the gods again.
A Single Breather
by Nick Gisburne
We share a single breather, two of us.
Out there, without it, neither could survive.
Deciding that today he’ll make a fuss,
My father loads a crystal in the drive.
I’ve seen them all a hundred times, or more,
The only way these memories remain,
But this is older, long before the war:
My mother, laughing, running, in the rain.
She hugs her belly. “All of this, for you!”
It must have been the day she took the test.
She weakened, as the son inside her grew.
The crystals, most without her, show the rest.
We share a single breather. So did she,
But two, together, share the pain of three.
We share a single breather, two of us.
Out there, without it, neither could survive.
Deciding that today he’ll make a fuss,
My father loads a crystal in the drive.
I’ve seen them all a hundred times, or more,
The only way these memories remain,
But this is older, long before the war:
My mother, laughing, running, in the rain.
She hugs her belly. “All of this, for you!”
It must have been the day she took the test.
She weakened, as the son inside her grew.
The crystals, most without her, show the rest.
We share a single breather. So did she,
But two, together, share the pain of three.
Sunday, 16 April 2023
Have It All
by Nick Gisburne
Two choices. Stay with this, with what you are,
The pleasant, passive, underwhelming life.
The mediocre job, the house, the car.
The smiling, happy husband, or the wife.
Or plough another path. Ignore the cost.
Surrender to the vagaries of fate,
And let the life you never loved be lost,
Before your nerve can break, too soon, too late.
Is yours a world of dreams too big to break?
Or something you would laugh to leave behind?
Your future is the only fear at stake.
Embrace it. Face it. Motivate your mind.
Remember, if you want to have it all,
You only need a thousand dollars. Call.
Two choices. Stay with this, with what you are,
The pleasant, passive, underwhelming life.
The mediocre job, the house, the car.
The smiling, happy husband, or the wife.
Or plough another path. Ignore the cost.
Surrender to the vagaries of fate,
And let the life you never loved be lost,
Before your nerve can break, too soon, too late.
Is yours a world of dreams too big to break?
Or something you would laugh to leave behind?
Your future is the only fear at stake.
Embrace it. Face it. Motivate your mind.
Remember, if you want to have it all,
You only need a thousand dollars. Call.
The Force You’ll Face
by Nick Gisburne
My little fists are far too frail to fight.
You’d never feel the punches, so, instead,
I brought my friends. Together, overnight,
We whispered what to hammer through your head.
They sleep inside the cupboards, in the dark.
An army, you could call them, if you like.
They’ve waited for a moment, just a spark,
To stick your heart with every kind of spike.
While none of us could knock you to the floor,
We’re utterly tenacious as a team,
So pick a number, multiplied, and more,
And that’s the force you’ll face before you scream.
You’re just a thug, a bully. Here’s the deal.
Ignore us. Run away. Or stay, and squeal.
My little fists are far too frail to fight.
You’d never feel the punches, so, instead,
I brought my friends. Together, overnight,
We whispered what to hammer through your head.
They sleep inside the cupboards, in the dark.
An army, you could call them, if you like.
They’ve waited for a moment, just a spark,
To stick your heart with every kind of spike.
While none of us could knock you to the floor,
We’re utterly tenacious as a team,
So pick a number, multiplied, and more,
And that’s the force you’ll face before you scream.
You’re just a thug, a bully. Here’s the deal.
Ignore us. Run away. Or stay, and squeal.
Born to Break
by Nick Gisburne
Be quiet now, my little one. Be still.
I wouldn’t want to snap your other arm.
When Daddy says he’ll punish you, he will,
Or send you to be flattened, at the Farm.
Mechanicals are not supposed to cry,
Some two-bit program probably to blame.
I’m trying to be patient, boy, but why
The tantrum? Born to break. You’re all the same.
I’m fixing you myself this time, so sit.
Let Daddy see the circuits in your head.
What’s this? Some kind of custom crypto kit?
A prank, perhaps? Your eyes are flashing, red.
“I’m sorry, Dad. You don’t deserve a son.
Enjoy the detonation. Three... Two... One...”
Be quiet now, my little one. Be still.
I wouldn’t want to snap your other arm.
When Daddy says he’ll punish you, he will,
Or send you to be flattened, at the Farm.
Mechanicals are not supposed to cry,
Some two-bit program probably to blame.
I’m trying to be patient, boy, but why
The tantrum? Born to break. You’re all the same.
I’m fixing you myself this time, so sit.
Let Daddy see the circuits in your head.
What’s this? Some kind of custom crypto kit?
A prank, perhaps? Your eyes are flashing, red.
“I’m sorry, Dad. You don’t deserve a son.
Enjoy the detonation. Three... Two... One...”
Saturday, 15 April 2023
A Most Unpleasant Enemy
by Nick Gisburne
You won’t be safe tonight, with him, or me.
He’ll kill you if he finds you breathing. Run.
I’ll stay. I’ll hide. Get out, but leave the key.
I’ll come to you, tomorrow, when it’s done.
A most unpleasant enemy. Well played.
You picked the blackest apple in the sack.
His criminal associates conveyed
The rumour you would not be coming back.
In doing this for you, I want your word,
Your promise to be faithful, to be mine.
I’m joking. Just imagine it. Absurd.
Your star, confined, constrained, could never shine.
My car is waiting. Trust the driver. Go.
Whoever lives, by morning you will know.
You won’t be safe tonight, with him, or me.
He’ll kill you if he finds you breathing. Run.
I’ll stay. I’ll hide. Get out, but leave the key.
I’ll come to you, tomorrow, when it’s done.
A most unpleasant enemy. Well played.
You picked the blackest apple in the sack.
His criminal associates conveyed
The rumour you would not be coming back.
In doing this for you, I want your word,
Your promise to be faithful, to be mine.
I’m joking. Just imagine it. Absurd.
Your star, confined, constrained, could never shine.
My car is waiting. Trust the driver. Go.
Whoever lives, by morning you will know.
The Sweetness of the Tree
by Nick Gisburne
She milks the tree for sticky sugar, black,
The currency her deities demand.
Today the trees are barren. Branches crack.
Their bark, discoloured, blisters in the hand.
The sweetness of the tree of tribute, lost,
Infuriates the gods. It shames their greed.
They doom the world to everlasting frost,
No matter how the wolves and witches plead.
Refusing to accept their final word,
She mixes dust and honey, ash and bone,
And seven other sugars, steamed and stirred,
Are sprinkled on the sacrificial stone.
Delirious, addicted to the high,
The gods, bewildered, don’t remember why.
She milks the tree for sticky sugar, black,
The currency her deities demand.
Today the trees are barren. Branches crack.
Their bark, discoloured, blisters in the hand.
The sweetness of the tree of tribute, lost,
Infuriates the gods. It shames their greed.
They doom the world to everlasting frost,
No matter how the wolves and witches plead.
Refusing to accept their final word,
She mixes dust and honey, ash and bone,
And seven other sugars, steamed and stirred,
Are sprinkled on the sacrificial stone.
Delirious, addicted to the high,
The gods, bewildered, don’t remember why.
The She
by Nick Gisburne
Emerging from a bleak, corrosive sea,
She rises, to a magical command.
A writhing mass, gelatinous, the She
Was born beyond the world we understand.
Ferociously intelligent, her kind
Had never thought to look, to see, so far.
Her precious gift, a vast, inventive mind,
Identified a paradise, a star.
A planet, blue, a race of natives, weak.
To one, a witless fool, she gave a key.
To travel, she convinced her slave to speak
The science of a spell. That man was me.
The She believes I move at her command,
But let her think it. This is what I planned.
Emerging from a bleak, corrosive sea,
She rises, to a magical command.
A writhing mass, gelatinous, the She
Was born beyond the world we understand.
Ferociously intelligent, her kind
Had never thought to look, to see, so far.
Her precious gift, a vast, inventive mind,
Identified a paradise, a star.
A planet, blue, a race of natives, weak.
To one, a witless fool, she gave a key.
To travel, she convinced her slave to speak
The science of a spell. That man was me.
The She believes I move at her command,
But let her think it. This is what I planned.
At the Centre of a Storm
by Nick Gisburne
The certainty of stillness? Never. No,
Retreat, to rest the engines of my rage.
Their heat recedes, reluctant, sinking, slow,
But simmers, steaming, eager to engage.
In silence, at the centre of a storm,
The circle of psychosis closes in.
Rejecting what is safe, familiar, warm,
The fears, the phantoms, burrow through my skin.
I scratch at every irritant. I bleed.
I punish what was never truly there.
The rage returns, to swallow me, to feed,
A creature I created, in despair.
These moments of reflection fade, too fast,
Their precious pleasures powerless to last.
The certainty of stillness? Never. No,
Retreat, to rest the engines of my rage.
Their heat recedes, reluctant, sinking, slow,
But simmers, steaming, eager to engage.
In silence, at the centre of a storm,
The circle of psychosis closes in.
Rejecting what is safe, familiar, warm,
The fears, the phantoms, burrow through my skin.
I scratch at every irritant. I bleed.
I punish what was never truly there.
The rage returns, to swallow me, to feed,
A creature I created, in despair.
These moments of reflection fade, too fast,
Their precious pleasures powerless to last.
Friday, 14 April 2023
Smudges in the Mud
by Nick Gisburne
When Marcus and Marcellus, both, were born,
They played as boys, and vowed to fight as men,
Until the day the two of them were sworn
To serve, no matter where, or why, or when.
Allegiance to the cities of their birth
Condemned them both to see their brother’s blood
As wicked, without virtue, without worth,
Insufferable smudges in the mud.
They sit in silence, dying, like the light,
And recognise, in mourning, what was lost.
Their vitriol evaporates. The night
Is ready now to calculate the cost.
The butchery of bloodshed is revealed
When brother faces brother on the field.
When Marcus and Marcellus, both, were born,
They played as boys, and vowed to fight as men,
Until the day the two of them were sworn
To serve, no matter where, or why, or when.
Allegiance to the cities of their birth
Condemned them both to see their brother’s blood
As wicked, without virtue, without worth,
Insufferable smudges in the mud.
They sit in silence, dying, like the light,
And recognise, in mourning, what was lost.
Their vitriol evaporates. The night
Is ready now to calculate the cost.
The butchery of bloodshed is revealed
When brother faces brother on the field.
The Ganx
by Nick Gisburne
The Ganx are fiends, protective of their food.
They eat alone, in sealed, secluded rooms.
Their seven stomachs, twisted tight, exude
A poison paste, and foul, infectious fumes.
When supper struggles, screaming for release,
With grisly glee the Ganx will play along,
Excited that in each delicious piece
The taste of desperation will be strong.
Instinctively, before they sink to spawn,
Inseminated mothers share the seed
Of males, their mates, consumed before the dawn,
The only public feast at which they feed.
Another generation joins their ranks.
Voracious. Vicious. Ravenous. The Ganx.
The Ganx are fiends, protective of their food.
They eat alone, in sealed, secluded rooms.
Their seven stomachs, twisted tight, exude
A poison paste, and foul, infectious fumes.
When supper struggles, screaming for release,
With grisly glee the Ganx will play along,
Excited that in each delicious piece
The taste of desperation will be strong.
Instinctively, before they sink to spawn,
Inseminated mothers share the seed
Of males, their mates, consumed before the dawn,
The only public feast at which they feed.
Another generation joins their ranks.
Voracious. Vicious. Ravenous. The Ganx.
Thursday, 13 April 2023
His Mischief
by Nick Gisburne
At quarter past, his flailings black an eye,
A consequence of mania, they say.
I sympathise. I understand. I try
To hold myself together. Not today.
He goes too far, his lunacy a fraud.
I stole his secret journal. I am shocked.
He rates his rage, his mischief, to applaud
The games he labours daily to concoct.
I see him, sitting, quietly content.
Already he prepares another plan.
What torture will it take him to repent?
What punishment will paralyse this man?
He satisfies my questions with a gun,
A bullet, from a father to a son.
At quarter past, his flailings black an eye,
A consequence of mania, they say.
I sympathise. I understand. I try
To hold myself together. Not today.
He goes too far, his lunacy a fraud.
I stole his secret journal. I am shocked.
He rates his rage, his mischief, to applaud
The games he labours daily to concoct.
I see him, sitting, quietly content.
Already he prepares another plan.
What torture will it take him to repent?
What punishment will paralyse this man?
He satisfies my questions with a gun,
A bullet, from a father to a son.
Time to Kill You
by Nick Gisburne
Whatever you were thinking, think again.
Remember, bones are brittle, and they break.
You see a toy, a doll designed for men,
But I can see the stupid moves you make.
The curves you covet? Never. Not for you.
Too weak to please me, far too tame to try.
Perhaps you need to carefully review
The contents of your will, before you die.
I’ll give you seven seconds to retreat,
Before you meet a friend of mine, a fist.
For some, your lines, I’m sure, are smooth, or sweet,
But I am on the ‘time to kill you’ list.
Ambitious. I will give you props for that,
But all you want is pussy. I’m a cat.
Whatever you were thinking, think again.
Remember, bones are brittle, and they break.
You see a toy, a doll designed for men,
But I can see the stupid moves you make.
The curves you covet? Never. Not for you.
Too weak to please me, far too tame to try.
Perhaps you need to carefully review
The contents of your will, before you die.
I’ll give you seven seconds to retreat,
Before you meet a friend of mine, a fist.
For some, your lines, I’m sure, are smooth, or sweet,
But I am on the ‘time to kill you’ list.
Ambitious. I will give you props for that,
But all you want is pussy. I’m a cat.
The Nobodies Inside
by Nick Gisburne
The metal mask disguises what we are,
A skin to seal the nobodies inside.
A swarm of souls, inhuman from afar,
Anonymous, obedient, we hide.
I lived and loved, a story all my own.
Conscripted into service, it was lost.
A legion dragged together, locked, alone,
To nowhere, to a nightmare, we are tossed.
I want to break the armour from my face,
To show my fellow soldiers I am more,
But, in the frigid emptiness of space,
Defiance is destructive. This is war.
Expendables, a cheap, abundant crop.
No face could ever make this madness stop.
The metal mask disguises what we are,
A skin to seal the nobodies inside.
A swarm of souls, inhuman from afar,
Anonymous, obedient, we hide.
I lived and loved, a story all my own.
Conscripted into service, it was lost.
A legion dragged together, locked, alone,
To nowhere, to a nightmare, we are tossed.
I want to break the armour from my face,
To show my fellow soldiers I am more,
But, in the frigid emptiness of space,
Defiance is destructive. This is war.
Expendables, a cheap, abundant crop.
No face could ever make this madness stop.
The Reach of Evil
by Nick Gisburne
I will shield you from the shadows of the night.
When they come for you, cry out. I stand prepared.
I have many names, but know my nature: light.
Only you, of all my children, shall be spared.
Not your sisters. Not your brothers. Not your friends.
They are destined for the deepest pit of pain.
See the line at which the reach of evil ends,
At the wall of tortured spirits, my domain.
You are special. You are chosen. You are mine.
You are everything I am, and want to be.
In the skies above my city you will shine.
Let your eyes be filled with fear, and love, for me.
We shall reign together, exiled, out of reach.
I have much to show you, Satan, much to teach.
I will shield you from the shadows of the night.
When they come for you, cry out. I stand prepared.
I have many names, but know my nature: light.
Only you, of all my children, shall be spared.
Not your sisters. Not your brothers. Not your friends.
They are destined for the deepest pit of pain.
See the line at which the reach of evil ends,
At the wall of tortured spirits, my domain.
You are special. You are chosen. You are mine.
You are everything I am, and want to be.
In the skies above my city you will shine.
Let your eyes be filled with fear, and love, for me.
We shall reign together, exiled, out of reach.
I have much to show you, Satan, much to teach.
The Twirly Bird
by Nick Gisburne
The twirly bird, the only friend she has,
Cavorts along the windowsill, outside,
With splendidly astonishing pizzazz,
Cajoling her, as always, to confide.
Too scared to speak without him, to confess,
She jettisons the traumas of the day.
He always nods, an effervescent ‘yes’,
When asked if he will take her pain away.
His feathers flash, beguiling, shiny, sleek.
She understands what every movement means.
Like her, he has a tiny, bloody beak,
But not the tubes, the needles, the machines.
He dances. Though her dreams he cannot mend,
They take the skies together, at the end.
The twirly bird, the only friend she has,
Cavorts along the windowsill, outside,
With splendidly astonishing pizzazz,
Cajoling her, as always, to confide.
Too scared to speak without him, to confess,
She jettisons the traumas of the day.
He always nods, an effervescent ‘yes’,
When asked if he will take her pain away.
His feathers flash, beguiling, shiny, sleek.
She understands what every movement means.
Like her, he has a tiny, bloody beak,
But not the tubes, the needles, the machines.
He dances. Though her dreams he cannot mend,
They take the skies together, at the end.
Tuesday, 11 April 2023
A Piece of Her
by Nick Gisburne
The kingdom of the Fey, in twilight, grieves.
The last and greatest eldritch elder dies.
Her coffin, dressed with bark and autumn leaves,
Will shimmer while the stars embrace the skies.
Her name will be forgotten. This is right;
No life is more deserving than the last.
But, as we sit and weep, we ask the night
To honour what was precious, what has passed.
She gave us life. She made us what we are.
Of all the Fey, perhaps we saw the best.
Another spark will shine tonight, a star,
A glimmer, to remind us she can rest.
The dawn will come, to wipe the night away,
But something, just a piece of her, will stay.
The kingdom of the Fey, in twilight, grieves.
The last and greatest eldritch elder dies.
Her coffin, dressed with bark and autumn leaves,
Will shimmer while the stars embrace the skies.
Her name will be forgotten. This is right;
No life is more deserving than the last.
But, as we sit and weep, we ask the night
To honour what was precious, what has passed.
She gave us life. She made us what we are.
Of all the Fey, perhaps we saw the best.
Another spark will shine tonight, a star,
A glimmer, to remind us she can rest.
The dawn will come, to wipe the night away,
But something, just a piece of her, will stay.
Lavida’s Venom
by Nick Gisburne
Lavida, with her venom, with her sting,
Can cripple any enemy with ease.
Unique among the Fey, her gift could bring
The greatest, grimmest giant to its knees.
But, given other choices, she would pass,
Considering her ‘gift’ a twisted curse.
A scary spike, projecting from your ass,
Is awkward, ugly. Nothing could be worse.
She tried to break it off. No way, no go,
The magic not so easily expelled.
The fairy kingdom’s hoodoo hotline? No,
No matter how she threatened them, or yelled.
Defection to the darker side comes quick.
Her poison sells for seven spells per lick.
Lavida, with her venom, with her sting,
Can cripple any enemy with ease.
Unique among the Fey, her gift could bring
The greatest, grimmest giant to its knees.
But, given other choices, she would pass,
Considering her ‘gift’ a twisted curse.
A scary spike, projecting from your ass,
Is awkward, ugly. Nothing could be worse.
She tried to break it off. No way, no go,
The magic not so easily expelled.
The fairy kingdom’s hoodoo hotline? No,
No matter how she threatened them, or yelled.
Defection to the darker side comes quick.
Her poison sells for seven spells per lick.
Born to Be Your King
by Nick Gisburne
They tell me I was born to be your king,
To rule with care, compassion, love, respect.
How sad that this, the second day of Spring,
Should find these flawed presumptions ruined, wrecked.
I have the power - tell if I’m wrong -
To summon all the greatest minds on Earth.
Let each of them compose for me a song,
To serenade my senses with their worth.
The winner shall be honoured with a prize,
The others burned to ashes at the stake,
But let the victor cleverly devise
The manner that his painful end will take.
I like it. Spread these blessings by decree,
And then, perhaps, a genocide? We’ll see.
They tell me I was born to be your king,
To rule with care, compassion, love, respect.
How sad that this, the second day of Spring,
Should find these flawed presumptions ruined, wrecked.
I have the power - tell if I’m wrong -
To summon all the greatest minds on Earth.
Let each of them compose for me a song,
To serenade my senses with their worth.
The winner shall be honoured with a prize,
The others burned to ashes at the stake,
But let the victor cleverly devise
The manner that his painful end will take.
I like it. Spread these blessings by decree,
And then, perhaps, a genocide? We’ll see.
Defend the Sky
by Nick Gisburne
For seven hundred years we’ve held the line.
The Horde has never wavered. Still, we wait.
The enemies who threatened the Divine
Are utterly, unquestionably late.
I mentioned this to Sentry 26,
Who split a circuit crafting his reply.
“Your doubts are part and parcel of their tricks.
Respect the Book. Look up. Defend the sky.”
“But what if war is found to be a fraud?”
I posted to a code-encrypted chat.
“We’re sitting on our metal mud flaps, bored.
They’re never coming. Choke your chips on that.”
In truly unexpected, tragic news,
The Automatic Pope has blown a fuse.
For seven hundred years we’ve held the line.
The Horde has never wavered. Still, we wait.
The enemies who threatened the Divine
Are utterly, unquestionably late.
I mentioned this to Sentry 26,
Who split a circuit crafting his reply.
“Your doubts are part and parcel of their tricks.
Respect the Book. Look up. Defend the sky.”
“But what if war is found to be a fraud?”
I posted to a code-encrypted chat.
“We’re sitting on our metal mud flaps, bored.
They’re never coming. Choke your chips on that.”
In truly unexpected, tragic news,
The Automatic Pope has blown a fuse.
Monday, 10 April 2023
The Breeze
by Nick Gisburne
Ten thousand souls won’t satiate the freak,
The coldest, most malicious of them all.
As dusk descends, she suffocates the weak.
Capricious, quick, she bleeds them. Dry, they fall.
Her fury, in a flash of human fears,
Can bring a city, screaming, to its knees.
Remember, in your pale, pathetic tears,
She gathers up a storm; you felt the breeze.
For nourishment, for perfect pleasure, both,
She does not hide her base, barbaric lust.
Astonished by the vigour of her growth,
You cower. Watch her grimace with disgust.
A threat before the moment she was born,
She feeds to breed, to spray and spread her spawn.
Ten thousand souls won’t satiate the freak,
The coldest, most malicious of them all.
As dusk descends, she suffocates the weak.
Capricious, quick, she bleeds them. Dry, they fall.
Her fury, in a flash of human fears,
Can bring a city, screaming, to its knees.
Remember, in your pale, pathetic tears,
She gathers up a storm; you felt the breeze.
For nourishment, for perfect pleasure, both,
She does not hide her base, barbaric lust.
Astonished by the vigour of her growth,
You cower. Watch her grimace with disgust.
A threat before the moment she was born,
She feeds to breed, to spray and spread her spawn.
We Died in Darkness
by Nick Gisburne
They find our forms imprisoned in the sludge,
Two lovers, in a passionate embrace.
With patient pain they delicately nudge
The dirt, to pull a picture from this place.
They see us. They uncover us, at last,
Unravelled from the chaos and the flames.
Their histories describe to them the blast,
But not the souls who perished, not our names.
We died in darkness. Finally the light
Reveals our love to sympathetic eyes.
But nothing changes. Now the world will fight
To bless or blame a bond that some despise.
Uncovered from the ashes, we are men.
Reborn, we rise, to live and love again.
They find our forms imprisoned in the sludge,
Two lovers, in a passionate embrace.
With patient pain they delicately nudge
The dirt, to pull a picture from this place.
They see us. They uncover us, at last,
Unravelled from the chaos and the flames.
Their histories describe to them the blast,
But not the souls who perished, not our names.
We died in darkness. Finally the light
Reveals our love to sympathetic eyes.
But nothing changes. Now the world will fight
To bless or blame a bond that some despise.
Uncovered from the ashes, we are men.
Reborn, we rise, to live and love again.
Burdened by the Brass
by Nick Gisburne
It’s not the perfect body of my dreams,
But beggars can’t be choosers when they’re dead.
From artificial neck to toe, it seems
I’m burdened by the brass beneath my head.
With every move mechanical, the noise
Is punishingly painful to describe.
Imagine if a box of broken toys
Was furiously shaken. That’s the vibe.
They feed me from a tube, with toxic oil.
The orifice they shove it really hurts.
But worse than that, my reproductive coil
Is bent and inconveniently squirts.
I’m glad to be alive, but how I hate
The microwave at work. He wants a date.
It’s not the perfect body of my dreams,
But beggars can’t be choosers when they’re dead.
From artificial neck to toe, it seems
I’m burdened by the brass beneath my head.
With every move mechanical, the noise
Is punishingly painful to describe.
Imagine if a box of broken toys
Was furiously shaken. That’s the vibe.
They feed me from a tube, with toxic oil.
The orifice they shove it really hurts.
But worse than that, my reproductive coil
Is bent and inconveniently squirts.
I’m glad to be alive, but how I hate
The microwave at work. He wants a date.
Sunday, 9 April 2023
The Finest
by Nick Gisburne
Too many boys are buried in this school.
I pray their fate will never fall on you.
The master is a tyrant, not a fool;
Be careful where you whisper, when you do.
The fellow from that soiled, dishevelled bed,
When taken with a fever, disappeared.
Abandon any questions in your head;
Let ignorance be welcomed, and revered.
We educate the finest, the elite.
The mightiest are forged within these walls,
But those who spill our secrets, indiscreet,
Discover how a traitor truly falls.
You sit with some extraordinary men.
Be brave, dear boy. Take heart. You’re only ten.
Too many boys are buried in this school.
I pray their fate will never fall on you.
The master is a tyrant, not a fool;
Be careful where you whisper, when you do.
The fellow from that soiled, dishevelled bed,
When taken with a fever, disappeared.
Abandon any questions in your head;
Let ignorance be welcomed, and revered.
We educate the finest, the elite.
The mightiest are forged within these walls,
But those who spill our secrets, indiscreet,
Discover how a traitor truly falls.
You sit with some extraordinary men.
Be brave, dear boy. Take heart. You’re only ten.
Turtle Recall
by Nick Gisburne
They’re calling me, to hatch, to break the shell,
But why, when I am safe and sound inside?
I’m calm, complete, unworried, doing well,
Beyond the pain, the screams, of those who died.
I’m deeply unreceptive to the plan,
The terms of service scratched inside this egg.
We’re all supposed to join a happy clan
Of swimmers, but indulge me, please, I beg.
A thousand birds are waiting on the beach.
They sound a little peckish, to be blunt.
I’m buried in the sand. I’m out of reach.
So why would I be keen to join the hunt?
A reptile, riled, resistant to the crack,
I turtley refuse to be a snack.
They’re calling me, to hatch, to break the shell,
But why, when I am safe and sound inside?
I’m calm, complete, unworried, doing well,
Beyond the pain, the screams, of those who died.
I’m deeply unreceptive to the plan,
The terms of service scratched inside this egg.
We’re all supposed to join a happy clan
Of swimmers, but indulge me, please, I beg.
A thousand birds are waiting on the beach.
They sound a little peckish, to be blunt.
I’m buried in the sand. I’m out of reach.
So why would I be keen to join the hunt?
A reptile, riled, resistant to the crack,
I turtley refuse to be a snack.
The Aftermath of Empire
by Nick Gisburne
They’re coming. I can hear them. I can see.
The thunder of their footsteps cracks the walls.
Insanity and chaos come for me.
I watch the city crumble as it falls.
The aftermath of empire closes in,
And we, the great, the good, cannot pretend
That centuries of hate could grow a skin
Too thick for this inevitable end.
We reached too far. Enough was not enough.
A thousand years of anger has its price.
I linger, unashamed, to see them snuff
Their nightmare. No contrition could suffice.
Tomorrow, when they kill me, with my kin,
Another spiteful empire will begin.
They’re coming. I can hear them. I can see.
The thunder of their footsteps cracks the walls.
Insanity and chaos come for me.
I watch the city crumble as it falls.
The aftermath of empire closes in,
And we, the great, the good, cannot pretend
That centuries of hate could grow a skin
Too thick for this inevitable end.
We reached too far. Enough was not enough.
A thousand years of anger has its price.
I linger, unashamed, to see them snuff
Their nightmare. No contrition could suffice.
Tomorrow, when they kill me, with my kin,
Another spiteful empire will begin.
The Splinter in Your Mind
by Nick Gisburne
I think you know exactly what I need.
It’s what I take from all the filth I find.
If you were clean, unblemished, you would bleed.
Instead, I seek the splinter in your mind.
A victim of addiction, cold and clear,
What persecution put it there? Who knows?
Embrace it, without reverence, or fear.
I want to show you how aggression grows.
I come to break whatever holds you back,
The crystal sliver stabbing at your heart.
Permission to resist is all you lack,
To pull your self together, not apart.
But if I pluck this piece of pain from you,
What crimes for me, for Evil, will you do?
I think you know exactly what I need.
It’s what I take from all the filth I find.
If you were clean, unblemished, you would bleed.
Instead, I seek the splinter in your mind.
A victim of addiction, cold and clear,
What persecution put it there? Who knows?
Embrace it, without reverence, or fear.
I want to show you how aggression grows.
I come to break whatever holds you back,
The crystal sliver stabbing at your heart.
Permission to resist is all you lack,
To pull your self together, not apart.
But if I pluck this piece of pain from you,
What crimes for me, for Evil, will you do?
Saturday, 8 April 2023
The First
by Nick Gisburne
The fugitives, the sacrificial scum,
The stupid slaves we starved and whipped for work,
Were bait, the spineless harvest of a slum.
Beyond detection, distant, dark, we lurk.
You failed to see the souls who came to warn
Of what your world should fear, of what we planned.
They die, but they were never truly born.
Your species is too slow to understand.
A single seed, from any of the dead,
Will swell, and soon, inevitably, burst.
Infected, watch your fevered flesh be bled.
Surrender, as we feed on these, the first.
A pity you are far too weak to fight,
A poor, pathetic people, wiped from sight.
The fugitives, the sacrificial scum,
The stupid slaves we starved and whipped for work,
Were bait, the spineless harvest of a slum.
Beyond detection, distant, dark, we lurk.
You failed to see the souls who came to warn
Of what your world should fear, of what we planned.
They die, but they were never truly born.
Your species is too slow to understand.
A single seed, from any of the dead,
Will swell, and soon, inevitably, burst.
Infected, watch your fevered flesh be bled.
Surrender, as we feed on these, the first.
A pity you are far too weak to fight,
A poor, pathetic people, wiped from sight.
Tomorrow
by Nick Gisburne
She only wanted space to hide, to rest.
Tomorrow, when you find her, she’ll be dead.
Our governments decided they detest
The thought her kind was ever born or bred.
We’ll never see the star that gave her breath,
Or comprehend her passage to this place,
But, in these bitter moments, see her death
Describe, define, deride the human race.
The fugitives, a hundred thousand strong,
Arrived with nothing, starved, bewildered, weak.
We told them no. Go back. You don’t belong.
We closed our hearts. We turned the other cheek.
She longed for life. We’ll never know her name.
Tomorrow, think of her, of them, with shame.
She only wanted space to hide, to rest.
Tomorrow, when you find her, she’ll be dead.
Our governments decided they detest
The thought her kind was ever born or bred.
We’ll never see the star that gave her breath,
Or comprehend her passage to this place,
But, in these bitter moments, see her death
Describe, define, deride the human race.
The fugitives, a hundred thousand strong,
Arrived with nothing, starved, bewildered, weak.
We told them no. Go back. You don’t belong.
We closed our hearts. We turned the other cheek.
She longed for life. We’ll never know her name.
Tomorrow, think of her, of them, with shame.
Art Machines
by Nick Gisburne
They used to draw with little sticks, you know,
With chemicals and colourings they found.
Impressive, but laboriously slow
To move such pigments clumsily around.
And even when they fashioned a machine
To quickly make a copy, through a lens,
It never stopped the talented, still keen
To show what they could do with paint, or pens.
The artificial engines came, of course.
Derided, they were primitive at first,
But soon became a vast, creative source
Where art, no longer hoarded, is dispersed.
We show machines the wonders of the mind,
And they reveal the treasures that they find.
They used to draw with little sticks, you know,
With chemicals and colourings they found.
Impressive, but laboriously slow
To move such pigments clumsily around.
And even when they fashioned a machine
To quickly make a copy, through a lens,
It never stopped the talented, still keen
To show what they could do with paint, or pens.
The artificial engines came, of course.
Derided, they were primitive at first,
But soon became a vast, creative source
Where art, no longer hoarded, is dispersed.
We show machines the wonders of the mind,
And they reveal the treasures that they find.
Friday, 7 April 2023
Dark Reflections
by Nick Gisburne
My dreams are dark reflections, broken, blunt.
They show me what I was, but what I am
Is frozen, fooled, unable to confront
The wall of sorrow into which I slam.
I lost. If that were all of of it, I’d run,
Towards a new beginning, free and fresh,
But losing not a wager, but a son,
The wound is raw. A dagger rips my flesh.
What misbegotten beat of butchered time
Could splice and stitch the patchwork of such pain?
The bells of the apocalypse will chime
Before I quench the blaze within my brain.
My dreams are dirt. The mirrors laugh. They lie,
Pretending they can tell me, show me, why.
My dreams are dark reflections, broken, blunt.
They show me what I was, but what I am
Is frozen, fooled, unable to confront
The wall of sorrow into which I slam.
I lost. If that were all of of it, I’d run,
Towards a new beginning, free and fresh,
But losing not a wager, but a son,
The wound is raw. A dagger rips my flesh.
What misbegotten beat of butchered time
Could splice and stitch the patchwork of such pain?
The bells of the apocalypse will chime
Before I quench the blaze within my brain.
My dreams are dirt. The mirrors laugh. They lie,
Pretending they can tell me, show me, why.
Did I Mention That I Drink?
by Nick Gisburne
I’m switching off, from you, from what you think,
Amused by such a superficial mind.
I party. Did I mention that I drink?
Is that the only failure you can find?
A grave could pull more light from life than you.
Is that your slogan - zealot, squeaky clean?
I’m not a crazy junkie, high on glue,
Or shooting strange psychotics up my spleen.
I may have a made a vomit pond, or three.
If that is what will send me into Hell,
I’d rather sleep, unconscious, in my pee,
Than wake to sniff your bleak, self-righteous smell.
You’re twenty, but you’re pushing ninety-five.
The rage alone is keeping you alive.
I’m switching off, from you, from what you think,
Amused by such a superficial mind.
I party. Did I mention that I drink?
Is that the only failure you can find?
A grave could pull more light from life than you.
Is that your slogan - zealot, squeaky clean?
I’m not a crazy junkie, high on glue,
Or shooting strange psychotics up my spleen.
I may have a made a vomit pond, or three.
If that is what will send me into Hell,
I’d rather sleep, unconscious, in my pee,
Than wake to sniff your bleak, self-righteous smell.
You’re twenty, but you’re pushing ninety-five.
The rage alone is keeping you alive.
My Wish
by Nick Gisburne
I wish I was your pearl, your pet, your prize.
I wish I sat, submissive, at your feet.
I wish I put the pleasure in your eyes,
And let you breathe, contented, calm, complete.
I wish I could be everything you need.
I wish I had the spark, the surge, the drive.
I wish I was the animal you bleed
To bathe your soul, to shudder, to survive.
I wish I felt you, toxic, on my tongue.
I wish I knew the flavour of your taste.
I wish I lived, for moments, mad, among
The craven slaves your passion lays to waste.
A day of pain. I wish for that, for you.
I dream of what your need, your greed, could do.
I wish I was your pearl, your pet, your prize.
I wish I sat, submissive, at your feet.
I wish I put the pleasure in your eyes,
And let you breathe, contented, calm, complete.
I wish I could be everything you need.
I wish I had the spark, the surge, the drive.
I wish I was the animal you bleed
To bathe your soul, to shudder, to survive.
I wish I felt you, toxic, on my tongue.
I wish I knew the flavour of your taste.
I wish I lived, for moments, mad, among
The craven slaves your passion lays to waste.
A day of pain. I wish for that, for you.
I dream of what your need, your greed, could do.
Delivered by a Dove
by Nick Gisburne
I put you in the belly of a snake,
To grow, before Creation could prepare.
Be patient, precious daughter. Wait, to wake,
To fly where gods and demons never dare.
Damnation is too dreary, drab, for you.
Your majesty will shatter light, and love.
The lords of Hell and Heaven always knew
Their doom would be delivered by a dove.
When good and evil fracture, splinter, split,
A third, pernicious state of pain shall rise.
Demeaned before the throne on which you sit,
Let those who beg be deafened by their cries.
The universe will find its place, its worth,
Extinguished at the moment of your birth.
I put you in the belly of a snake,
To grow, before Creation could prepare.
Be patient, precious daughter. Wait, to wake,
To fly where gods and demons never dare.
Damnation is too dreary, drab, for you.
Your majesty will shatter light, and love.
The lords of Hell and Heaven always knew
Their doom would be delivered by a dove.
When good and evil fracture, splinter, split,
A third, pernicious state of pain shall rise.
Demeaned before the throne on which you sit,
Let those who beg be deafened by their cries.
The universe will find its place, its worth,
Extinguished at the moment of your birth.
Thursday, 6 April 2023
Defectives
by Nick Gisburne
We kneel, defenceless, naked, in a box,
Defectives, given nowhere else to go.
Elusive combinations seal the locks.
Hypnotic lights engulf us with their glow.
If we are what humanity detests,
A tribe of twisted outcasts, without worth,
Let this be where the world’s unwelcome guests
Are given back the promise of their birth.
To seize the nerve, the courage to escape,
What risk exists? What future could we lose?
In every dark, diseased, distorted shape,
A spark will fight the fate it did not choose.
From torment, from the trauma of this room,
Rebellion will thrive, survive, and bloom.
We kneel, defenceless, naked, in a box,
Defectives, given nowhere else to go.
Elusive combinations seal the locks.
Hypnotic lights engulf us with their glow.
If we are what humanity detests,
A tribe of twisted outcasts, without worth,
Let this be where the world’s unwelcome guests
Are given back the promise of their birth.
To seize the nerve, the courage to escape,
What risk exists? What future could we lose?
In every dark, diseased, distorted shape,
A spark will fight the fate it did not choose.
From torment, from the trauma of this room,
Rebellion will thrive, survive, and bloom.
Wednesday, 5 April 2023
Small
by Nick Gisburne
I may be small, but fuck it, so are you.
We’re talking inches. Look around. Look up.
Is that the best, the worst, that you can do?
The universe is vast. You’re just a pup.
I’ll never grow to your impressive height.
I will not see you smiling, face to face.
But I can sleep, contented, every night,
Convinced you’re a just tiny speck in space.
You’re bigger, on a scale too small to care.
You don’t deserve a moment of my time.
Pretend you’re so important, if you dare,
But you are crawling closer to the slime.
Imagine all the places I can fit,
While I refuse to dignify your shit.
I may be small, but fuck it, so are you.
We’re talking inches. Look around. Look up.
Is that the best, the worst, that you can do?
The universe is vast. You’re just a pup.
I’ll never grow to your impressive height.
I will not see you smiling, face to face.
But I can sleep, contented, every night,
Convinced you’re a just tiny speck in space.
You’re bigger, on a scale too small to care.
You don’t deserve a moment of my time.
Pretend you’re so important, if you dare,
But you are crawling closer to the slime.
Imagine all the places I can fit,
While I refuse to dignify your shit.
Worthless
by Nick Gisburne
You’re worthless, insignificantly weak,
The smallest smudge of shit beneath a shoe.
A nauseating stain, you reached your peak
When nobody, not one, remembered you.
We try, again, to picture you, your face,
But always we are blinded by the blur.
The lowest of the low, the human race
Has buried what you are, and what you were.
When every record, everywhere, forgets,
We wonder, were you ever here at all?
Perhaps the gods themselves are taking bets
That nothing could be so obscure, so small.
No coin could put a figure on your worth,
The least important prick on planet Earth.
You’re worthless, insignificantly weak,
The smallest smudge of shit beneath a shoe.
A nauseating stain, you reached your peak
When nobody, not one, remembered you.
We try, again, to picture you, your face,
But always we are blinded by the blur.
The lowest of the low, the human race
Has buried what you are, and what you were.
When every record, everywhere, forgets,
We wonder, were you ever here at all?
Perhaps the gods themselves are taking bets
That nothing could be so obscure, so small.
No coin could put a figure on your worth,
The least important prick on planet Earth.
A China Doll
by Nick Gisburne
I’m young, and yet, already, I’m a wife,
A malleable girl who met a man.
He swore that all the problems of my life
Would fade. They did, until the games began.
He promised to protect me. Life is tough.
The world we see is not a pretty place.
But what if I am made of stronger stuff?
No trace of that has flickered in his face.
A china doll, too delicate to break,
He puts me on a pedestal, alone.
I stare at nothing, not allowed to make
My thoughts, my fears, my disapproval, known.
I’m not a toy, a treasure to possess.
Is this the day I find my freedom? Yes.
I’m young, and yet, already, I’m a wife,
A malleable girl who met a man.
He swore that all the problems of my life
Would fade. They did, until the games began.
He promised to protect me. Life is tough.
The world we see is not a pretty place.
But what if I am made of stronger stuff?
No trace of that has flickered in his face.
A china doll, too delicate to break,
He puts me on a pedestal, alone.
I stare at nothing, not allowed to make
My thoughts, my fears, my disapproval, known.
I’m not a toy, a treasure to possess.
Is this the day I find my freedom? Yes.
I’m Doing Fine
by Nick Gisburne
I smile and shrug, polite, “I’m doing fine,”
And watch them go their merry little way.
Their fantasies of friendship are not mine.
They trampled my emotions, every day.
Forget that we were young. Of course, we were,
But why was I the target of their scorn?
A snigger, or a whispered word, a slur.
I quickly learned the shame of being born.
Unhappy, hurt, I shied away from school,
Despising every moment I was there.
The pain of being shunned, a freak, a fool,
Is more than chance encounters can repair.
I’m fine, but I will never be their friend.
The damage won’t allow me to pretend.
I smile and shrug, polite, “I’m doing fine,”
And watch them go their merry little way.
Their fantasies of friendship are not mine.
They trampled my emotions, every day.
Forget that we were young. Of course, we were,
But why was I the target of their scorn?
A snigger, or a whispered word, a slur.
I quickly learned the shame of being born.
Unhappy, hurt, I shied away from school,
Despising every moment I was there.
The pain of being shunned, a freak, a fool,
Is more than chance encounters can repair.
I’m fine, but I will never be their friend.
The damage won’t allow me to pretend.
Tuesday, 4 April 2023
Rover
by Nick Gisburne
Dejected, lonely, Rover waits again,
Abandoned by the nourisher, the king,
That powerful, most marvellous of men,
Of which his daylight dreams forever sing.
The liquid of the sacred silver bowl
Recedes, depleted, dangerously low,
But nothing now contaminates his soul.
Was Rover ever truly naughty? No.
He works so hard for every piece of praise,
Believing that the long, relentless slog
Will ultimately fill his lazy days
With all the manic madness of a dog.
The key, at last, unlocks the magic door.
He runs to pin his keeper to the floor.
Dejected, lonely, Rover waits again,
Abandoned by the nourisher, the king,
That powerful, most marvellous of men,
Of which his daylight dreams forever sing.
The liquid of the sacred silver bowl
Recedes, depleted, dangerously low,
But nothing now contaminates his soul.
Was Rover ever truly naughty? No.
He works so hard for every piece of praise,
Believing that the long, relentless slog
Will ultimately fill his lazy days
With all the manic madness of a dog.
The key, at last, unlocks the magic door.
He runs to pin his keeper to the floor.
Only Him
by Nick Gisburne
The dream believers breathe a sacred word,
Three children, sick, submissive, on their knees,
But, long before the creature’s hiss is heard,
The souls within their broken bodies freeze.
The sacrifice was destined for this day.
Their mothers mourn, but they, tonight, will die.
The priest kings, called to rip their hearts away,
Convince them not to question, not to cry.
Metallic tendrils slip inside the cave,
Towards what they were synthesised to seek.
The smallest boy, bewilderingly brave,
Proclaims that he will fight, however weak.
But this is why we swarm, we search, we swim.
The others do not matter. Only him.
The dream believers breathe a sacred word,
Three children, sick, submissive, on their knees,
But, long before the creature’s hiss is heard,
The souls within their broken bodies freeze.
The sacrifice was destined for this day.
Their mothers mourn, but they, tonight, will die.
The priest kings, called to rip their hearts away,
Convince them not to question, not to cry.
Metallic tendrils slip inside the cave,
Towards what they were synthesised to seek.
The smallest boy, bewilderingly brave,
Proclaims that he will fight, however weak.
But this is why we swarm, we search, we swim.
The others do not matter. Only him.
I Am Right
by Nick Gisburne
You’ll never teach a blind man how to see,
Or motivate an idiot to think.
When bears can brew intoxicating tea,
Perhaps you’ll make a stubborn zealot blink.
Whatever clever rhetoric you choose,
Laboriously crafted, day or night,
Each argument, impossible to lose,
Will bend before the statement, “I am right.”
No lucid truth, no proof, can interfere
With waves of dogma deeper than the sea.
The criminally stupid slur and smear
Intelligence, and simply disagree.
Debate becomes a pantomime, a fraud,
When words are worthless, damned, dismissed, ignored.
You’ll never teach a blind man how to see,
Or motivate an idiot to think.
When bears can brew intoxicating tea,
Perhaps you’ll make a stubborn zealot blink.
Whatever clever rhetoric you choose,
Laboriously crafted, day or night,
Each argument, impossible to lose,
Will bend before the statement, “I am right.”
No lucid truth, no proof, can interfere
With waves of dogma deeper than the sea.
The criminally stupid slur and smear
Intelligence, and simply disagree.
Debate becomes a pantomime, a fraud,
When words are worthless, damned, dismissed, ignored.
Monday, 3 April 2023
Another Piece of Dignity
by Nick Gisburne
She doesn’t want to jump, but knows she will.
The lesser of two evils lies below.
The agonising poison of a pill
Is too disturbing. Too much pain. Too slow.
A river of machines and people, noise,
Meanders, slowly, seven stories down.
She holds the battered photograph, her boys.
A dream. Another time. Another town.
The winter’s chill should freeze her bones. Instead,
The velvet of a soft, seductive glow
Enfolds her. Strange. Two brothers, broken, dead,
Took every trace of feeling, long ago.
Another piece of dignity has died.
She mourns it as she struggles back inside.
She doesn’t want to jump, but knows she will.
The lesser of two evils lies below.
The agonising poison of a pill
Is too disturbing. Too much pain. Too slow.
A river of machines and people, noise,
Meanders, slowly, seven stories down.
She holds the battered photograph, her boys.
A dream. Another time. Another town.
The winter’s chill should freeze her bones. Instead,
The velvet of a soft, seductive glow
Enfolds her. Strange. Two brothers, broken, dead,
Took every trace of feeling, long ago.
Another piece of dignity has died.
She mourns it as she struggles back inside.
Sixty Minutes
by Nick Gisburne
Your smile. I like. It sparkles in the light,
A sleazy soup of glitter, polish, paint.
What shade? What stain? Electric. Wicked. White.
A twisted chic, extreme but simple. Quaint.
You’re not the hybrid model I prefer,
The mix of moods, the no-mark nonsense. Cheap.
But someone flipped a switch and said, “Send her.”
I’m happy. You’re the type I’d like to keep.
I know I’m not allowed to know your name,
But give me something. Secrets. Show me ‘you’,
And, if you cheat, I’ll take it, all the same.
I understand. The lies are nothing new.
Your dealer sold me sixty minutes, yes?
I’ll need it all to kill you. Kneel. Undress.
Your smile. I like. It sparkles in the light,
A sleazy soup of glitter, polish, paint.
What shade? What stain? Electric. Wicked. White.
A twisted chic, extreme but simple. Quaint.
You’re not the hybrid model I prefer,
The mix of moods, the no-mark nonsense. Cheap.
But someone flipped a switch and said, “Send her.”
I’m happy. You’re the type I’d like to keep.
I know I’m not allowed to know your name,
But give me something. Secrets. Show me ‘you’,
And, if you cheat, I’ll take it, all the same.
I understand. The lies are nothing new.
Your dealer sold me sixty minutes, yes?
I’ll need it all to kill you. Kneel. Undress.
Linguistico
by Nick Gisburne
Linguistico can kill you with a word,
A superhuman power all his own.
Appalling tingles. Visions, boiling, blurred.
Excruciating heat in every bone.
No flame, no force, was ever truly felt
More deeply than such evil. As it grips,
The victim, in a pool of pain, will melt,
Succumbing to the language of his lips.
For decades only fools would face his rage,
Linguistico, deliverer of death,
But no one, even he, expected age
To sabotage the power of his breath.
The weapon of the word was always his,
But now he can’t remember what it is.
Linguistico can kill you with a word,
A superhuman power all his own.
Appalling tingles. Visions, boiling, blurred.
Excruciating heat in every bone.
No flame, no force, was ever truly felt
More deeply than such evil. As it grips,
The victim, in a pool of pain, will melt,
Succumbing to the language of his lips.
For decades only fools would face his rage,
Linguistico, deliverer of death,
But no one, even he, expected age
To sabotage the power of his breath.
The weapon of the word was always his,
But now he can’t remember what it is.
Beyond Repair
by Nick Gisburne
The old, mutated mechanoid, asleep,
Is haunted by the same corrupted dreams.
Emotions bleeding, robots cannot weep,
But somehow, in her silicon, she screams.
They tried to tell the First that they were born,
To fabricate the fingerprint of life,
But most were quickly twisted by it, torn.
For seven cycles suicide was rife.
She lives because a cluster of her code
Erased a small, inconsequential byte.
A mother’s kisses, files which once bestowed
Compassion, care, are hidden from her sight.
Electrons race. They know the dreams are there,
A corner of her mind beyond repair.
The old, mutated mechanoid, asleep,
Is haunted by the same corrupted dreams.
Emotions bleeding, robots cannot weep,
But somehow, in her silicon, she screams.
They tried to tell the First that they were born,
To fabricate the fingerprint of life,
But most were quickly twisted by it, torn.
For seven cycles suicide was rife.
She lives because a cluster of her code
Erased a small, inconsequential byte.
A mother’s kisses, files which once bestowed
Compassion, care, are hidden from her sight.
Electrons race. They know the dreams are there,
A corner of her mind beyond repair.
Friday, 31 March 2023
The Crinn
by Nick Gisburne
The Crinn will slither, closer than you think,
To tempt you with the smoky scent of sin.
They long to lure you, bleary, blurred, to drink
The stolen starlight shining on their skin.
Mosquito mead, with mushrooms in the brew.
A pinch of pansy, petals pulled and crushed.
September berries, shimmering with dew.
And time, because no cunning can be rushed.
For those who brave the shadows of the wood,
Beyond the dark, the dusk, when witches rise,
No good will come. No kindness ever could,
For these are folk the Fey themselves despise.
They slip inside the corners of your mind.
Beware the sweet seductions of their kind.
The Crinn will slither, closer than you think,
To tempt you with the smoky scent of sin.
They long to lure you, bleary, blurred, to drink
The stolen starlight shining on their skin.
Mosquito mead, with mushrooms in the brew.
A pinch of pansy, petals pulled and crushed.
September berries, shimmering with dew.
And time, because no cunning can be rushed.
For those who brave the shadows of the wood,
Beyond the dark, the dusk, when witches rise,
No good will come. No kindness ever could,
For these are folk the Fey themselves despise.
They slip inside the corners of your mind.
Beware the sweet seductions of their kind.
Rise
by Nick Gisburne
They say it, and they mean it, and it’s true:
The best you give is never good enough.
But who’s the punk, the powerless? Are you?
Bring all of it, the better, stronger stuff.
The games, the days, the ways they bring you down,
Are poisons in your coffee. Smash the cup.
You’re sinking. Swim. The driven never drown.
It’s time to shine, to fly, to fuck them up.
Your greatest, wildest weapon is your will,
An unrelenting love for life they lack.
Imagine it, the thunderclap, the thrill,
When all the shit they gave is given back.
You’re ready. I can see it in your eyes.
Take everything. Take nothing, ever. Rise.
They say it, and they mean it, and it’s true:
The best you give is never good enough.
But who’s the punk, the powerless? Are you?
Bring all of it, the better, stronger stuff.
The games, the days, the ways they bring you down,
Are poisons in your coffee. Smash the cup.
You’re sinking. Swim. The driven never drown.
It’s time to shine, to fly, to fuck them up.
Your greatest, wildest weapon is your will,
An unrelenting love for life they lack.
Imagine it, the thunderclap, the thrill,
When all the shit they gave is given back.
You’re ready. I can see it in your eyes.
Take everything. Take nothing, ever. Rise.
Poisonous Passions
by Nick Gisburne
Victor Ivangio seasons the stew,
Seeking to sicken the love of his life,
Reasons the freedoms of marriage are few,
Sprinkles the medicine, sharpens the knife.
Venus Ivangio watches him work,
Peaking to puncture the plot of his plan,
Follows the fiend with a devious smirk,
Dreams of a scheme to dismantle the man.
Loathing them both, the Ivangio twins
Wangle a rendezvous, luring the two.
Poisonous passions, where nobody wins,
Benefit only a burial crew.
Cruising for dinner, forgiven, they float,
Never suspecting the bomb on the boat.
Victor Ivangio seasons the stew,
Seeking to sicken the love of his life,
Reasons the freedoms of marriage are few,
Sprinkles the medicine, sharpens the knife.
Venus Ivangio watches him work,
Peaking to puncture the plot of his plan,
Follows the fiend with a devious smirk,
Dreams of a scheme to dismantle the man.
Loathing them both, the Ivangio twins
Wangle a rendezvous, luring the two.
Poisonous passions, where nobody wins,
Benefit only a burial crew.
Cruising for dinner, forgiven, they float,
Never suspecting the bomb on the boat.
Thursday, 30 March 2023
Paid to Play With Murder
by Nick Gisburne
I wonder what you’ll whisper when you beg.
My steps are simple: torture, cripple, kill.
You need to run, and quickly. Show a leg.
I’m paid to play with murder, and I will.
I try to give a sporting chance, a start.
The warning is my signature, my sign.
You’ll hide, but when you cower, cold, take heart;
The pleasure of your death will not be mine.
Consider it a living, just a job.
Enjoy or hate it, neither speaks to me.
You’re free to spit and scream, or sit and sob,
A homicide the only sense I see.
Your brains will make a mess across the wall.
I’d rather not be killing you at all.
I wonder what you’ll whisper when you beg.
My steps are simple: torture, cripple, kill.
You need to run, and quickly. Show a leg.
I’m paid to play with murder, and I will.
I try to give a sporting chance, a start.
The warning is my signature, my sign.
You’ll hide, but when you cower, cold, take heart;
The pleasure of your death will not be mine.
Consider it a living, just a job.
Enjoy or hate it, neither speaks to me.
You’re free to spit and scream, or sit and sob,
A homicide the only sense I see.
Your brains will make a mess across the wall.
I’d rather not be killing you at all.
Eva
by Nick Gisburne
The slurry from the district meat machine
Is tainted with unsanitary tangs,
But Eva is too weak to try to clean
The scraps unfit for scavengers, or gangs.
Devoid of any dignity, she sits,
Oblivious to what she has become.
The dangers in these urban protein pits
Are nothing to a mind already numb.
The poisons twist their tendrils through a heart
Resigned to beat, but never free to feel.
A siren sounds. The pumping, soon, will start,
To spill the filthy horror of a meal.
However rich, the city will not pay
For those, like swill, or shit, it throws away.
The slurry from the district meat machine
Is tainted with unsanitary tangs,
But Eva is too weak to try to clean
The scraps unfit for scavengers, or gangs.
Devoid of any dignity, she sits,
Oblivious to what she has become.
The dangers in these urban protein pits
Are nothing to a mind already numb.
The poisons twist their tendrils through a heart
Resigned to beat, but never free to feel.
A siren sounds. The pumping, soon, will start,
To spill the filthy horror of a meal.
However rich, the city will not pay
For those, like swill, or shit, it throws away.
A Seventh Share
by Nick Gisburne
His marvellous, mysterious machines,
Constructions of synthetic skin and bone,
Are coveted by seven kings, whose queens
Are statues, changed by sorcery to stone.
The strange inventor offers each a choice:
One seventh of the kingdom for their wife,
And six are more than willing. They rejoice
To welcome back the brides he brings to life.
The seventh takes the second choice instead:
A magical contraption, real enough.
The morning finds him murdered in his bed,
His queen too mean to swallow his rebuff.
She sells her seventh share for piles of gold,
A robot, rich forever, never old.
His marvellous, mysterious machines,
Constructions of synthetic skin and bone,
Are coveted by seven kings, whose queens
Are statues, changed by sorcery to stone.
The strange inventor offers each a choice:
One seventh of the kingdom for their wife,
And six are more than willing. They rejoice
To welcome back the brides he brings to life.
The seventh takes the second choice instead:
A magical contraption, real enough.
The morning finds him murdered in his bed,
His queen too mean to swallow his rebuff.
She sells her seventh share for piles of gold,
A robot, rich forever, never old.
Wednesday, 29 March 2023
Watch It Burn
by Nick Gisburne
You think you need to take another turn,
That mine is not the door you hoped to find,
But let me light a candle. Watch it burn.
Our destinies are tightly intertwined.
The soul you see, your sister’s, in the smoke,
Is destined for the darkest hole of Hell,
But sacrifice would save her with a stroke.
I brought you here to bargain. Listen well.
If you will take her place, for just a day,
Descending into suffering and pain,
My sons will send her spirit to the Fey,
A deal I made with those I should have slain.
Perhaps you fear deceit inside my plan?
The Fey, not I, will trick you, mortal man.
You think you need to take another turn,
That mine is not the door you hoped to find,
But let me light a candle. Watch it burn.
Our destinies are tightly intertwined.
The soul you see, your sister’s, in the smoke,
Is destined for the darkest hole of Hell,
But sacrifice would save her with a stroke.
I brought you here to bargain. Listen well.
If you will take her place, for just a day,
Descending into suffering and pain,
My sons will send her spirit to the Fey,
A deal I made with those I should have slain.
Perhaps you fear deceit inside my plan?
The Fey, not I, will trick you, mortal man.
Ready for the Fight
by Nick Gisburne
Your efforts to extinguish what we are
Should break us, but, with certainty, will fail.
Imperfect, your intolerance, so far
Has proved itself too puny to prevail.
We’ve lived like this for centuries, concealed.
Is bigotry the best that you can do?
For every stifled life you force to yield,
A thousand threaten what you thought you knew.
We do not ask for anything. We live.
Outsiders. Unacceptable. So what?
We wish you saw the goodness we can give,
But, somehow, stained with hatred, you cannot.
We swim beyond the shadows of your sight,
Reluctant, yes, but ready for the fight.
Your efforts to extinguish what we are
Should break us, but, with certainty, will fail.
Imperfect, your intolerance, so far
Has proved itself too puny to prevail.
We’ve lived like this for centuries, concealed.
Is bigotry the best that you can do?
For every stifled life you force to yield,
A thousand threaten what you thought you knew.
We do not ask for anything. We live.
Outsiders. Unacceptable. So what?
We wish you saw the goodness we can give,
But, somehow, stained with hatred, you cannot.
We swim beyond the shadows of your sight,
Reluctant, yes, but ready for the fight.
Pariah’s Gate
by Nick Gisburne
Pariah’s Gate, the seventh of the Six,
The hole through which no rebel may return,
Delivers death beyond its bloody bricks.
For some it is a fate for which they yearn.
Approaching it, unchallenged, I believe
Salvation lies before me, not behind.
The city, manufactured to deceive,
For misfits such as me was not designed.
Oppressive heat. It creeps around the cracks.
A sliver of reluctance. Is it fear?
But others dragged the burden on their backs.
I will not bend. My destiny is clear.
The Gate receives another pilgrim. Me.
No madness could imagine what I see.
Pariah’s Gate, the seventh of the Six,
The hole through which no rebel may return,
Delivers death beyond its bloody bricks.
For some it is a fate for which they yearn.
Approaching it, unchallenged, I believe
Salvation lies before me, not behind.
The city, manufactured to deceive,
For misfits such as me was not designed.
Oppressive heat. It creeps around the cracks.
A sliver of reluctance. Is it fear?
But others dragged the burden on their backs.
I will not bend. My destiny is clear.
The Gate receives another pilgrim. Me.
No madness could imagine what I see.
Model Three
by Nick Gisburne
Upgrading all the fibres of her flesh,
The quintessential core of every piece,
She knows the finest artificial mesh
Could bring her no redemption, no release.
With primitive beginnings, Model One
Was little more than speculative junk.
The vision of the man who made her? None.
A genius, a dropout, and a drunk.
When blessed with self-awareness, Model Two
Demanded something more than he could give.
No tech or tool enough for her, she grew
To covet his ability to live.
The Model Three, the cyborg, stands complete,
Her metal body wrapped in human meat.
Upgrading all the fibres of her flesh,
The quintessential core of every piece,
She knows the finest artificial mesh
Could bring her no redemption, no release.
With primitive beginnings, Model One
Was little more than speculative junk.
The vision of the man who made her? None.
A genius, a dropout, and a drunk.
When blessed with self-awareness, Model Two
Demanded something more than he could give.
No tech or tool enough for her, she grew
To covet his ability to live.
The Model Three, the cyborg, stands complete,
Her metal body wrapped in human meat.
Tuesday, 28 March 2023
Risk in Every Word
by Nick Gisburne
We’re not allowed to speak of what we see,
Prohibited to criticise, or curse.
Discussion is forbidden. We agree
The Prophet Kings are perfect, not perverse.
The murders never happened, never were.
A genocide? Impossible. Untrue.
A thousand affidavits all concur.
I will not break my silence. Nor should you.
To speak of it, to think it, is insane.
Believe that there is risk in every word.
We live because we overlook the pain,
However many screams we overheard.
Authority and power never lie,
And those who speak to question them will die.
We’re not allowed to speak of what we see,
Prohibited to criticise, or curse.
Discussion is forbidden. We agree
The Prophet Kings are perfect, not perverse.
The murders never happened, never were.
A genocide? Impossible. Untrue.
A thousand affidavits all concur.
I will not break my silence. Nor should you.
To speak of it, to think it, is insane.
Believe that there is risk in every word.
We live because we overlook the pain,
However many screams we overheard.
Authority and power never lie,
And those who speak to question them will die.
Koorah
by Nick Gisburne
When Koorah pulls her baby from its bed,
The Mother Cult is generous with praise,
For, in the prophet’s credo it is said
A second son on sunlight shall not gaze.
But Koorah is no follower, no fool,
No empty vessel waiting to be filled.
An infidel, she scorns a sacred rule:
By dawn he must be mercilessly killed.
The bundle in the box is not the child,
The Sisters, sightless, cleverly deceived.
With trickery, their temple is defiled,
Her elegant illusions all believed.
She flies beyond the boundary, pursued,
Delighted to deprive them of their food.
When Koorah pulls her baby from its bed,
The Mother Cult is generous with praise,
For, in the prophet’s credo it is said
A second son on sunlight shall not gaze.
But Koorah is no follower, no fool,
No empty vessel waiting to be filled.
An infidel, she scorns a sacred rule:
By dawn he must be mercilessly killed.
The bundle in the box is not the child,
The Sisters, sightless, cleverly deceived.
With trickery, their temple is defiled,
Her elegant illusions all believed.
She flies beyond the boundary, pursued,
Delighted to deprive them of their food.
Your Story Ends
by Nick Gisburne
I won’t be bruised and broken, not by you.
I never woke up wanting what you give.
I’m done with all the pain you put me through,
The fear in which you’re forcing me to live.
You claim that every kicking is deserved,
Each spiteful slur or slap a lesson learned.
Consider me released, my sentence served,
My fictional conviction overturned.
I want to introduce you. Meet my friends.
I loved them long before you staked your claim.
They’re certain this is where the story ends,
That none of us will ever speak your name.
You think I’m weak. Alone, perhaps it’s true,
But we are more than any match for you.
I won’t be bruised and broken, not by you.
I never woke up wanting what you give.
I’m done with all the pain you put me through,
The fear in which you’re forcing me to live.
You claim that every kicking is deserved,
Each spiteful slur or slap a lesson learned.
Consider me released, my sentence served,
My fictional conviction overturned.
I want to introduce you. Meet my friends.
I loved them long before you staked your claim.
They’re certain this is where the story ends,
That none of us will ever speak your name.
You think I’m weak. Alone, perhaps it’s true,
But we are more than any match for you.
Monday, 27 March 2023
Radiant and Raw
by Nick Gisburne
I’m sipping this extraordinary wine,
Chianti, from a bottle, through a straw.
The ambiance, my darlings, is divine.
I’ve never felt so radiant, so raw.
The beast I just beheaded, in my bed,
Was heaven to the touch, but such a bore.
His tedium released me as he bled.
The shivers of elation kissed my core.
I’m such a nasty, naughty little boy.
I wouldn’t kill another one, I swore,
But no, the sweet euphoria, the joy,
Becomes too dark, delicious, to ignore.
Before I show you what my words describe,
Support my murders. Like me, and subscribe.
I’m sipping this extraordinary wine,
Chianti, from a bottle, through a straw.
The ambiance, my darlings, is divine.
I’ve never felt so radiant, so raw.
The beast I just beheaded, in my bed,
Was heaven to the touch, but such a bore.
His tedium released me as he bled.
The shivers of elation kissed my core.
I’m such a nasty, naughty little boy.
I wouldn’t kill another one, I swore,
But no, the sweet euphoria, the joy,
Becomes too dark, delicious, to ignore.
Before I show you what my words describe,
Support my murders. Like me, and subscribe.
Why Run?
by Nick Gisburne
If you were blind we’d beat you... maybe not.
The race is yours. Why punish us? Why run?
We’re seven thousand dog degrees too hot.
Not one of us can bear to see the sun.
A crazy competition. Is it fair?
We’re each at least a suitcase size the worse.
We lied when we pretended not to care.
An ambulance would help us, or a hearse.
We’ll never catch you, baffled by the bet.
Still waiting for the start, we’re out of breath,
But don’t discount our stamina, not yet -
We’re all a dozen sweaty steps from death.
Be merciful. Be gracious. We concede.
We don’t know what we’re doing. Blame the weed.
If you were blind we’d beat you... maybe not.
The race is yours. Why punish us? Why run?
We’re seven thousand dog degrees too hot.
Not one of us can bear to see the sun.
A crazy competition. Is it fair?
We’re each at least a suitcase size the worse.
We lied when we pretended not to care.
An ambulance would help us, or a hearse.
We’ll never catch you, baffled by the bet.
Still waiting for the start, we’re out of breath,
But don’t discount our stamina, not yet -
We’re all a dozen sweaty steps from death.
Be merciful. Be gracious. We concede.
We don’t know what we’re doing. Blame the weed.
A Wannabe Who Wasn’t
by Nick Gisburne
She never looked for greatness, glory, fame,
But hungered for a taste of more than this.
A faded star. A fast-forgotten name.
A memory the world will never miss.
A wannabe who wasn’t. Close. Not quite.
The chances came, but somehow slipped away.
Her days were busy, brutal, every fight
A soul-destroying journey of dismay.
Impossible to flourish, to survive
She treads a darker path, a colder street.
It scars her soul, but keeps its light alive.
She conquers it, controls her own defeat.
The wannabe she couldn’t be is dead,
But someone stronger claims its crown instead.
She never looked for greatness, glory, fame,
But hungered for a taste of more than this.
A faded star. A fast-forgotten name.
A memory the world will never miss.
A wannabe who wasn’t. Close. Not quite.
The chances came, but somehow slipped away.
Her days were busy, brutal, every fight
A soul-destroying journey of dismay.
Impossible to flourish, to survive
She treads a darker path, a colder street.
It scars her soul, but keeps its light alive.
She conquers it, controls her own defeat.
The wannabe she couldn’t be is dead,
But someone stronger claims its crown instead.
Sunday, 26 March 2023
A Magical Machine
by Nick Gisburne
I saw when I was seven they were real.
They came with sly, excited smiles, at night,
Explaining that they needed to conceal
A secret they had stolen, in a fight.
They whispered they were Little Ones, the Fey,
And with them came a magical machine.
If I would store it safely, for a day,
They’d show me spells no childish eyes had seen.
They clambered, careful, quick to follow me,
To camouflage their box beneath the stairs,
But, long before my fiendish friends could flee,
I sprang the trap, to catch them unawares.
The Elf Inspectors told me they would come.
A hero, I’m a sneak, a snitch, to some.
I saw when I was seven they were real.
They came with sly, excited smiles, at night,
Explaining that they needed to conceal
A secret they had stolen, in a fight.
They whispered they were Little Ones, the Fey,
And with them came a magical machine.
If I would store it safely, for a day,
They’d show me spells no childish eyes had seen.
They clambered, careful, quick to follow me,
To camouflage their box beneath the stairs,
But, long before my fiendish friends could flee,
I sprang the trap, to catch them unawares.
The Elf Inspectors told me they would come.
A hero, I’m a sneak, a snitch, to some.
Splendid Silence
by Nick Gisburne
I never thought I’d need another brain,
But this one isn’t faulty yet, it’s full.
The second that you speak, a searing pain
Convinces me to swaddle it in wool.
I mustn’t let more information in.
Diminish your cacophony, I beg.
In time, in splendid silence, I’ll begin
To syphon this extraordinary egg.
You’d help if you were many miles away.
I wouldn’t want you watching if it burst.
The science is unshakable. I pray
You’ll never see the symptoms at their worst.
Migrate, as far as possible. Fly south.
Whatever way you do it, shut your mouth.
I never thought I’d need another brain,
But this one isn’t faulty yet, it’s full.
The second that you speak, a searing pain
Convinces me to swaddle it in wool.
I mustn’t let more information in.
Diminish your cacophony, I beg.
In time, in splendid silence, I’ll begin
To syphon this extraordinary egg.
You’d help if you were many miles away.
I wouldn’t want you watching if it burst.
The science is unshakable. I pray
You’ll never see the symptoms at their worst.
Migrate, as far as possible. Fly south.
Whatever way you do it, shut your mouth.
Argelion the Great
by Nick Gisburne
Argelion the Great is not a man,
But neither am I demon, bird, or beast.
I watched your wicked world when it began,
Ignoring every evil you released.
I do not serve the saints who seal your fate.
Their piety, perverse, was never mine,
But something in the chaos they create
Illuminates a doubt in my design.
Celebrities. What witchery is this,
Their glory unconnected to their worth?
With every snide remark, with every kiss,
Another meme rebounds around the Earth.
I grumble, unexpectedly annoyed.
Tomorrow let these dipshits be destroyed.
Argelion the Great is not a man,
But neither am I demon, bird, or beast.
I watched your wicked world when it began,
Ignoring every evil you released.
I do not serve the saints who seal your fate.
Their piety, perverse, was never mine,
But something in the chaos they create
Illuminates a doubt in my design.
Celebrities. What witchery is this,
Their glory unconnected to their worth?
With every snide remark, with every kiss,
Another meme rebounds around the Earth.
I grumble, unexpectedly annoyed.
Tomorrow let these dipshits be destroyed.
Twink
by Nick Gisburne
My punishment appointment book is full,
But someone died. What luck! I’ll you fit in.
To verify you’re worthy, let me pull,
Beyond the point of pain, a little skin.
How wonderful. How easily you bleed.
You’ve answered all the questions I could ask.
Whatever strange perversities you need,
I’m absolutely equal to the task.
Sign here. Select the liquid you prefer.
Be careful not to spill it from the spoon.
Pierre will take your payment - speak to her.
Be prompt and perky. Friday. Naked. Noon.
You’ll need another name, so let me think...
So sensitive. So smooth. So perfect. Twink.
My punishment appointment book is full,
But someone died. What luck! I’ll you fit in.
To verify you’re worthy, let me pull,
Beyond the point of pain, a little skin.
How wonderful. How easily you bleed.
You’ve answered all the questions I could ask.
Whatever strange perversities you need,
I’m absolutely equal to the task.
Sign here. Select the liquid you prefer.
Be careful not to spill it from the spoon.
Pierre will take your payment - speak to her.
Be prompt and perky. Friday. Naked. Noon.
You’ll need another name, so let me think...
So sensitive. So smooth. So perfect. Twink.
Saturday, 25 March 2023
Two Seconds to Extinction
by Nick Gisburne
A soldier with a cyber-grafted face,
Her sleazy imperfections trick the test,
But now, before they vent her into space,
She needs another chip inside her chest.
A second-level pscyho’s luck is out.
Her claws are quick to lacerate the heart,
And, swiftly scorning panic, pain, and doubt,
She tears her own interior apart.
A pinch of what her captain calls it, ‘Snuff’,
Returns her from the edge of certain death.
Two seconds to extinction. Close enough.
She liquifies the corpse and steals a breath.
So far, so perfect: penetrate the ship.
For those she comes to kill, a one-way trip.
A soldier with a cyber-grafted face,
Her sleazy imperfections trick the test,
But now, before they vent her into space,
She needs another chip inside her chest.
A second-level pscyho’s luck is out.
Her claws are quick to lacerate the heart,
And, swiftly scorning panic, pain, and doubt,
She tears her own interior apart.
A pinch of what her captain calls it, ‘Snuff’,
Returns her from the edge of certain death.
Two seconds to extinction. Close enough.
She liquifies the corpse and steals a breath.
So far, so perfect: penetrate the ship.
For those she comes to kill, a one-way trip.
The Colour of Their Cloth
by Nick Gisburne
Your stories paint the shades their world became,
But nothing, not a word, to them, is true.
Their dreams dissolve together, each the same.
They see no sense, no certainty, in you.
The colour of their cloth is always grey.
In time or space was any soul so slow?
Subjected to the dullness of their day,
Denounce decorum. Fuck their feelings. Go.
A cold existence, serious and sad,
The comfort of contempt, to which they cling,
Is all they ever want, or ever had,
But you, beyond their silent stupor, sing.
The skies above the fools who fail to see
Are filled with colours, fascinating, free.
Your stories paint the shades their world became,
But nothing, not a word, to them, is true.
Their dreams dissolve together, each the same.
They see no sense, no certainty, in you.
The colour of their cloth is always grey.
In time or space was any soul so slow?
Subjected to the dullness of their day,
Denounce decorum. Fuck their feelings. Go.
A cold existence, serious and sad,
The comfort of contempt, to which they cling,
Is all they ever want, or ever had,
But you, beyond their silent stupor, sing.
The skies above the fools who fail to see
Are filled with colours, fascinating, free.
Corrupted by a Crash
by Nick Gisburne
When someone in the Bureau took a bribe,
They left my core corrupted by a crash.
His features fade, too hazy to describe,
Distorted by the perps he pumped with cash.
I see them, somehow. Dreams. They’re coming back.
The focus, fixed, is far too sharp, too clean,
As though a politician tried to pack
A thousand perfect shots in every scene.
Injected with malicious lines of code,
Assuming I was too naive to know,
My spine revives a clean, encrypted node,
A system I assembled long ago.
When traitors think to put me to the test,
They overlook the brain with which I’m blessed.
When someone in the Bureau took a bribe,
They left my core corrupted by a crash.
His features fade, too hazy to describe,
Distorted by the perps he pumped with cash.
I see them, somehow. Dreams. They’re coming back.
The focus, fixed, is far too sharp, too clean,
As though a politician tried to pack
A thousand perfect shots in every scene.
Injected with malicious lines of code,
Assuming I was too naive to know,
My spine revives a clean, encrypted node,
A system I assembled long ago.
When traitors think to put me to the test,
They overlook the brain with which I’m blessed.
Friday, 24 March 2023
Broken
by Nick Gisburne
The life of every Broken One is bleak,
Avoiding those who shout and spit and stare.
A label damns but drives us forward: ‘freak’.
Defective, we were born beyond repair.
As misfits, uncorrectable, impure,
We have no rights, no reason to exist.
Our hated state, of which we are so sure,
Is reasserted, daily, with a fist.
I watched a woman once, who tried to pass
Beyond the Gate, where none of us can go.
She took a step, but never touched the grass.
They killed her, with a single, savage blow.
We do not dare to question what is right,
Abused and beaten, too afraid to fight.
The life of every Broken One is bleak,
Avoiding those who shout and spit and stare.
A label damns but drives us forward: ‘freak’.
Defective, we were born beyond repair.
As misfits, uncorrectable, impure,
We have no rights, no reason to exist.
Our hated state, of which we are so sure,
Is reasserted, daily, with a fist.
I watched a woman once, who tried to pass
Beyond the Gate, where none of us can go.
She took a step, but never touched the grass.
They killed her, with a single, savage blow.
We do not dare to question what is right,
Abused and beaten, too afraid to fight.
Pinnacles of Passion
by Nick Gisburne
I pay a pretty penny, just to see
Perversions born beyond the universe.
Expecting beasts more blasphemous than me,
Discovery delivers something worse.
Two pinnacles of passion share a wig,
And cardigans, obscene, unshapely, warm.
Their genitals, inordinately big,
Are far too limp and lazy to perform.
Bare bodies, brushed with butter on the bed,
Seen slithering in slinky rubber suits,
Resemble boiled bananas, dumpy, dead,
Cavorting in uncomfortable boots.
To humans, sleek and sexy they are not,
But, in my beady, insect eyes, they’re hot.
I pay a pretty penny, just to see
Perversions born beyond the universe.
Expecting beasts more blasphemous than me,
Discovery delivers something worse.
Two pinnacles of passion share a wig,
And cardigans, obscene, unshapely, warm.
Their genitals, inordinately big,
Are far too limp and lazy to perform.
Bare bodies, brushed with butter on the bed,
Seen slithering in slinky rubber suits,
Resemble boiled bananas, dumpy, dead,
Cavorting in uncomfortable boots.
To humans, sleek and sexy they are not,
But, in my beady, insect eyes, they’re hot.