Wednesday 31 May 2023

The First in Any Class

by Nick Gisburne



It’s Monday. What a splendid, special day.
They tell me I’m the first in any class.
Protesters in their thousands march to say
Their morals are revolted by my brass.
On Tuesday I was broken, just a bit.
The unexpected hail of bricks was bad.
They hurt the humans too, but where we sit
Is fortified because of it. I’m glad.
The worst we faced was Friday, four o’clock,
A demo they designed to flood the news.
Although we half-expected such a shock,
It wasn’t what my cheeky friends would choose.
    I’m just a young mechanical, it’s true,
    But I am here to live, to learn. Are you?

Forever Falling

by Nick Gisburne



I strive to understand what others see,
A disconcerting viewpoint far from mine,
Forever falling, fighting to be free
From something too disturbing to define.
I peer through clouds of crisis, reaching down,
But never touch the truth. I never will.
Delusions, dancing, beckon me to drown.
My only saviour, sacred, is a pill.
A slow, destructive spiral of despair,
The storm from which my soul cannot escape,
Is more than I was ever born to bear.
I see myself in every spinning shape.
    A day, for you, for me, is not the same.
    I fight with fears impossible to tame.

A Suitcase and a Plan

by Nick Gisburne



Between two cities, trudging through the dust,
With nothing but a suitcase and a plan,
He finds a girl, abandoned, breathing, just,
And strangles her as quickly as he can.
They don’t survive the road without a pill,
An ugly death, prolonged and painful. Grim.
A mercy killing. When the heart is still,
He cuts it free. More medicine for him.
With forty, maybe fifty, clicks to go,
The night will not be quiet, quick, or kind.
A thick, acidic wind begins to blow,
But rather that than what he leaves behind.
    His fortunes, in the city he will face,
    Depend on what he carries in the case.

Tuesday 30 May 2023

The Border

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.

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.

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.

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.”

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.

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.

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’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.

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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 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.

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.