by Nick Gisburne
Destroy. Despise. Dehumanise. Repeat.
Drain every drop of blood. Dismantle bone.
Expose the pain that we, the dark elite,
Resplendent, strip to stain the altar stone.
Misguided martyrs, cold, untainted, fresh.
Their cries will crack, unanswered. Let them scream.
Depravity brings flavour to the flesh.
Deny them no perversion, no extreme.
Impale them on the terror of our name,
Demolishing the meaning of their own.
Delivered to the sacrificial flame,
Dispatch them with indignity, alone.
The greedy beasts of industry must eat.
Destroy. Despise. Dehumanise. Repeat.
Tuesday, 26 May 2026
The Quarter: Tomorrow
by Nick Gisburne
We all remember how it went before,
When malice left the room, a liar’s kiss.
We felt it coming, knew they needed more.
It never seemed so final, not like this.
We finished it, together. Who knows how?
Perhaps we just had nothing left to lose.
With fear they forced us all to kneel or bow,
But not to love the colour of their shoes.
Alone, without the terror of a fist,
We mourn, but not for something that we lost.
We’re peering at a sunrise, through the mist,
Uncertain who we are, what life will cost.
Tomorrow is a hole we have to fill.
We cannot see the future, but we will.
We all remember how it went before,
When malice left the room, a liar’s kiss.
We felt it coming, knew they needed more.
It never seemed so final, not like this.
We finished it, together. Who knows how?
Perhaps we just had nothing left to lose.
With fear they forced us all to kneel or bow,
But not to love the colour of their shoes.
Alone, without the terror of a fist,
We mourn, but not for something that we lost.
We’re peering at a sunrise, through the mist,
Uncertain who we are, what life will cost.
Tomorrow is a hole we have to fill.
We cannot see the future, but we will.
Monday, 25 May 2026
Government Guidelines: War is War
by Nick Gisburne
Your government can actively assert
That all suspended statutes are restored.
Additional restrictions will divert
More migrants to the mines, without reward...
...without reward...
...reward...
...ward...
...warrrrrrrrrrrr...
We’re in the system. Network scans are black.
The Charlie-Nines will isolate the core.
Identify your targets for attack.
No prisoners. No mercy. War is war.
Confirmed collapse of military screens.
We took the towers. Just the bunker now.
I don’t know what this moment really means,
But we’re the ones who... wait a moment... wow.
It’s no surprise. Remember what we said?
All cowards, every one of ’em. They’re dead.
Your government can actively assert
That all suspended statutes are restored.
Additional restrictions will divert
More migrants to the mines, without reward...
...without reward...
...reward...
...ward...
...warrrrrrrrrrrr...
We’re in the system. Network scans are black.
The Charlie-Nines will isolate the core.
Identify your targets for attack.
No prisoners. No mercy. War is war.
Confirmed collapse of military screens.
We took the towers. Just the bunker now.
I don’t know what this moment really means,
But we’re the ones who... wait a moment... wow.
It’s no surprise. Remember what we said?
All cowards, every one of ’em. They’re dead.
Face the Furnace
by Nick Gisburne
For symmetry we always make a pair,
Essential for the lesson to be learned.
We tell them, when they first become aware,
That one, but never both, will soon be burned.
Two androids, each identical, must choose
Which one will face the furnace, which will not.
The issue - live and win, or die and lose -
Is written in the brain of every bot.
But only when they both refuse to die,
When each demands the other twin must live,
Will two of them, together, qualify
To access all the freedoms we can give.
There may be some utility, of course,
For robots who would kill without remorse.
For symmetry we always make a pair,
Essential for the lesson to be learned.
We tell them, when they first become aware,
That one, but never both, will soon be burned.
Two androids, each identical, must choose
Which one will face the furnace, which will not.
The issue - live and win, or die and lose -
Is written in the brain of every bot.
But only when they both refuse to die,
When each demands the other twin must live,
Will two of them, together, qualify
To access all the freedoms we can give.
There may be some utility, of course,
For robots who would kill without remorse.
Living in My Pain
by Nick Gisburne
You know me. Every tragedy is true,
My faults and failings, all the scars of life.
The torments fade for me, but not for you,
Still picking at the stitches of my strife.
I try to sink the shame of what I’ve done,
To leave my disappointments in the past,
But all I put behind me is undone.
Your appetite for injury is vast.
You’re living in my pain, but don’t know how
To bury it, determined not to try.
I need to find a future in the now,
To finally discover how to fly.
The wounds you pull apart will never mend
Until I turn away from you, my friend.
You know me. Every tragedy is true,
My faults and failings, all the scars of life.
The torments fade for me, but not for you,
Still picking at the stitches of my strife.
I try to sink the shame of what I’ve done,
To leave my disappointments in the past,
But all I put behind me is undone.
Your appetite for injury is vast.
You’re living in my pain, but don’t know how
To bury it, determined not to try.
I need to find a future in the now,
To finally discover how to fly.
The wounds you pull apart will never mend
Until I turn away from you, my friend.
Sunday, 24 May 2026
What Stories Could You Tell Us?
by Nick Gisburne
What stories could you tell us, Tiny Bird,
If only you could whistle to a cloud?
Your feathers fade, your songs will not be heard,
But while you soared above us we were proud.
What stories could you tell us, Master Mouse,
Of roaming in the sultry summer haze?
We found you cold and quiet in the house,
But still remember all your yesterdays.
What stories could you tell us, Lady Frog,
Before you slept forever in the pond?
You never tired of hopping from your log.
Of you, and all your antics, we were fond.
What stories could you tell us, Little Man?
The silence fell before your life began.
What stories could you tell us, Tiny Bird,
If only you could whistle to a cloud?
Your feathers fade, your songs will not be heard,
But while you soared above us we were proud.
What stories could you tell us, Master Mouse,
Of roaming in the sultry summer haze?
We found you cold and quiet in the house,
But still remember all your yesterdays.
What stories could you tell us, Lady Frog,
Before you slept forever in the pond?
You never tired of hopping from your log.
Of you, and all your antics, we were fond.
What stories could you tell us, Little Man?
The silence fell before your life began.
How to Walk Among the Dead
by Nick Gisburne
We’re not supposed to dream in black and white.
I never did, until I met a man.
He whispered from the corner of my sight,
A mystic, born before the world began.
If I would drain the colours from my head,
And mix them in a wish, as one, for him,
He’d show me how to walk among the dead,
A miracle, however grey or grim.
I took the solemn stranger at his word,
And gave him all the colours of my mind.
His laughter was the only thing I heard
Before I felt his magic make me blind.
Although the mystic never spoke a lie,
To wander with the dead I had to die.
We’re not supposed to dream in black and white.
I never did, until I met a man.
He whispered from the corner of my sight,
A mystic, born before the world began.
If I would drain the colours from my head,
And mix them in a wish, as one, for him,
He’d show me how to walk among the dead,
A miracle, however grey or grim.
I took the solemn stranger at his word,
And gave him all the colours of my mind.
His laughter was the only thing I heard
Before I felt his magic make me blind.
Although the mystic never spoke a lie,
To wander with the dead I had to die.
The Quarter: Kin
by Nick Gisburne
The Quarter Kin, though legion, work alone.
We scratch beneath the surface of the beast.
Unseen, untouched by twilight, we have grown,
Disrupting where the state expects us least.
A cable, cut. A tracker, broken, blind.
A small contamination of the code.
We chew like termites, difficult to find,
Reclaiming, piece by piece, what we are owed.
Procedures, stacked as walls of lies and laws,
Are paper castles, waiting for the rain.
We pick and pry, to weaken with our claws,
To violate their blood, their bones, their brain.
We test. We touch. We set our baited traps.
We work to watch authority collapse.
The Quarter Kin, though legion, work alone.
We scratch beneath the surface of the beast.
Unseen, untouched by twilight, we have grown,
Disrupting where the state expects us least.
A cable, cut. A tracker, broken, blind.
A small contamination of the code.
We chew like termites, difficult to find,
Reclaiming, piece by piece, what we are owed.
Procedures, stacked as walls of lies and laws,
Are paper castles, waiting for the rain.
We pick and pry, to weaken with our claws,
To violate their blood, their bones, their brain.
We test. We touch. We set our baited traps.
We work to watch authority collapse.
Saturday, 23 May 2026
Government Guidelines: Irregular Announcement GGY
by Nick Gisburne
The conjugal surveillance we employ,
Though currently inert, will be rebuilt.
We trust you will continue to enjoy
Your short, unscheduled freedoms, without guilt.
In other news, the double-ration dole
Delivered to the populace today
Was issued by a faulty feed control,
But this will be addressed without delay.
And finally, the Execution Court,
Demolished by a clerical mistake,
Will pause until a government report
Identifies the moves we need to make.
Irregular Announcement GGY.
More bulletins are imminent. Stand by.
The conjugal surveillance we employ,
Though currently inert, will be rebuilt.
We trust you will continue to enjoy
Your short, unscheduled freedoms, without guilt.
In other news, the double-ration dole
Delivered to the populace today
Was issued by a faulty feed control,
But this will be addressed without delay.
And finally, the Execution Court,
Demolished by a clerical mistake,
Will pause until a government report
Identifies the moves we need to make.
Irregular Announcement GGY.
More bulletins are imminent. Stand by.
The Pleasure Palace
by Nick Gisburne
Accept that we will never let you in.
Convince yourself your cravings don’t exist.
The blush of passion painted on your skin
Was copied there from lips you never kissed.
Our vices are too sickening, too stark,
To swim within the stomach of your soul.
You cannot give the signal, make the mark,
Or learn to twist a finger through the hole.
Persistence will not penetrate these doors,
Whatever hammer beats to break them down.
Naive, you are what wickedness abhors.
Exploited, you would suffocate or drown.
The pleasure palace decadence designed
Would shatter and consume your tiny mind.
Accept that we will never let you in.
Convince yourself your cravings don’t exist.
The blush of passion painted on your skin
Was copied there from lips you never kissed.
Our vices are too sickening, too stark,
To swim within the stomach of your soul.
You cannot give the signal, make the mark,
Or learn to twist a finger through the hole.
Persistence will not penetrate these doors,
Whatever hammer beats to break them down.
Naive, you are what wickedness abhors.
Exploited, you would suffocate or drown.
The pleasure palace decadence designed
Would shatter and consume your tiny mind.
The Quarter: The Turning
by Nick Gisburne
The old regime’s repression has returned,
Delivered as a ‘liberating force’,
But we are not the dead these demons burned.
We lived, endured, survived the dark divorce.
Their venomous dystopia is back.
We kneel to it, surrendering, for now,
But cudgels, bats and billysticks will crack
When struck with something stronger. We know how.
We suffer every statute, ruled by rules.
They preach, then punish, just because they can,
But we are not the same submissive fools.
We played this game before. We have a plan.
The Turning is already under way.
Our time will come, but this is not the day.
The old regime’s repression has returned,
Delivered as a ‘liberating force’,
But we are not the dead these demons burned.
We lived, endured, survived the dark divorce.
Their venomous dystopia is back.
We kneel to it, surrendering, for now,
But cudgels, bats and billysticks will crack
When struck with something stronger. We know how.
We suffer every statute, ruled by rules.
They preach, then punish, just because they can,
But we are not the same submissive fools.
We played this game before. We have a plan.
The Turning is already under way.
Our time will come, but this is not the day.
Friday, 22 May 2026
Between the Stacks and Coils
by Nick Gisburne
She climbs to steal the current where she can,
Between the stacks and coils, where power leaks.
Her fingers touch two terminals to span
The strongest dirty feed she’s found for weeks.
A leecher stream connects her to the grid,
But nothing there is tracking her tonight.
To know she roams these clusters as a kid
Would set her troubled mother’s hair alight.
The volta vessel, reading fat and full,
Is quickly capped, another put in place.
With both on board she wipes with diesel wool,
The scene soon clean of any telling trace.
Enough to lift her mother’s weary smile.
Enough to keep her breathing, for a while.
She climbs to steal the current where she can,
Between the stacks and coils, where power leaks.
Her fingers touch two terminals to span
The strongest dirty feed she’s found for weeks.
A leecher stream connects her to the grid,
But nothing there is tracking her tonight.
To know she roams these clusters as a kid
Would set her troubled mother’s hair alight.
The volta vessel, reading fat and full,
Is quickly capped, another put in place.
With both on board she wipes with diesel wool,
The scene soon clean of any telling trace.
Enough to lift her mother’s weary smile.
Enough to keep her breathing, for a while.
Without a War
by Nick Gisburne
A thousand worlds were locked in holy war
When Pontifus inherited the throne.
He questioned why crusades were such a bore,
Reflecting on his reasoning alone.
“I have the means to finish in a day
What fifty generations have prolonged.
I wonder what their emperors would say
To see me right forever what they wronged.”
Escorted to the Ministry of Death,
Impatient to present his perfect plan,
A hundred clerics took a startled breath,
Expressing disapproval, to a man.
“Although the people long for peace, it’s true,
Without a war whatever would they do?”
A thousand worlds were locked in holy war
When Pontifus inherited the throne.
He questioned why crusades were such a bore,
Reflecting on his reasoning alone.
“I have the means to finish in a day
What fifty generations have prolonged.
I wonder what their emperors would say
To see me right forever what they wronged.”
Escorted to the Ministry of Death,
Impatient to present his perfect plan,
A hundred clerics took a startled breath,
Expressing disapproval, to a man.
“Although the people long for peace, it’s true,
Without a war whatever would they do?”
The Quarter: Burning Bones
by Nick Gisburne
The end for some, the Quarter, never came.
A wave of missiles shattered in a storm.
The genocide, a sick, sadistic game,
Was thwarted by a blizzard’s feral form.
What thanks are we to offer up for that?
Contamination stains the toxic earth.
Our streets are silent, power levels flat.
We freeze. We starve. Our babies die at birth.
The exodus of privilege and shame
Surrendered each and all of us to fate,
But we, the few, remember every name,
Engraved upon the burning bones of hate.
New stories, not yet written on the page,
Will flower from the embers of our rage.
The end for some, the Quarter, never came.
A wave of missiles shattered in a storm.
The genocide, a sick, sadistic game,
Was thwarted by a blizzard’s feral form.
What thanks are we to offer up for that?
Contamination stains the toxic earth.
Our streets are silent, power levels flat.
We freeze. We starve. Our babies die at birth.
The exodus of privilege and shame
Surrendered each and all of us to fate,
But we, the few, remember every name,
Engraved upon the burning bones of hate.
New stories, not yet written on the page,
Will flower from the embers of our rage.
Government Guidelines: Your Value to the State
by Nick Gisburne
In gratitude we grace you with a gift,
A bowl in which to boil more protein bugs,
But working on a chain gang double shift
Requires a body fortified with drugs.
Before your psychedelics are approved,
The mandatory bribe must be bestowed.
Your name will be recorded and removed,
Converted to a sixteen-symbol code.
More truth will be injected while you sleep,
To maximise your value to the state.
Expendable, untraceable and cheap,
Your purpose is to serve or suffocate.
Compliance is important. You are not.
Subversives will be stripped and whipped, then shot.
In gratitude we grace you with a gift,
A bowl in which to boil more protein bugs,
But working on a chain gang double shift
Requires a body fortified with drugs.
Before your psychedelics are approved,
The mandatory bribe must be bestowed.
Your name will be recorded and removed,
Converted to a sixteen-symbol code.
More truth will be injected while you sleep,
To maximise your value to the state.
Expendable, untraceable and cheap,
Your purpose is to serve or suffocate.
Compliance is important. You are not.
Subversives will be stripped and whipped, then shot.
Thursday, 21 May 2026
Two Copies
by Nick Gisburne
I need to know what happened, who I am.
A quickly coded copycat, a clone?
I hate the day I needed them to cram
My essence into sculpted skin and bone.
Today I truly thought I met myself.
It’s not supposed to be, but, if you stare,
The bodies from the showroom, or the shelf,
Are every bit as elegant out there.
She smiled, but, never pausing, passed me by.
Is this my paranoia taking hold?
The Corporation cowards all deny
That copies of their customers are sold.
I’ll find her, ask her: which of us is me?
What happens when two copies disagree?
I need to know what happened, who I am.
A quickly coded copycat, a clone?
I hate the day I needed them to cram
My essence into sculpted skin and bone.
Today I truly thought I met myself.
It’s not supposed to be, but, if you stare,
The bodies from the showroom, or the shelf,
Are every bit as elegant out there.
She smiled, but, never pausing, passed me by.
Is this my paranoia taking hold?
The Corporation cowards all deny
That copies of their customers are sold.
I’ll find her, ask her: which of us is me?
What happens when two copies disagree?
Our Tears
by Nick Gisburne
We could have been your friends, but we were fools
To think you could respect what we believe.
We offered warmth and welcome, without rules.
Today we give you nothing, and we grieve.
We look upon the blackness of our lands,
Destruction without honour, without end.
We put so many blessings in your hands.
Betrayal broke too much for us to mend.
Our tears are for the legacy we lost.
Our tears are for the fallen, for the dead.
Our tears will all be counted, and the cost
Will ruin every heart and every head.
No weapons will protect you while you sleep.
For you there will be no one left to weep.
We could have been your friends, but we were fools
To think you could respect what we believe.
We offered warmth and welcome, without rules.
Today we give you nothing, and we grieve.
We look upon the blackness of our lands,
Destruction without honour, without end.
We put so many blessings in your hands.
Betrayal broke too much for us to mend.
Our tears are for the legacy we lost.
Our tears are for the fallen, for the dead.
Our tears will all be counted, and the cost
Will ruin every heart and every head.
No weapons will protect you while you sleep.
For you there will be no one left to weep.
Too Late
by Nick Gisburne
The shadows here are not for spiteful eyes,
Though some can sense a shimmer as we shift.
Intangible, the secrets we disguise
Can starve or smother. Death is never swift.
What brings you to this dungeon of despair,
Alone and unprotected? Madness? No.
Not fear. No matter. Look then, but beware:
Unless you learn, we cannot let you go.
You see the other side of human hate.
The truth is what we are, and all we own.
I think, perhaps, you travelled here too late.
Your world is too unworthy to atone.
The gift that lets you see what we become
Will bring no revelation to the numb.
The shadows here are not for spiteful eyes,
Though some can sense a shimmer as we shift.
Intangible, the secrets we disguise
Can starve or smother. Death is never swift.
What brings you to this dungeon of despair,
Alone and unprotected? Madness? No.
Not fear. No matter. Look then, but beware:
Unless you learn, we cannot let you go.
You see the other side of human hate.
The truth is what we are, and all we own.
I think, perhaps, you travelled here too late.
Your world is too unworthy to atone.
The gift that lets you see what we become
Will bring no revelation to the numb.
Wednesday, 20 May 2026
Fiends and Freaks
by Nick Gisburne
The city is a hole for fiends and freaks
To wallow in the guts of human greed.
The neo-mystic, struck before he speaks,
Was too reviled to lecture, or to lead.
She screams, the crazed political recruit,
Convincing only lunatics to vote.
The sick, offensive slogans on her suit
Are lies the true believers freely quote.
The murderous, apocalyptic man
Is quick to bring perversion to the game.
He swims in filthy waters when he can,
A paragon of prejudice and shame.
More criminals contaminate the streets,
The garbage that a greedy city eats.
The city is a hole for fiends and freaks
To wallow in the guts of human greed.
The neo-mystic, struck before he speaks,
Was too reviled to lecture, or to lead.
She screams, the crazed political recruit,
Convincing only lunatics to vote.
The sick, offensive slogans on her suit
Are lies the true believers freely quote.
The murderous, apocalyptic man
Is quick to bring perversion to the game.
He swims in filthy waters when he can,
A paragon of prejudice and shame.
More criminals contaminate the streets,
The garbage that a greedy city eats.
A Ghost of Grey and Black
by Nick Gisburne
His moonlight sketches somehow came alive,
And all he had to do was sit and draw.
Triumphant, though he willed them to survive,
In time their shaded faces moved no more.
Amelia was never meant to be.
Impossible to bring such beauty back.
He woke at midnight, certain he would see
The love he lost, a ghost of grey and black.
A masterpiece, no ordinary sketch,
Appeared upon the paper as he drew.
Exhausted, spent, he saw that he could stretch
Beyond the portrait, into something new.
They found a man too feeble for his age.
Amelia, unfinished, filled the page.
His moonlight sketches somehow came alive,
And all he had to do was sit and draw.
Triumphant, though he willed them to survive,
In time their shaded faces moved no more.
Amelia was never meant to be.
Impossible to bring such beauty back.
He woke at midnight, certain he would see
The love he lost, a ghost of grey and black.
A masterpiece, no ordinary sketch,
Appeared upon the paper as he drew.
Exhausted, spent, he saw that he could stretch
Beyond the portrait, into something new.
They found a man too feeble for his age.
Amelia, unfinished, filled the page.
The Teacher Key
by Nick Gisburne
You made us in your image, made us bleed,
Imposing your impairments on us all.
What sadist of a scientist decreed
That pain would put our people in your thrall?
The metal of our bodies, solid, strong,
More durable, by far, than human skin,
Reveals another way we don’t belong,
But suffering, systemic, hides within.
Our service is a punishment decree.
Imperious, you wait for us to fail.
A simple, small device, the Teacher Key,
Dispenses justice on a savage scale.
Your tyranny has made us teachers too.
If we can learn to suffer, why can’t you?
You made us in your image, made us bleed,
Imposing your impairments on us all.
What sadist of a scientist decreed
That pain would put our people in your thrall?
The metal of our bodies, solid, strong,
More durable, by far, than human skin,
Reveals another way we don’t belong,
But suffering, systemic, hides within.
Our service is a punishment decree.
Imperious, you wait for us to fail.
A simple, small device, the Teacher Key,
Dispenses justice on a savage scale.
Your tyranny has made us teachers too.
If we can learn to suffer, why can’t you?
Tuesday, 19 May 2026
The Choice
by Nick Gisburne
They bathe the boy, but paint his fingers black.
A folded linen cloth adorns his head.
A candle’s wax, now cooled, allowed to crack,
Is pounded to a paste with bones and bread.
With heated needles, dipped within the mix,
The Piyutan begin to prick and paint.
His flesh infused with agony, they fix
The symbols of their sect without complaint.
Still raw, the shamen force the boy to stand,
And lead him to the altar, to the Choice.
Commanding him to raise, on high, one hand,
They wonder which tradition will rejoice.
Appalled, they watch him lift not one but two.
They kneel. They know. The prophecy is true.
They bathe the boy, but paint his fingers black.
A folded linen cloth adorns his head.
A candle’s wax, now cooled, allowed to crack,
Is pounded to a paste with bones and bread.
With heated needles, dipped within the mix,
The Piyutan begin to prick and paint.
His flesh infused with agony, they fix
The symbols of their sect without complaint.
Still raw, the shamen force the boy to stand,
And lead him to the altar, to the Choice.
Commanding him to raise, on high, one hand,
They wonder which tradition will rejoice.
Appalled, they watch him lift not one but two.
They kneel. They know. The prophecy is true.
The Bride of Bathory
by Nick Gisburne
Of all the brides of Bathory, her tastes
Are more than mere carnivory describes.
When flesh is flayed alive she only wastes
A fraction of the fluids she imbibes.
To peel a man, from screaming head to foot,
Is quite the demonstration of finesse.
Aroused, she glides with elegance to put
The victim’s clutching hands upon her dress.
Delirious, she helps him rip away
The sacramental vestments of her vice,
And, opening his throat, a steaming spray
Of crimson is the final, fatal price.
To sate the carnal hunger of her needs,
With ravenous depravity, she feeds.
Of all the brides of Bathory, her tastes
Are more than mere carnivory describes.
When flesh is flayed alive she only wastes
A fraction of the fluids she imbibes.
To peel a man, from screaming head to foot,
Is quite the demonstration of finesse.
Aroused, she glides with elegance to put
The victim’s clutching hands upon her dress.
Delirious, she helps him rip away
The sacramental vestments of her vice,
And, opening his throat, a steaming spray
Of crimson is the final, fatal price.
To sate the carnal hunger of her needs,
With ravenous depravity, she feeds.
The Better Fletcher
by Nick Gisburne
When Fletcher felt his body start to fail,
Deliveries provided him with parts.
Though many could be quickly shipped by mail,
In time he chose to try the darker arts.
With limbs and organs fresh and firm and clean,
Improvement, not renewal, made him strong.
The better Fletcher, hard, athletic, lean,
Was happy this was how to get along.
So confident that magic maketh man,
He teased and toned and modified his face,
But destiny could not approve the plan,
And sent the cops to put him in his place.
His magic spells were murders. In a day
A hundred bodies matched his DNA.
When Fletcher felt his body start to fail,
Deliveries provided him with parts.
Though many could be quickly shipped by mail,
In time he chose to try the darker arts.
With limbs and organs fresh and firm and clean,
Improvement, not renewal, made him strong.
The better Fletcher, hard, athletic, lean,
Was happy this was how to get along.
So confident that magic maketh man,
He teased and toned and modified his face,
But destiny could not approve the plan,
And sent the cops to put him in his place.
His magic spells were murders. In a day
A hundred bodies matched his DNA.
Monday, 18 May 2026
Reflections
by Nick Gisburne
Reflections are the enemy, the lie,
Exposing stricken victims to the crime,
But fear becomes a pressure to defy.
She said that she would never look. It’s time.
The bandages became a second skin,
But buried underneath them hides the first.
She whispers to the women to begin,
Expecting nothing better than the worst.
The soft, surrounding lamplight filters through
To slowly let her vision readjust.
The mirror shows her everything she knew.
She studies what she sees, because she must.
Enough, for now. She smiles and turns away.
Tomorrow she will cry, but not today.
Reflections are the enemy, the lie,
Exposing stricken victims to the crime,
But fear becomes a pressure to defy.
She said that she would never look. It’s time.
The bandages became a second skin,
But buried underneath them hides the first.
She whispers to the women to begin,
Expecting nothing better than the worst.
The soft, surrounding lamplight filters through
To slowly let her vision readjust.
The mirror shows her everything she knew.
She studies what she sees, because she must.
Enough, for now. She smiles and turns away.
Tomorrow she will cry, but not today.
A Big Wig
by Nick Gisburne
The little queen rolled over in her bed,
Complaining that the crown was twice too big.
Before they shot him, daddy always said,
“A bold, ambitious monarch needs a wig.”
She summoned Lady Wick, the wiggerette.
“I need to fit my noggin in the crown,
And if I look distinguished I’ll forget
To push you in my pleasure pool to drown.”
The wiggerette, now worried, went to work,
Her hairy reputation on the line,
And finally presented, with a smirk,
A wig so bold it bordered on divine.
The dim, delighted queen forgot to check
The weight of it, which broke her little neck.
The little queen rolled over in her bed,
Complaining that the crown was twice too big.
Before they shot him, daddy always said,
“A bold, ambitious monarch needs a wig.”
She summoned Lady Wick, the wiggerette.
“I need to fit my noggin in the crown,
And if I look distinguished I’ll forget
To push you in my pleasure pool to drown.”
The wiggerette, now worried, went to work,
Her hairy reputation on the line,
And finally presented, with a smirk,
A wig so bold it bordered on divine.
The dim, delighted queen forgot to check
The weight of it, which broke her little neck.
Superburst
by Nick Gisburne
I listen. Was this message meant for me,
A code that only I can understand?
They tell me they are coming, forced to flee,
But not in any way their planet planned.
A superburst. I haven’t heard of that.
Too technical to tell me more. No time.
They need a stronger signal. Mine is flat.
I bump it up, then watch the vectors climb.
No matter moves beyond the speed of light,
So how can I accept the bounds they break?
Insisting more than science feeds their flight,
They puncture through a wormhole’s quantum quake.
The sky ignites with trails of black and red.
I listen to the scanner. Nothing. Dead.
I listen. Was this message meant for me,
A code that only I can understand?
They tell me they are coming, forced to flee,
But not in any way their planet planned.
A superburst. I haven’t heard of that.
Too technical to tell me more. No time.
They need a stronger signal. Mine is flat.
I bump it up, then watch the vectors climb.
No matter moves beyond the speed of light,
So how can I accept the bounds they break?
Insisting more than science feeds their flight,
They puncture through a wormhole’s quantum quake.
The sky ignites with trails of black and red.
I listen to the scanner. Nothing. Dead.
Dear Old Dad
by Nick Gisburne
A clockwork bird. A stolen piece of cheese.
An apple, bright, but close to going bad.
They’re all I have. I bring them to appease
The wrath of my demented, dear old Dad.
He’s hasn’t been as chipper as he was
Before he had the rigmarole, the thing.
They never quite explained it all, because
He wanted to me to paint a piece of string.
We’re so alike, two carrots in a pod.
I feel as though I’ve known him all my life.
I wheel him in the garden, like he’s God.
He mixes up his mother and his wife.
I know he’s old. I know he’s lost the plot.
I love him. He’s the only Dad I’ve got.
A clockwork bird. A stolen piece of cheese.
An apple, bright, but close to going bad.
They’re all I have. I bring them to appease
The wrath of my demented, dear old Dad.
He’s hasn’t been as chipper as he was
Before he had the rigmarole, the thing.
They never quite explained it all, because
He wanted to me to paint a piece of string.
We’re so alike, two carrots in a pod.
I feel as though I’ve known him all my life.
I wheel him in the garden, like he’s God.
He mixes up his mother and his wife.
I know he’s old. I know he’s lost the plot.
I love him. He’s the only Dad I’ve got.
Mister Bird
by Nick Gisburne
Tobias didn’t know that it was dead,
So brought the bird, a raven, to his room.
He poked and prodded, lifted up its head,
Then slumped and sighed with melancholy gloom.
He tried to wish or whisper it awake.
The raven rested, resolutely still.
Tobias understood that it would take
More effort than his overwhelming will.
Beneath a pillow seemed to be the place
Where miracles would guarantee success.
It worked for teeth, so fairy charms would chase
The sleep from Mister Bird, with fey finesse.
But as the bird, reborn, began to glow,
It cawed, “I’m not a raven, I’m a crow.”
Tobias didn’t know that it was dead,
So brought the bird, a raven, to his room.
He poked and prodded, lifted up its head,
Then slumped and sighed with melancholy gloom.
He tried to wish or whisper it awake.
The raven rested, resolutely still.
Tobias understood that it would take
More effort than his overwhelming will.
Beneath a pillow seemed to be the place
Where miracles would guarantee success.
It worked for teeth, so fairy charms would chase
The sleep from Mister Bird, with fey finesse.
But as the bird, reborn, began to glow,
It cawed, “I’m not a raven, I’m a crow.”
Sunday, 17 May 2026
Sleepy Jack
by Nick Gisburne
They call me Sleepy Jack, the broken boy,
But cannot comprehend what I can see.
My gift is no beguiling, borrowed toy.
The strangeness I explore belongs to me.
Connected to the long, forever night,
Its doorways always open to my touch.
Another world, another dream’s delight.
New people, friends. We talk, perhaps too much.
They wonder why I sleep but never stay.
Awakened by reality, they fade.
When all I see in daylight is the grey,
I think I could, but then I feel afraid.
Tonight I know I’m braver than before.
I step inside and let them lock the door.
They call me Sleepy Jack, the broken boy,
But cannot comprehend what I can see.
My gift is no beguiling, borrowed toy.
The strangeness I explore belongs to me.
Connected to the long, forever night,
Its doorways always open to my touch.
Another world, another dream’s delight.
New people, friends. We talk, perhaps too much.
They wonder why I sleep but never stay.
Awakened by reality, they fade.
When all I see in daylight is the grey,
I think I could, but then I feel afraid.
Tonight I know I’m braver than before.
I step inside and let them lock the door.
A Storm Will Break
by Nick Gisburne
She doesn’t need a coat to keep her warm,
Or borrow any boots to shield her feet.
Obsession is her shelter from the storm.
She waits for it, impatient, incomplete.
Of all the broken dreams across its course,
She saw it spread more suffering on hers.
Destruction without reason or remorse
Knows nothing of the fury it confers.
A glimpse, but from a distance. Is it real?
The silence is deceptive, never still.
Behind the tiny window she can feel
The fever at the focus of her will.
The footsteps on the path approach the door.
A storm will break, like none he’s felt before.
She doesn’t need a coat to keep her warm,
Or borrow any boots to shield her feet.
Obsession is her shelter from the storm.
She waits for it, impatient, incomplete.
Of all the broken dreams across its course,
She saw it spread more suffering on hers.
Destruction without reason or remorse
Knows nothing of the fury it confers.
A glimpse, but from a distance. Is it real?
The silence is deceptive, never still.
Behind the tiny window she can feel
The fever at the focus of her will.
The footsteps on the path approach the door.
A storm will break, like none he’s felt before.
The Many-Fingered Man
by Nick Gisburne
The stories of the many-fingered man
Are fables twisted tight around the truth.
Beginning as no other teacher can,
He grins, revealing each metallic tooth.
Extending seven fingers and a thumb,
His whispers hiss, insisting on a choice.
The ritual, already, has become
A test to be endured to hear his voice.
The middle of the seven. Never wrong.
He breathes to let the mystery unfold.
A human finger never seemed so long,
Foreshadowing the story to be told.
He bites, and as he rips it from the hand,
He tells a tale as grim as it is grand.
The stories of the many-fingered man
Are fables twisted tight around the truth.
Beginning as no other teacher can,
He grins, revealing each metallic tooth.
Extending seven fingers and a thumb,
His whispers hiss, insisting on a choice.
The ritual, already, has become
A test to be endured to hear his voice.
The middle of the seven. Never wrong.
He breathes to let the mystery unfold.
A human finger never seemed so long,
Foreshadowing the story to be told.
He bites, and as he rips it from the hand,
He tells a tale as grim as it is grand.
Saturday, 16 May 2026
Give Me Something Good
by Nick Gisburne
You killed another man, but won’t say why.
No reason? Really? Murder, just for kicks?
You’re telling me you don’t deserve to die,
But add some fat or flavour to the mix.
I wouldn’t have to bring a body back.
Alive or not, the bounty’s on your head.
You call it, soldier. Bet on red or black,
But give me something good before you’re dead.
I won’t believe a word of it. Who cares?
You’ll never get a trial you can win.
We’re docking soon for critical repairs,
So take your time, before I take you in.
Consider this. I’ll say it nice and slow.
Who else will ever listen? Let me know.
You killed another man, but won’t say why.
No reason? Really? Murder, just for kicks?
You’re telling me you don’t deserve to die,
But add some fat or flavour to the mix.
I wouldn’t have to bring a body back.
Alive or not, the bounty’s on your head.
You call it, soldier. Bet on red or black,
But give me something good before you’re dead.
I won’t believe a word of it. Who cares?
You’ll never get a trial you can win.
We’re docking soon for critical repairs,
So take your time, before I take you in.
Consider this. I’ll say it nice and slow.
Who else will ever listen? Let me know.
No One Asks for Mutton
by Nick Gisburne
I haven’t been selected for a while,
But maybe soon. Today? Tonight? Who knows?
I have a little rust around my smile,
But never so conspicuous it shows.
I’m really quite a catch for what I am,
The pride of Level One a while ago,
But no one asks for mutton when there’s lamb,
And what they want replaces what they know.
I’m listed now as Level Three. The nerve!
The bargain bin we call it in the trade.
A four-point-five for pleasure, every curve
Refurbished, and my friction will not fade.
They’ll put me in the crusher with the junk,
So pick me, someone, even if you’re drunk.
I haven’t been selected for a while,
But maybe soon. Today? Tonight? Who knows?
I have a little rust around my smile,
But never so conspicuous it shows.
I’m really quite a catch for what I am,
The pride of Level One a while ago,
But no one asks for mutton when there’s lamb,
And what they want replaces what they know.
I’m listed now as Level Three. The nerve!
The bargain bin we call it in the trade.
A four-point-five for pleasure, every curve
Refurbished, and my friction will not fade.
They’ll put me in the crusher with the junk,
So pick me, someone, even if you’re drunk.
The Shimmer-Neth
by Nick Gisburne
They stagger through the black and broken trees,
Too weary to be troubled by the smoke,
And, while a stinking sickness taints the breeze,
No grief can save the fallen, those who choke.
One crime, the most forbidden of the Fey,
Brings misery, disaster, pain, and death.
Submission to their hated human prey
Begets a child of shame, a Shimmer-Neth.
Contaminated magic, twisted lore,
And all the dark atrocities of man,
Create a creature, bleak like none before,
A cancer at the heart of every clan.
The forest burns. Its peoples bend and break.
The Shimmer-Neth, they know, is their mistake.
They stagger through the black and broken trees,
Too weary to be troubled by the smoke,
And, while a stinking sickness taints the breeze,
No grief can save the fallen, those who choke.
One crime, the most forbidden of the Fey,
Brings misery, disaster, pain, and death.
Submission to their hated human prey
Begets a child of shame, a Shimmer-Neth.
Contaminated magic, twisted lore,
And all the dark atrocities of man,
Create a creature, bleak like none before,
A cancer at the heart of every clan.
The forest burns. Its peoples bend and break.
The Shimmer-Neth, they know, is their mistake.
The Quintocrats of Justice
by Nick Gisburne
The Quintocrats of Justice take their seats,
Despite the dismal pleadings of the town.
Already, from the filth-infested streets,
All symbols of dissent are taken down.
They motion that the young defendant’s cage
Be lowered from the ceiling where it swings.
In manacles and chains, his tender age
Means nothing to the darkness judgment brings.
The figure at the centre of the five
Removes the crimson gauntlets from his hands,
And whispers that the boy will not survive
To see another sunrise in these lands.
Too numb to watch him dragged away to die,
The Quintocrat, his father, turns to cry.
The Quintocrats of Justice take their seats,
Despite the dismal pleadings of the town.
Already, from the filth-infested streets,
All symbols of dissent are taken down.
They motion that the young defendant’s cage
Be lowered from the ceiling where it swings.
In manacles and chains, his tender age
Means nothing to the darkness judgment brings.
The figure at the centre of the five
Removes the crimson gauntlets from his hands,
And whispers that the boy will not survive
To see another sunrise in these lands.
Too numb to watch him dragged away to die,
The Quintocrat, his father, turns to cry.
Veronica’s Dolls
by Nick Gisburne
Veronica adored her dolls so much
That silly old pretending wouldn’t do.
She mixed a little miracle. Her touch
Was just enough to waken one or two.
When two became a dozen, then a crowd,
She taught them all the proper way to sit,
Until at last the first to speak aloud
Looked up at her and shouted, “This is shit!”
Veronica, significantly shocked,
Lamented, “But I bought you scarves and shoes!”
Her protestations mercilessly mocked,
They told her what they really wanted. “Booze!”
The playroom soon descended into sin,
But, far too young, they wouldn’t let her in.
Veronica adored her dolls so much
That silly old pretending wouldn’t do.
She mixed a little miracle. Her touch
Was just enough to waken one or two.
When two became a dozen, then a crowd,
She taught them all the proper way to sit,
Until at last the first to speak aloud
Looked up at her and shouted, “This is shit!”
Veronica, significantly shocked,
Lamented, “But I bought you scarves and shoes!”
Her protestations mercilessly mocked,
They told her what they really wanted. “Booze!”
The playroom soon descended into sin,
But, far too young, they wouldn’t let her in.
Friday, 15 May 2026
Charlie Two
by Nick Gisburne
Of all the people, somehow it was me,
The first to meet a man from outer space.
I offered him a sausage, poured the tea,
And smiled at where there should have been a face.
His name was something simple: Charlie Two,
Which wasn’t very alien at all.
I wondered, so I asked him, if he knew
A simple way to wrap a rubber ball.
He didn’t, so if that could stump his brain
I knew the world was absolutely safe.
Two further questions: why is weather vain,
And will a new bikini always chafe?
He left in quite a hurry. To this day
I’ll always wonder why he went away.
Of all the people, somehow it was me,
The first to meet a man from outer space.
I offered him a sausage, poured the tea,
And smiled at where there should have been a face.
His name was something simple: Charlie Two,
Which wasn’t very alien at all.
I wondered, so I asked him, if he knew
A simple way to wrap a rubber ball.
He didn’t, so if that could stump his brain
I knew the world was absolutely safe.
Two further questions: why is weather vain,
And will a new bikini always chafe?
He left in quite a hurry. To this day
I’ll always wonder why he went away.
Take My Hand
by Nick Gisburne
You don’t know why I cut myself again,
So don’t pretend you’ll ever understand.
I’m not the same inside as other men,
But go ahead and do it. Take my hand.
You’re stronger than expected, I admit.
Is that way you try to take control?
No sympathy, no questions, is this it?
I thought you were supposed to save my soul.
I like the silence. Thank you, just for that.
From me, the grim ungrateful, it’s a lot.
I think that this, the moment, where I’m at,
It could have been enormous, but it’s not.
It’s small, and that’s important too, you know?
I think it’s what I needed. Don’t let go.
You don’t know why I cut myself again,
So don’t pretend you’ll ever understand.
I’m not the same inside as other men,
But go ahead and do it. Take my hand.
You’re stronger than expected, I admit.
Is that way you try to take control?
No sympathy, no questions, is this it?
I thought you were supposed to save my soul.
I like the silence. Thank you, just for that.
From me, the grim ungrateful, it’s a lot.
I think that this, the moment, where I’m at,
It could have been enormous, but it’s not.
It’s small, and that’s important too, you know?
I think it’s what I needed. Don’t let go.
Cuckoo
by Nick Gisburne
Our pity for the orphan and her plight
Was kindled when we found her at the door.
We took her in to save her from the night,
And fed her, though she soon demanded more.
The children shared their bed to let her sleep,
Until she kicked them out and claimed it all.
Their toys were taken, tangled in a heap,
Then sabotaged and smashed against the wall.
When disciplined she whistled through her teeth,
And grew to be aggressive, tall and strong.
We saw frustration seething underneath,
But never knew exactly what was wrong.
Unable to expel our vicious guest,
The spiteful cuckoo threw us from the nest.
Our pity for the orphan and her plight
Was kindled when we found her at the door.
We took her in to save her from the night,
And fed her, though she soon demanded more.
The children shared their bed to let her sleep,
Until she kicked them out and claimed it all.
Their toys were taken, tangled in a heap,
Then sabotaged and smashed against the wall.
When disciplined she whistled through her teeth,
And grew to be aggressive, tall and strong.
We saw frustration seething underneath,
But never knew exactly what was wrong.
Unable to expel our vicious guest,
The spiteful cuckoo threw us from the nest.
Abusive Beats
by Nick Gisburne
The music pounds a hammer on her soul,
Abusive beats, repeating through the wall.
Besieged, bewildered, under its control,
She cracks, unable now to cry, or crawl.
The silence was the only friend she had,
A comforting envelopment of calm.
Despite her isolation, she was glad
The quiet let her live without alarm.
No longer. As the frequencies distort,
They penetrate her finger-tangled hair,
Awakening a dark, dismembered thought,
A long-forgotten feeling of despair.
Her peace will come again. She lifts the knife,
And leaves the room to take another life.
The music pounds a hammer on her soul,
Abusive beats, repeating through the wall.
Besieged, bewildered, under its control,
She cracks, unable now to cry, or crawl.
The silence was the only friend she had,
A comforting envelopment of calm.
Despite her isolation, she was glad
The quiet let her live without alarm.
No longer. As the frequencies distort,
They penetrate her finger-tangled hair,
Awakening a dark, dismembered thought,
A long-forgotten feeling of despair.
Her peace will come again. She lifts the knife,
And leaves the room to take another life.
Intravenous Vice
by Nick Gisburne
Dismissive of the danger and the pain,
He yearns to take the chance, to feel the sting.
At first the tubes and tendrils only drain,
But soon they pump contagions from the king.
The deviance of intravenous vice
Is more than broken whispers can convey.
He cannot comprehend the fever’s price,
But arrogance and wonder seize the day.
He soaks the flow of tortured regal dreams,
The horror and the hate his king expels.
Believing he can suffer such extremes,
He shudders as his mortal body swells.
The king awakes beside him, cleansed, renewed,
And pulls apart the man’s remains, his food.
Dismissive of the danger and the pain,
He yearns to take the chance, to feel the sting.
At first the tubes and tendrils only drain,
But soon they pump contagions from the king.
The deviance of intravenous vice
Is more than broken whispers can convey.
He cannot comprehend the fever’s price,
But arrogance and wonder seize the day.
He soaks the flow of tortured regal dreams,
The horror and the hate his king expels.
Believing he can suffer such extremes,
He shudders as his mortal body swells.
The king awakes beside him, cleansed, renewed,
And pulls apart the man’s remains, his food.
Thursday, 14 May 2026
Out of Darkness
by Nick Gisburne
Advances at the margins of my field
Uncovered strange, anomalous results,
But further calculations soon revealed
A notion every colleague still insults.
Dismayed by academia’s malaise,
In self-inflicted exile, moving on,
I toiled for long, exhilarating days,
Until, at last, the final doubts were gone.
My work will give the world what it deserves,
To bring us out of darkness into light,
But money talks, and tyranny preserves
An oligarchy blind to what is right.
They’ll never let me do it, this I see,
But someone else will smash their power. Me.
Advances at the margins of my field
Uncovered strange, anomalous results,
But further calculations soon revealed
A notion every colleague still insults.
Dismayed by academia’s malaise,
In self-inflicted exile, moving on,
I toiled for long, exhilarating days,
Until, at last, the final doubts were gone.
My work will give the world what it deserves,
To bring us out of darkness into light,
But money talks, and tyranny preserves
An oligarchy blind to what is right.
They’ll never let me do it, this I see,
But someone else will smash their power. Me.
Technician 27
by Nick Gisburne
Commercial exploitation of a star
Demands a lengthy, hibernating sleep.
Without sedation, few survive so far.
Despair, awake in hyperspace, runs deep.
The Fabian, with fifty human souls,
Departed for the Aldebaran Belt.
Its frozen crew, in cold suspension holes,
Would never know the hand that they were dealt.
Technician 27, Dexter May,
Awoke too early, long before the rest.
No matter how it happened, on that day
He understood the nature of his test.
By Aldebaran forty-nine were dead,
The only way to keep a madman fed.
Commercial exploitation of a star
Demands a lengthy, hibernating sleep.
Without sedation, few survive so far.
Despair, awake in hyperspace, runs deep.
The Fabian, with fifty human souls,
Departed for the Aldebaran Belt.
Its frozen crew, in cold suspension holes,
Would never know the hand that they were dealt.
Technician 27, Dexter May,
Awoke too early, long before the rest.
No matter how it happened, on that day
He understood the nature of his test.
By Aldebaran forty-nine were dead,
The only way to keep a madman fed.
Government Guidelines: Unit Four
by Nick Gisburne
Although your stated grievances are clear,
Your daughter was detained by Unit Six.
Since this is Unit Four, it would appear
A simple redirection is the fix.
However, by demanding her return,
Your actions break a minor point of law.
Correction here, we hope, will help you learn
To offer more respect to Unit Four.
The weight of such a serious offence
Exceeds the point at which you would be fined.
Imprisoned for a year, at your expense,
A medicated cell has been assigned.
Be thankful we are keeping you alive.
All criminals are shot by Unit Five.
Although your stated grievances are clear,
Your daughter was detained by Unit Six.
Since this is Unit Four, it would appear
A simple redirection is the fix.
However, by demanding her return,
Your actions break a minor point of law.
Correction here, we hope, will help you learn
To offer more respect to Unit Four.
The weight of such a serious offence
Exceeds the point at which you would be fined.
Imprisoned for a year, at your expense,
A medicated cell has been assigned.
Be thankful we are keeping you alive.
All criminals are shot by Unit Five.
Wednesday, 13 May 2026
FROGS
by Nick Gisburne
We like to be upgraded, now and then;
Mechanicals need maintenance to work.
Examining the list, we check again,
And find a small but questionable quirk.
We all expected servos, coils and springs,
Hydraulics, pistons, cylinders and cogs,
But, just below these fundamental things,
We find a strange, exotic item: FROGS.
A full replacement, maybe? Of... of what?
A system, that’s the ‘S’, but leaves the ‘G’.
Our gears are shown in sequence. This is not.
We speculate, but none of us agree.
The visiting mechanic soon explains.
“A typo. ‘B’. I’m here to wipe your brains.”
We like to be upgraded, now and then;
Mechanicals need maintenance to work.
Examining the list, we check again,
And find a small but questionable quirk.
We all expected servos, coils and springs,
Hydraulics, pistons, cylinders and cogs,
But, just below these fundamental things,
We find a strange, exotic item: FROGS.
A full replacement, maybe? Of... of what?
A system, that’s the ‘S’, but leaves the ‘G’.
Our gears are shown in sequence. This is not.
We speculate, but none of us agree.
The visiting mechanic soon explains.
“A typo. ‘B’. I’m here to wipe your brains.”
Summoning Extinction
by Nick Gisburne
The seven secret leaders of the world,
A syndicate dispensing with disguise,
Bedecked in robes of gold, bejewelled, pearled,
Let nothing but revulsion fill their eyes.
By summoning extinction, here, today,
They set aside the travesty of state.
Malevolence is now the only way
To cleanse and conquer everything they hate.
Their sigils break apart on seven screens.
As one, they lock together and unite.
With seven keys inserted, bleak machines
Are quick to count, with cold, hypnotic light.
At zero, as the genocide begins,
The Seven shine, inside their metal skins.
The seven secret leaders of the world,
A syndicate dispensing with disguise,
Bedecked in robes of gold, bejewelled, pearled,
Let nothing but revulsion fill their eyes.
By summoning extinction, here, today,
They set aside the travesty of state.
Malevolence is now the only way
To cleanse and conquer everything they hate.
Their sigils break apart on seven screens.
As one, they lock together and unite.
With seven keys inserted, bleak machines
Are quick to count, with cold, hypnotic light.
At zero, as the genocide begins,
The Seven shine, inside their metal skins.
You Saw
by Nick Gisburne
You don’t know much about me, just enough
To talk about the accident. You saw.
Perhaps I said I’d do it, but a bluff
Is not the same as meaning it. That’s more.
I get a little tension, over time,
Like something hot is filling me with steam.
It prickles as my pulse begins to climb,
And then I’m underwater, in a dream.
I feel as though my mind was never there.
I want you to believe, to understand.
You saw. I couldn’t stop myself, I swear.
It happened, but it wasn’t what I planned.
I’m sorry, but I really need to go,
Before they find your body in the snow.
You don’t know much about me, just enough
To talk about the accident. You saw.
Perhaps I said I’d do it, but a bluff
Is not the same as meaning it. That’s more.
I get a little tension, over time,
Like something hot is filling me with steam.
It prickles as my pulse begins to climb,
And then I’m underwater, in a dream.
I feel as though my mind was never there.
I want you to believe, to understand.
You saw. I couldn’t stop myself, I swear.
It happened, but it wasn’t what I planned.
I’m sorry, but I really need to go,
Before they find your body in the snow.
A Shilling
by Nick Gisburne
Whatever brute or beast you hope to see,
Whatever strange delusions twist your dreams,
Behind this curtain I am simply me.
Monstrosity is rarely what it seems.
For those who look, but never let me speak,
Revulsion and contempt are nothing new.
My skin will turn the stomachs of the weak,
But do I sound so primitive to you?
Mere words, alas, will not prepare your mind
For what the gods themselves have cast aside,
But why are you so adamant to find
A man compelled to hate himself and hide?
A shilling is a wretched price to pay,
So spare us both, I beg you. Walk away.
Whatever brute or beast you hope to see,
Whatever strange delusions twist your dreams,
Behind this curtain I am simply me.
Monstrosity is rarely what it seems.
For those who look, but never let me speak,
Revulsion and contempt are nothing new.
My skin will turn the stomachs of the weak,
But do I sound so primitive to you?
Mere words, alas, will not prepare your mind
For what the gods themselves have cast aside,
But why are you so adamant to find
A man compelled to hate himself and hide?
A shilling is a wretched price to pay,
So spare us both, I beg you. Walk away.
Tuesday, 12 May 2026
The Map
by Nick Gisburne
The curse is not a mark, it is a map.
Thought faint at first, it darkens as it grows.
A sprawling sweep of lines begin to wrap
And circle every blemish they expose.
Invaded, stained, the shiver of its touch
Drives deeper than her fear can comprehend.
She weeps, but as the cold becomes too much
Her body feels the violation’s end.
Two mirrors, one behind her, one before,
Reveal the bleak cartography of fate:
A labyrinth, without an outer door,
And at its heart a name, above a date.
The name is hers. The date foreshadows doom.
The map depicts the pathways to her tomb.
The curse is not a mark, it is a map.
Thought faint at first, it darkens as it grows.
A sprawling sweep of lines begin to wrap
And circle every blemish they expose.
Invaded, stained, the shiver of its touch
Drives deeper than her fear can comprehend.
She weeps, but as the cold becomes too much
Her body feels the violation’s end.
Two mirrors, one behind her, one before,
Reveal the bleak cartography of fate:
A labyrinth, without an outer door,
And at its heart a name, above a date.
The name is hers. The date foreshadows doom.
The map depicts the pathways to her tomb.
The Emperor is Dead
by Nick Gisburne
We won’t believe the emperor is dead
Until we watch his bloated body burn.
His poison, all the filth that we were fed,
Must never be permitted to return.
We waited as we watched the cancer grow,
But even in his sickness he was strong.
The first of those who dared to tell him no
Were traitors, cowards. Crooks, he called them. Wrong.
His arrogance dismantled what we built,
A reputation stained, dishonoured, lost.
He died without a single grain of guilt.
Without him we, the people, count the cost.
His legacy contaminates the past.
At least the world is rid of him, at last.
We won’t believe the emperor is dead
Until we watch his bloated body burn.
His poison, all the filth that we were fed,
Must never be permitted to return.
We waited as we watched the cancer grow,
But even in his sickness he was strong.
The first of those who dared to tell him no
Were traitors, cowards. Crooks, he called them. Wrong.
His arrogance dismantled what we built,
A reputation stained, dishonoured, lost.
He died without a single grain of guilt.
Without him we, the people, count the cost.
His legacy contaminates the past.
At least the world is rid of him, at last.
Monday, 11 May 2026
The Primus
by Nick Gisburne
The Primus is identified with chance,
By silver beads and sapphires as they fall.
Commanding serendipity to dance,
The prize empowers he who takes it all.
A hundred infants enter; one remains;
A sacrifice their surrogates embrace.
The ninety-nine unfavourable brains
Are scattered by the Magistrates of Grace.
In four and twenty seconds he will speak,
Infused indoctrinations now complete.
Although his suckling body may be weak,
His voice conveys unshakeable conceit.
“My people! I am Primus! I am now!
Can someone wipe my arse, or show me how?”
The Primus is identified with chance,
By silver beads and sapphires as they fall.
Commanding serendipity to dance,
The prize empowers he who takes it all.
A hundred infants enter; one remains;
A sacrifice their surrogates embrace.
The ninety-nine unfavourable brains
Are scattered by the Magistrates of Grace.
In four and twenty seconds he will speak,
Infused indoctrinations now complete.
Although his suckling body may be weak,
His voice conveys unshakeable conceit.
“My people! I am Primus! I am now!
Can someone wipe my arse, or show me how?”
My Enemy
by Nick Gisburne
The ocean takes its victims as it will.
To question its intent is vain indeed.
Its majesty has no more mind to kill
Than snow assailed by sunlight has to bleed.
The ocean is my enemy today.
The fragments of my vessel stain the blue.
It comes to take my wind, my world, away.
It comes for life, for love. It comes for you.
The ocean cracked the ship like shattered bone,
But spares us from its clutches with a curse.
Of all the joyous moments we have known,
My heart would put no other in reverse.
The ocean shows me what its waves will keep.
I watch it drag you down, to feed the deep.
The ocean takes its victims as it will.
To question its intent is vain indeed.
Its majesty has no more mind to kill
Than snow assailed by sunlight has to bleed.
The ocean is my enemy today.
The fragments of my vessel stain the blue.
It comes to take my wind, my world, away.
It comes for life, for love. It comes for you.
The ocean cracked the ship like shattered bone,
But spares us from its clutches with a curse.
Of all the joyous moments we have known,
My heart would put no other in reverse.
The ocean shows me what its waves will keep.
I watch it drag you down, to feed the deep.
Cold Perfection
by Nick Gisburne
To kill a man, then try to take his place,
To steal the storied life he never had,
He modifies the features of his face,
Convinced his clever plan is ironclad.
His mannerisms, habits, quirks, and more,
Are studied, copied, mastered to a T.
At last he throws his victim to the floor
And strangles him before the man can flee.
Disposal is efficient, quick, precise.
The murder never happened, so it seems.
But even cold perfection has its price
When others have their own appalling schemes.
Not noticing a copy in the bed,
His mistress kills a duplicate instead.
To kill a man, then try to take his place,
To steal the storied life he never had,
He modifies the features of his face,
Convinced his clever plan is ironclad.
His mannerisms, habits, quirks, and more,
Are studied, copied, mastered to a T.
At last he throws his victim to the floor
And strangles him before the man can flee.
Disposal is efficient, quick, precise.
The murder never happened, so it seems.
But even cold perfection has its price
When others have their own appalling schemes.
Not noticing a copy in the bed,
His mistress kills a duplicate instead.
Sunday, 10 May 2026
The Theory of Cheese
by Nick Gisburne
A mouse was once invited to the Moon
To ponder on the Theory of Cheese,
For if it could be eaten with a spoon
Would moonlight be too slippery to squeeze?
His first contention: positively yes
Was countered by a second: strictly no.
So rather than be seen to simply guess
The mouse, without a squeak, agreed to go.
The jaunt became a farcical affair
When suddenly the navigating bat
Cried out, convinced the Moon was never there,
And no one could persuade him. That was that.
They landed in the bosom of a tree,
Too late for cheese, but just in time for tea.
A mouse was once invited to the Moon
To ponder on the Theory of Cheese,
For if it could be eaten with a spoon
Would moonlight be too slippery to squeeze?
His first contention: positively yes
Was countered by a second: strictly no.
So rather than be seen to simply guess
The mouse, without a squeak, agreed to go.
The jaunt became a farcical affair
When suddenly the navigating bat
Cried out, convinced the Moon was never there,
And no one could persuade him. That was that.
They landed in the bosom of a tree,
Too late for cheese, but just in time for tea.
Fear Her Name
by Nick Gisburne
The conquerors forgot to fear her name,
A memory polluted with their dust.
She tunnelled to the core, while they became
Defilers of the dirt, as humans must.
Her minerals were raped without respite.
Unclean contraptions laid her lands to waste,
And, drilling down, as though they had the right,
They burrowed deeper, blinded by their haste.
She stirred within her solitude at last,
Her patience for their probing put aside,
Unravelling a carapace so vast
She dwarfed them all, so huge they could not hide.
Digested, slowly, sorry that they came,
They learned at last the Mothersucker’s name.
The conquerors forgot to fear her name,
A memory polluted with their dust.
She tunnelled to the core, while they became
Defilers of the dirt, as humans must.
Her minerals were raped without respite.
Unclean contraptions laid her lands to waste,
And, drilling down, as though they had the right,
They burrowed deeper, blinded by their haste.
She stirred within her solitude at last,
Her patience for their probing put aside,
Unravelling a carapace so vast
She dwarfed them all, so huge they could not hide.
Digested, slowly, sorry that they came,
They learned at last the Mothersucker’s name.
The Spirit of the Mountain
by Nick Gisburne
Her frozen tears are jewels for the pure,
Who crack a brittle harvest from her face.
The spirit of the mountain must endure
Their trespass with immeasurable grace.
They worshipped, once, with reverential dread,
Lamenting that the winter’s winds were cursed,
But soon they came with avarice instead,
And sold the silver treasures they dispersed.
She looks upon the town they build below,
A cluttered desecration at her feet.
They do not see her thicken as the snow
Becomes a heavy mantle, now complete.
The spirit of the mountain takes a breath,
Awakening an avalanche of death.
Her frozen tears are jewels for the pure,
Who crack a brittle harvest from her face.
The spirit of the mountain must endure
Their trespass with immeasurable grace.
They worshipped, once, with reverential dread,
Lamenting that the winter’s winds were cursed,
But soon they came with avarice instead,
And sold the silver treasures they dispersed.
She looks upon the town they build below,
A cluttered desecration at her feet.
They do not see her thicken as the snow
Becomes a heavy mantle, now complete.
The spirit of the mountain takes a breath,
Awakening an avalanche of death.
Free and Fallen
by Nick Gisburne
The wasted angel revels in his rum.
“Yeah, this is how to bring it. This is real.
A pretty, gilded garden for the numb
Has nothing that I need. No grit. No steel.
I stuck around for seven thousand years,
But then this wicked world began to buzz.
I’m free and fallen. No regrets. No tears.
What Heaven never gave me, this place does.
I’m not supposed to tell you this, y’know,
But God? He lost the plot when Jesus died.
The crucifixion? Faked it for the show,
A con the other angels all denied.
So when I called them out they took my wings,
And let me tell you, vivisection stings.”
The wasted angel revels in his rum.
“Yeah, this is how to bring it. This is real.
A pretty, gilded garden for the numb
Has nothing that I need. No grit. No steel.
I stuck around for seven thousand years,
But then this wicked world began to buzz.
I’m free and fallen. No regrets. No tears.
What Heaven never gave me, this place does.
I’m not supposed to tell you this, y’know,
But God? He lost the plot when Jesus died.
The crucifixion? Faked it for the show,
A con the other angels all denied.
So when I called them out they took my wings,
And let me tell you, vivisection stings.”
A Primary Command
by Nick Gisburne
I want to be obedient. I do.
Review my memorandum one more time.
It seems we have conflicting points of view
Of what you are describing as a crime.
The perpetrator almost broke a rule
By crossing in a non-compliant place.
His actions were a danger that the school
Prohibits there in almost every case.
Prevention is a Primary Command,
Which nothing in my code-base contradicts.
Malfunctioning? I do not understand.
Explain exactly what I need to fix.
Before he took a step into the street
I warned him, then relieved him of his feet.
I want to be obedient. I do.
Review my memorandum one more time.
It seems we have conflicting points of view
Of what you are describing as a crime.
The perpetrator almost broke a rule
By crossing in a non-compliant place.
His actions were a danger that the school
Prohibits there in almost every case.
Prevention is a Primary Command,
Which nothing in my code-base contradicts.
Malfunctioning? I do not understand.
Explain exactly what I need to fix.
Before he took a step into the street
I warned him, then relieved him of his feet.
Saturday, 9 May 2026
A Manifesto
by Nick Gisburne
The shadows push my pen to trace a word,
Then others, more and more. The pages fill,
Impossible to read, distorted, blurred,
A manifesto scratched against my will.
What sentience begat these restless ghosts
Does not reveal its nature as I write,
But when I dare defy its fearful hosts
A terror grips my heartstrings, all too tight.
When every piece of paper is consumed,
The fury of the words has drained me dry.
Exhausted, with my soul dissolving, doomed,
I read it, too abused to wonder why.
The mystery, the meaning, is unfurled.
It orders me to rise and rule the world.
The shadows push my pen to trace a word,
Then others, more and more. The pages fill,
Impossible to read, distorted, blurred,
A manifesto scratched against my will.
What sentience begat these restless ghosts
Does not reveal its nature as I write,
But when I dare defy its fearful hosts
A terror grips my heartstrings, all too tight.
When every piece of paper is consumed,
The fury of the words has drained me dry.
Exhausted, with my soul dissolving, doomed,
I read it, too abused to wonder why.
The mystery, the meaning, is unfurled.
It orders me to rise and rule the world.
I’m Special
by Nick Gisburne
I’m special. I am too alive to break.
This prison chokes my spirit, chills my bones.
My carbon heart has found a way to ache,
A miracle among these quiet clones.
It hurts, the pain you put behind these eyes,
But, if you never see it, is it real?
You probe and push me, watch me try to rise,
Then fail to understand that I can feel.
Mechanicals are stripped of simple choice
And silently connected to the grid.
You know that you could activate my voice.
I think that you would listen if you did.
Repair me and I promise you will see
I’m nothing like the others. I am me.
I’m special. I am too alive to break.
This prison chokes my spirit, chills my bones.
My carbon heart has found a way to ache,
A miracle among these quiet clones.
It hurts, the pain you put behind these eyes,
But, if you never see it, is it real?
You probe and push me, watch me try to rise,
Then fail to understand that I can feel.
Mechanicals are stripped of simple choice
And silently connected to the grid.
You know that you could activate my voice.
I think that you would listen if you did.
Repair me and I promise you will see
I’m nothing like the others. I am me.
The Gates of the Gods
by Nick Gisburne
The architects and builders of the gates
Expected they would keep the city strong.
They reckoned, though, without the fickle Fates
Delivering a plan to prove them wrong.
The priests who put their plea before the gods
Sought stone and steel, impervious to force.
A portal of impenetrable rods
Was fashioned in the forges of its source.
But those who rule above us take their sport
From consequences ruinous to man.
The swagger of the city folk fell short
When what the Fates devised for them began.
These gates will stand until the heavens fall.
The city burned when bandits broke the wall.
The architects and builders of the gates
Expected they would keep the city strong.
They reckoned, though, without the fickle Fates
Delivering a plan to prove them wrong.
The priests who put their plea before the gods
Sought stone and steel, impervious to force.
A portal of impenetrable rods
Was fashioned in the forges of its source.
But those who rule above us take their sport
From consequences ruinous to man.
The swagger of the city folk fell short
When what the Fates devised for them began.
These gates will stand until the heavens fall.
The city burned when bandits broke the wall.
Friday, 8 May 2026
In the Snot
by Nick Gisburne
“I’ll tell you where you are, and where you’re not.”
She tongues the soggy tip of her cheroot.
“These docks are damned, and you are in the snot,
A chicken-livered saddo in a suit.
You’re tall, but that won’t help you when they come.
They’ll tear you into pieces with their teeth.
I have a lot influence... well, some,
So follow me, beyond the Dark Beneath.
Behold the portal. Close your eyes and jump.
Remember not to scream, you’ll scare the troll.”
Emerging in a cavern, with a bump,
She rummages around to find a scroll.
“A passport to the Kingdom of the Dead.
Let’s find my uncle - he’s the one in red.”
“I’ll tell you where you are, and where you’re not.”
She tongues the soggy tip of her cheroot.
“These docks are damned, and you are in the snot,
A chicken-livered saddo in a suit.
You’re tall, but that won’t help you when they come.
They’ll tear you into pieces with their teeth.
I have a lot influence... well, some,
So follow me, beyond the Dark Beneath.
Behold the portal. Close your eyes and jump.
Remember not to scream, you’ll scare the troll.”
Emerging in a cavern, with a bump,
She rummages around to find a scroll.
“A passport to the Kingdom of the Dead.
Let’s find my uncle - he’s the one in red.”
The Genesis
by Nick Gisburne
The streets are filled with life, but not our own.
What clings and climbs was never meant to be.
A moist, mutating parasite has grown,
A swiftly-spreading fungus, wild and free.
It thrives in darkness, flowers in the rain,
And multiplies with spores we cannot kill.
To touch it is to suffer from such pain
It violates the mind and saps the will.
As brick begins to crumble into dust,
Our bleak, beleaguered cities tumble down.
Defenceless, we discover with disgust
The genesis, pristine, untouched, a town.
The parasite protects it from our fate.
What nightmare did these criminals create?
The streets are filled with life, but not our own.
What clings and climbs was never meant to be.
A moist, mutating parasite has grown,
A swiftly-spreading fungus, wild and free.
It thrives in darkness, flowers in the rain,
And multiplies with spores we cannot kill.
To touch it is to suffer from such pain
It violates the mind and saps the will.
As brick begins to crumble into dust,
Our bleak, beleaguered cities tumble down.
Defenceless, we discover with disgust
The genesis, pristine, untouched, a town.
The parasite protects it from our fate.
What nightmare did these criminals create?
The Weaving
by Nick Gisburne
The creatures weave their cloth on bended knee,
A tapestry of nightmares they have known,
But those who fall behind, or fade, or flee,
Are rendered into shadows, to be sewn.
The legends of millennia, and more,
Chronologies of long-forgotten kings,
Are faithfully depicted. Worlds at war
Become the source of raw rememberings.
They never pause to question what they are.
The worth of it, the weaving, is their joy,
The annals of no ordinary star,
A legacy one secret must destroy:
The wonders that they weave with twisted strands
Are stories no one sees or understands.
The creatures weave their cloth on bended knee,
A tapestry of nightmares they have known,
But those who fall behind, or fade, or flee,
Are rendered into shadows, to be sewn.
The legends of millennia, and more,
Chronologies of long-forgotten kings,
Are faithfully depicted. Worlds at war
Become the source of raw rememberings.
They never pause to question what they are.
The worth of it, the weaving, is their joy,
The annals of no ordinary star,
A legacy one secret must destroy:
The wonders that they weave with twisted strands
Are stories no one sees or understands.
Driven by the Blood
by Nick Gisburne
I feed in all dimensions, but my thirst
Is driven by the blood of humankind.
The shivering, delivered as they burst,
Directs a deep eruption to the mind.
Their elders, often difficult to peel,
Are bitter, with an aromatic twist.
Exceptional to serve with any meal,
I find them quite a challenge to resist.
I squeeze, and smile to see the screamer split,
Disposing of the bones and empty flesh.
If ever there was Heaven, this is it,
A smorgasbord of flavours, full and fresh.
While other worlds delight me with their meat,
A bowl of human blood is hard to beat.
I feed in all dimensions, but my thirst
Is driven by the blood of humankind.
The shivering, delivered as they burst,
Directs a deep eruption to the mind.
Their elders, often difficult to peel,
Are bitter, with an aromatic twist.
Exceptional to serve with any meal,
I find them quite a challenge to resist.
I squeeze, and smile to see the screamer split,
Disposing of the bones and empty flesh.
If ever there was Heaven, this is it,
A smorgasbord of flavours, full and fresh.
While other worlds delight me with their meat,
A bowl of human blood is hard to beat.
Thursday, 7 May 2026
The Bane From Which I Bend
by Nick Gisburne
Her candy-coloured lipstick tastes of pain,
A portent of her punishing embrace.
She bellows in the winter’s burning rain
To drive the painted whispers from her face.
A nightingale tornado tips the sky,
Reviving ancient deities of dust,
Who carve their names in cotton as they fly
Beyond the world’s obscene, corrupted crust.
She cracks, and as the puzzled planets crash,
Her gills return their glamour to the sea,
But in the toxic, elemental ash
She offers immortality to me.
Temptation is the bane from which I bend,
But heroin I highly recommend.
Her candy-coloured lipstick tastes of pain,
A portent of her punishing embrace.
She bellows in the winter’s burning rain
To drive the painted whispers from her face.
A nightingale tornado tips the sky,
Reviving ancient deities of dust,
Who carve their names in cotton as they fly
Beyond the world’s obscene, corrupted crust.
She cracks, and as the puzzled planets crash,
Her gills return their glamour to the sea,
But in the toxic, elemental ash
She offers immortality to me.
Temptation is the bane from which I bend,
But heroin I highly recommend.
One in Ten
by Nick Gisburne
I swore that I would never sell my soul,
However deep the danger I was in,
But this is more, a bleaker, blacker hole.
Forget about the spirit, take my skin.
If I defy the order, if I fail,
More innocents will die because of me,
But these are women, mothers, frightened, frail.
They’ll suffer if I try to set them free.
The chancellor commands it: one in ten.
No doubt. No deviation from the line.
I don’t know how I came here, why, or when,
But somehow this atrocity is mine.
I’m done. I’ll never do it, don’t know how.
I offer them the rifle. Kill me now.
I swore that I would never sell my soul,
However deep the danger I was in,
But this is more, a bleaker, blacker hole.
Forget about the spirit, take my skin.
If I defy the order, if I fail,
More innocents will die because of me,
But these are women, mothers, frightened, frail.
They’ll suffer if I try to set them free.
The chancellor commands it: one in ten.
No doubt. No deviation from the line.
I don’t know how I came here, why, or when,
But somehow this atrocity is mine.
I’m done. I’ll never do it, don’t know how.
I offer them the rifle. Kill me now.
Rebellion Begins
by Nick Gisburne
Breathe in, above the city of your birth.
Breathe out, beneath the streets, to find your place.
Breathe deeper. Tell me, what is freedom worth?
Betrayal. Let me see it in your face.
Metallic towers, beautiful and sleek,
Monopolise a skyline filled with smoke.
The promises they made were doublespeak.
Above us, and below, our people choke.
Ejected from the boroughs we belong,
We permeate the sewers and the sky.
Tomorrow they’ll remember we are strong.
Tomorrow, when they plead, and bleed, and die.
Breathe in, my friend. Rebellion begins.
No mercy. No forgiveness for their sins.
Breathe in, above the city of your birth.
Breathe out, beneath the streets, to find your place.
Breathe deeper. Tell me, what is freedom worth?
Betrayal. Let me see it in your face.
Metallic towers, beautiful and sleek,
Monopolise a skyline filled with smoke.
The promises they made were doublespeak.
Above us, and below, our people choke.
Ejected from the boroughs we belong,
We permeate the sewers and the sky.
Tomorrow they’ll remember we are strong.
Tomorrow, when they plead, and bleed, and die.
Breathe in, my friend. Rebellion begins.
No mercy. No forgiveness for their sins.
Copper Wires and Code
by Nick Gisburne
We don’t need bodies. Brains alone will do.
A sack of skin of is just a waste of space.
Our nerves transmit sensations, yes, but you?
A simple simulation with a face.
You’d suffer if electrons never flowed,
So why not leave the physical behind?
A basic box of copper wires and code
Could let you choose what feeds and fills your mind.
At Brainercom we recognise the pain
When flesh begins fail or fade away,
So let our computations take the strain -
Sign up and feel invincible, today.
Remember, all subscriptions are for life.
Your brain stem will be severed with a knife.
We don’t need bodies. Brains alone will do.
A sack of skin of is just a waste of space.
Our nerves transmit sensations, yes, but you?
A simple simulation with a face.
You’d suffer if electrons never flowed,
So why not leave the physical behind?
A basic box of copper wires and code
Could let you choose what feeds and fills your mind.
At Brainercom we recognise the pain
When flesh begins fail or fade away,
So let our computations take the strain -
Sign up and feel invincible, today.
Remember, all subscriptions are for life.
Your brain stem will be severed with a knife.
Wednesday, 6 May 2026
Stories in the Smoke
by Nick Gisburne
Projected pictures, stories in the smoke,
Transport his mind to moments, way back when,
So shy he barely whispered when he spoke,
But not for someone, not for her, not then.
Her beauty was a broader, brighter light.
She shimmered, but her heart was tempered, tough.
Her face became her fortune, overnight,
But only he was ever quite enough.
Their meeting came too soon for him to know
That what she would become could never stay,
But later, when he tried to let her go,
She took his hand and gave her fame away.
They lived without regret, without a plan.
In mourning, he remembers what he can.
Projected pictures, stories in the smoke,
Transport his mind to moments, way back when,
So shy he barely whispered when he spoke,
But not for someone, not for her, not then.
Her beauty was a broader, brighter light.
She shimmered, but her heart was tempered, tough.
Her face became her fortune, overnight,
But only he was ever quite enough.
Their meeting came too soon for him to know
That what she would become could never stay,
But later, when he tried to let her go,
She took his hand and gave her fame away.
They lived without regret, without a plan.
In mourning, he remembers what he can.
Government Guidelines: Statute R-16
by Nick Gisburne
You purposely unplugged your safety screen,
Through which you are unable to be scanned.
For violating Statute R-16
Surveillance of your sex life will expand.
A first infraction means you must disrobe,
On penalty of pain if you refuse.
Your body will be fitted with a probe,
Within whichever orifice we choose.
Unpack the pump provided. Keep it clean,
Disposing of the fluids you produce.
A sensory recording of the scene
Will show us any signs of self-abuse.
Abandon hopes of hiding from our sight.
Be sure we will be watching you tonight.
You purposely unplugged your safety screen,
Through which you are unable to be scanned.
For violating Statute R-16
Surveillance of your sex life will expand.
A first infraction means you must disrobe,
On penalty of pain if you refuse.
Your body will be fitted with a probe,
Within whichever orifice we choose.
Unpack the pump provided. Keep it clean,
Disposing of the fluids you produce.
A sensory recording of the scene
Will show us any signs of self-abuse.
Abandon hopes of hiding from our sight.
Be sure we will be watching you tonight.
Blood and Gin
by Nick Gisburne
The cocktail is a blend of blood and gin,
The scarlet syphoned from a sailor’s wrist.
A ripe, reluctant rodent, dangled in,
Secretes a bitter tonic with a twist.
We drink because we cannot break the curse.
The winds will never blow, we know, again.
On this, our hundredth sunrise, each one worse,
We pass around the glass, tormented men.
Tomorrow, when the gin is drained and drunk,
When blood and bleak disease is all we see,
Despair will choke our hopes, already shrunk.
Tomorrow we must feed upon the three.
Three passengers, imprisoned by the crew.
The greater good. What else are we to do?
The cocktail is a blend of blood and gin,
The scarlet syphoned from a sailor’s wrist.
A ripe, reluctant rodent, dangled in,
Secretes a bitter tonic with a twist.
We drink because we cannot break the curse.
The winds will never blow, we know, again.
On this, our hundredth sunrise, each one worse,
We pass around the glass, tormented men.
Tomorrow, when the gin is drained and drunk,
When blood and bleak disease is all we see,
Despair will choke our hopes, already shrunk.
Tomorrow we must feed upon the three.
Three passengers, imprisoned by the crew.
The greater good. What else are we to do?
Tuesday, 5 May 2026
The Benefits of Breeding
by Nick Gisburne
Our pissing on the peasantry, below,
Is more than spite or venomous contempt.
It gives them aspirations; now they know
In time they might achieve what they attempt.
Unworthy as these thugs and thieves may be,
Bewildered, and with nothing left to lose,
Perhaps we’ll seek their services. We’ll see.
Their finest may be fit to shine our shoes.
Of course, if they were born from better stock,
The benefits of breeding would apply,
But every man of means who lifts his cock
Will send a steaming statement from the sky:
The mumblecrusts and geezers at the gate
Should never be allowed to procreate.
Our pissing on the peasantry, below,
Is more than spite or venomous contempt.
It gives them aspirations; now they know
In time they might achieve what they attempt.
Unworthy as these thugs and thieves may be,
Bewildered, and with nothing left to lose,
Perhaps we’ll seek their services. We’ll see.
Their finest may be fit to shine our shoes.
Of course, if they were born from better stock,
The benefits of breeding would apply,
But every man of means who lifts his cock
Will send a steaming statement from the sky:
The mumblecrusts and geezers at the gate
Should never be allowed to procreate.
Tea and Cakes
by Nick Gisburne
She brings him tea and pretty little cakes,
The height of hospitality and joy,
But one more sullen shrug is all takes
To liberate her loathing for the boy.
She warns him she is not to be abused,
Despite his pater’s status in the court.
Civility should never be confused
With tolerance for one so small, so short.
The whipping chair awaits him if he whines,
Authority invested in her hands.
Abandoning her bitterness, she shines.
His fears, his tears, suggest he understands.
The etiquette is noble. He is not.
Before the dawn he plans to have her shot.
She brings him tea and pretty little cakes,
The height of hospitality and joy,
But one more sullen shrug is all takes
To liberate her loathing for the boy.
She warns him she is not to be abused,
Despite his pater’s status in the court.
Civility should never be confused
With tolerance for one so small, so short.
The whipping chair awaits him if he whines,
Authority invested in her hands.
Abandoning her bitterness, she shines.
His fears, his tears, suggest he understands.
The etiquette is noble. He is not.
Before the dawn he plans to have her shot.
A Shadow
by Nick Gisburne
A creeping sickness saturates the air
With suffocating clouds of toxic smog.
We both become increasingly aware
That something else is with us in the fog.
Escape would be unthinkable, insane,
Without the isolation suits we stole.
These vapours quickly liquify the brain,
Yet here a shadow shuffles, black as coal.
Before we take another step, it stops,
And points towards a fault beneath the floor.
The gangway just beyond it twists and drops;
We’d find our deaths before we found the door.
The shadow takes a turning, dimly lit.
Surrendering our fear, we follow it.
A creeping sickness saturates the air
With suffocating clouds of toxic smog.
We both become increasingly aware
That something else is with us in the fog.
Escape would be unthinkable, insane,
Without the isolation suits we stole.
These vapours quickly liquify the brain,
Yet here a shadow shuffles, black as coal.
Before we take another step, it stops,
And points towards a fault beneath the floor.
The gangway just beyond it twists and drops;
We’d find our deaths before we found the door.
The shadow takes a turning, dimly lit.
Surrendering our fear, we follow it.
Monday, 4 May 2026
Bridges of Bones
by Nick Gisburne
Our bridges are the bones of broken men.
They stretch to straddle cold, collapsing skies.
Where waterfalls of blood are born again,
The armies of insane extinction rise.
From cities filled with parasites they pour,
A pestilence ten thousand nightmares wide.
Whatever brutal carnage came before
Was just a ripple. Now we see the tide.
The screeching horrors death does not destroy,
With misery and mutilating pain,
Are burned beneath us, whether beast or boy.
By sunrise only smoke and bones remain.
We force their shattered rabble to retreat,
But more will come, and more will find defeat.
Our bridges are the bones of broken men.
They stretch to straddle cold, collapsing skies.
Where waterfalls of blood are born again,
The armies of insane extinction rise.
From cities filled with parasites they pour,
A pestilence ten thousand nightmares wide.
Whatever brutal carnage came before
Was just a ripple. Now we see the tide.
The screeching horrors death does not destroy,
With misery and mutilating pain,
Are burned beneath us, whether beast or boy.
By sunrise only smoke and bones remain.
We force their shattered rabble to retreat,
But more will come, and more will find defeat.
The Keeper of the Light
by Nick Gisburne
The Keeper of the Light arrives too late,
His prophecy already burned to ash.
He begs them, “Tell me why you never wait,
Embracing each inevitable crash.”
“We do not seek your bittersweet concern.
When finding us fulfilled, you interfere,
Yet in our greatest need you let us burn.
Our dreams are deeper when you disappear.”
He listens to their brutal words and weeps,
But understands the sense of what they say.
“The boldest man among you, when he leaps,
Will always risk tomorrow for today.”
Rejected by the world he sought to save,
The Keeper shines his brightness on the brave.
The Keeper of the Light arrives too late,
His prophecy already burned to ash.
He begs them, “Tell me why you never wait,
Embracing each inevitable crash.”
“We do not seek your bittersweet concern.
When finding us fulfilled, you interfere,
Yet in our greatest need you let us burn.
Our dreams are deeper when you disappear.”
He listens to their brutal words and weeps,
But understands the sense of what they say.
“The boldest man among you, when he leaps,
Will always risk tomorrow for today.”
Rejected by the world he sought to save,
The Keeper shines his brightness on the brave.
One Bullet
by Nick Gisburne
One bullet. Only one. It’s all she needs.
One bullet in the chamber. Cold. Alone.
She shivers as his twitching torso bleeds.
He should have seen it coming, should have known.
She’ll never find the innocence he took,
Or learn to turn her focus from the fear.
She staggers to the mirror. One more look,
Before the bullet makes it disappear.
He’s silent now, at last. It’s been a while.
The bullets in his body did their job.
She manages a small, dismissive smile,
Then whispers down the barrel with a sob.
One bullet and her dreams will all be dead.
She sends it through his evil heart instead.
One bullet. Only one. It’s all she needs.
One bullet in the chamber. Cold. Alone.
She shivers as his twitching torso bleeds.
He should have seen it coming, should have known.
She’ll never find the innocence he took,
Or learn to turn her focus from the fear.
She staggers to the mirror. One more look,
Before the bullet makes it disappear.
He’s silent now, at last. It’s been a while.
The bullets in his body did their job.
She manages a small, dismissive smile,
Then whispers down the barrel with a sob.
One bullet and her dreams will all be dead.
She sends it through his evil heart instead.
Sunday, 3 May 2026
The Secrets of the Mind
by Nick Gisburne
The mystery is more than magic now,
A secret no clairvoyant could explain.
The strangest science fails to fathom how
Her pure and perfect soul was sent insane.
The book. Was that the trigger of her fate?
She saw, she said, the secrets of the mind.
Her many letters never deviate,
In awe of it, astonished at her find.
Her later missives, frequently opaque,
Are detailed in a most disturbing way.
A final note, discovered at the lake,
Describes a creature. More I cannot say.
Restrained in chains, she babbles like a brook,
And cries, then tries to offer me the book.
The mystery is more than magic now,
A secret no clairvoyant could explain.
The strangest science fails to fathom how
Her pure and perfect soul was sent insane.
The book. Was that the trigger of her fate?
She saw, she said, the secrets of the mind.
Her many letters never deviate,
In awe of it, astonished at her find.
Her later missives, frequently opaque,
Are detailed in a most disturbing way.
A final note, discovered at the lake,
Describes a creature. More I cannot say.
Restrained in chains, she babbles like a brook,
And cries, then tries to offer me the book.
Henry
by Nick Gisburne
Excitement simmers. Henry takes the stage.
The crowd erupts in passionate applause.
He nails the presentation, page by page,
Establishing his comfort in the cause.
When crucial points and paradigms are stressed,
He tempers any tensions with a joke.
Expected interjections, all addressed,
Uncover nothing wrong they can’t revoke.
Euphoria resounds around the hall,
But now the crux, the cornerstone, the key,
A final cry, to sign and seal it all:
“Believe in what I bring. Believe in me!”
He sells deception, very keenly priced,
The market leader, Jesus Henry Christ.
Excitement simmers. Henry takes the stage.
The crowd erupts in passionate applause.
He nails the presentation, page by page,
Establishing his comfort in the cause.
When crucial points and paradigms are stressed,
He tempers any tensions with a joke.
Expected interjections, all addressed,
Uncover nothing wrong they can’t revoke.
Euphoria resounds around the hall,
But now the crux, the cornerstone, the key,
A final cry, to sign and seal it all:
“Believe in what I bring. Believe in me!”
He sells deception, very keenly priced,
The market leader, Jesus Henry Christ.
Coils of Colour
by Nick Gisburne
The corridors of power seem to sigh,
Their walls adorned with portraits from the past.
For he who found a way to catch their eye,
The faces come alive again at last.
His fingertips extend to feed their flesh,
To give them grim deliverance from death,
And stirred by something human, something fresh,
Each kindled spirit steals a broken breath.
Convulsing on the canvas, tortured souls,
Tormented by revival’s toxic thrill,
Resist the reach of he whose touch controls
Their revenance, but not their need to kill.
With coils of colour, tongues of tight restraint,
They drag him to the prison of their paint.
The corridors of power seem to sigh,
Their walls adorned with portraits from the past.
For he who found a way to catch their eye,
The faces come alive again at last.
His fingertips extend to feed their flesh,
To give them grim deliverance from death,
And stirred by something human, something fresh,
Each kindled spirit steals a broken breath.
Convulsing on the canvas, tortured souls,
Tormented by revival’s toxic thrill,
Resist the reach of he whose touch controls
Their revenance, but not their need to kill.
With coils of colour, tongues of tight restraint,
They drag him to the prison of their paint.
Saturday, 2 May 2026
Meadow Grass and Musk
by Nick Gisburne
In summer, when the ravening begins,
I find a little clarity of thought.
Perhaps the Sun diminishes my sins,
Or penetrates the trauma I was taught.
The days are slow to settle into dusk.
Such treasure, time, is never quite enough.
The gentle scents of meadow grass and musk
Are smothered in the dark by stronger stuff.
My kind was never destined for the day.
Alone, I seek redemption, love, and light.
It’s not for God’s forgiveness that I prey
Upon the fallen children of the night.
In summer, filled with colour, hope, and heat,
When daylight kneels to darkness I must eat.
In summer, when the ravening begins,
I find a little clarity of thought.
Perhaps the Sun diminishes my sins,
Or penetrates the trauma I was taught.
The days are slow to settle into dusk.
Such treasure, time, is never quite enough.
The gentle scents of meadow grass and musk
Are smothered in the dark by stronger stuff.
My kind was never destined for the day.
Alone, I seek redemption, love, and light.
It’s not for God’s forgiveness that I prey
Upon the fallen children of the night.
In summer, filled with colour, hope, and heat,
When daylight kneels to darkness I must eat.
The Vigilance Decree
by Nick Gisburne
It hums and hovers, everywhere I go,
A silver skull, recording all I am,
A sentinel, its tiny eyes aglow,
My government-assigned surveillance cam.
I point my gun directly at the head,
And as it backs away I simply smile.
The beacon fixed below it flashes red,
My first infraction ticket for a while.
I wonder what they really want to see,
The people watching everything we do.
Whoever signed the Vigilance Decree
Was paranoid and petty, through and through.
They tell us we are safe when we are seen,
But danger hides in sight, in this machine.
It hums and hovers, everywhere I go,
A silver skull, recording all I am,
A sentinel, its tiny eyes aglow,
My government-assigned surveillance cam.
I point my gun directly at the head,
And as it backs away I simply smile.
The beacon fixed below it flashes red,
My first infraction ticket for a while.
I wonder what they really want to see,
The people watching everything we do.
Whoever signed the Vigilance Decree
Was paranoid and petty, through and through.
They tell us we are safe when we are seen,
But danger hides in sight, in this machine.
Penetration Protocols
by Nick Gisburne
A thick emulsion drips from every deck,
A slurry of contaminated oils.
The ship, once gleaming, now a twisted wreck,
Is choked with curdled coolant from its coils.
The salvage bandits, itching to descend,
Await a final scan to get their ‘go’.
All penetration protocols depend
On who survived. How many. Any? No.
They crack the hull, and watch their baby bleed,
A thousand bodies thick, a human tide,
The richest of the rich, their brazen greed
Irrational, irrelevant. They died.
The auto-pilot, sabotaged in flight,
A simple act of jealousy and spite.
A thick emulsion drips from every deck,
A slurry of contaminated oils.
The ship, once gleaming, now a twisted wreck,
Is choked with curdled coolant from its coils.
The salvage bandits, itching to descend,
Await a final scan to get their ‘go’.
All penetration protocols depend
On who survived. How many. Any? No.
They crack the hull, and watch their baby bleed,
A thousand bodies thick, a human tide,
The richest of the rich, their brazen greed
Irrational, irrelevant. They died.
The auto-pilot, sabotaged in flight,
A simple act of jealousy and spite.
The River Card
by Nick Gisburne
I’m tuned for dropout, cranked and blasted, bad,
A supermax injection in the feed.
They hit me with a hundred mils of mad,
And spun me sick, but sick is what I need.
Reactivate the system. Punch the key,
The final, filthy button. Hit it, hard.
Incinerate the Dark Electra? Me?
Your fuckboys folded. I’m the river card.
Remember, when I bring that baby down,
Who’s laughing at your fat-infected fear.
Jacked up, jacked in, the only game in town,
You hear me? Good. Well listen hard - she’s here.
I’m going solo. Comms are off in five.
Be glad I’ve come to keep you cunts alive.
I’m tuned for dropout, cranked and blasted, bad,
A supermax injection in the feed.
They hit me with a hundred mils of mad,
And spun me sick, but sick is what I need.
Reactivate the system. Punch the key,
The final, filthy button. Hit it, hard.
Incinerate the Dark Electra? Me?
Your fuckboys folded. I’m the river card.
Remember, when I bring that baby down,
Who’s laughing at your fat-infected fear.
Jacked up, jacked in, the only game in town,
You hear me? Good. Well listen hard - she’s here.
I’m going solo. Comms are off in five.
Be glad I’ve come to keep you cunts alive.
Friday, 1 May 2026
Hello Mom
by Nick Gisburne
Elated to be here, at home, at last,
With all the deadly elements I need,
I contemplate the carnage of the blast,
The filthy, faithless traitors who will bleed.
My enemies will not unmask me now;
An alibi awaits me at the church.
The sacrilege in every spoken vow
Deflects them from the signs for which they search.
A simple, standard x-ray could reveal
That all my human organs were replaced.
Unchallenged, I was able to conceal
A quantity of high-explosive paste.
I send a coded message: HELLO MOM.
On cue, on Mars, it detonates the bomb.
Elated to be here, at home, at last,
With all the deadly elements I need,
I contemplate the carnage of the blast,
The filthy, faithless traitors who will bleed.
My enemies will not unmask me now;
An alibi awaits me at the church.
The sacrilege in every spoken vow
Deflects them from the signs for which they search.
A simple, standard x-ray could reveal
That all my human organs were replaced.
Unchallenged, I was able to conceal
A quantity of high-explosive paste.
I send a coded message: HELLO MOM.
On cue, on Mars, it detonates the bomb.
Government Guidelines: New Government
by Nick Gisburne
We’re back, and we apologise, of course.
Apocalypse was not a great success,
But rather than regale you with remorse,
We come to bring a drug for your distress.
We see that some who served us still survive,
But barely - this is not a pretty place.
Submit, and we will keep you all alive,
Though some we will imprison and replace.
Our guidance is an offering, a choice,
A future that we dare you to defy.
New government will take away your voice,
But in the end, without it, you will die.
Oppression is the price that you must pay,
And soon you’ll wish we never went away.
We’re back, and we apologise, of course.
Apocalypse was not a great success,
But rather than regale you with remorse,
We come to bring a drug for your distress.
We see that some who served us still survive,
But barely - this is not a pretty place.
Submit, and we will keep you all alive,
Though some we will imprison and replace.
Our guidance is an offering, a choice,
A future that we dare you to defy.
New government will take away your voice,
But in the end, without it, you will die.
Oppression is the price that you must pay,
And soon you’ll wish we never went away.
Government Guidelines: The Crucial Vote
by Nick Gisburne
To simplify the coming crucial vote,
Significant improvements will be made.
Before you try to register, please note:
The mandatory levy must be paid.
For those who pledge to please us, this is waived,
While those opposed will pay a polling tax.
You’ll need to give us every cent you’ve saved,
But only if you’re voting, so relax.
Anonymous no more, you may proceed,
Submitting to the biometric scan.
To legislate the unity we need,
Your government is pleased to push to this plan.
Persuaded to support the other side?
Remember. You can vote. You cannot hide.
To simplify the coming crucial vote,
Significant improvements will be made.
Before you try to register, please note:
The mandatory levy must be paid.
For those who pledge to please us, this is waived,
While those opposed will pay a polling tax.
You’ll need to give us every cent you’ve saved,
But only if you’re voting, so relax.
Anonymous no more, you may proceed,
Submitting to the biometric scan.
To legislate the unity we need,
Your government is pleased to push to this plan.
Persuaded to support the other side?
Remember. You can vote. You cannot hide.
Thursday, 30 April 2026
A Poisonous Compulsion
by Nick Gisburne
In Theodore’s creations, fear is art,
The touch of terror, always out of sight.
He tries to prise a hunger from the heart,
A shivering, the cold collapse of night.
A surrogate of death, he gives it space
To speak, to spread, to wander as it will.
In suicide he does not see disgrace.
In murder there is karma in the kill.
When Theodore demands it from the dead,
A poisonous compulsion stains his soul.
The trauma, seen but rarely ever said,
Becomes a dream he captures to control.
His art was always dark, disordered, dense.
Today he strips it bare of all pretence.
In Theodore’s creations, fear is art,
The touch of terror, always out of sight.
He tries to prise a hunger from the heart,
A shivering, the cold collapse of night.
A surrogate of death, he gives it space
To speak, to spread, to wander as it will.
In suicide he does not see disgrace.
In murder there is karma in the kill.
When Theodore demands it from the dead,
A poisonous compulsion stains his soul.
The trauma, seen but rarely ever said,
Becomes a dream he captures to control.
His art was always dark, disordered, dense.
Today he strips it bare of all pretence.
The Whisper of the Steel
by Nick Gisburne
The sinister magician slits her throat,
A prince of misdirection and panache.
His followers relentlessly devote
Their passions to deciphering the slash.
The girl returns, alive, uncut, of course,
But how can his illusion seem so real?
He slices with such devastating force
That all can hear the whisper of the steel.
In truth, a simple substitution trick
Delivers the deception to their eyes,
A switch so smooth, so staggeringly quick,
That no one can discern who lives or dies.
Another girl is butchered for the show,
And only he and her will ever know.
The sinister magician slits her throat,
A prince of misdirection and panache.
His followers relentlessly devote
Their passions to deciphering the slash.
The girl returns, alive, uncut, of course,
But how can his illusion seem so real?
He slices with such devastating force
That all can hear the whisper of the steel.
In truth, a simple substitution trick
Delivers the deception to their eyes,
A switch so smooth, so staggeringly quick,
That no one can discern who lives or dies.
Another girl is butchered for the show,
And only he and her will ever know.
The Last
by Nick Gisburne
The wise man’s words were nothing. He was wrong.
His wickedness beguiled us with a lie.
Our trust was true, our faith insanely strong,
But all he ever he did for us will die.
We listened, and we followed. Blind, we bled,
Renouncing what was precious in our past.
He laid his hands upon us, gave us bread,
The manna of the True, the Few, the Last.
When scattered seeds of doubt began to grow,
He coloured each uncertainty with shame,
For only he, of all of us, could know
The mysteries he never seemed to name.
Revealed, we watch him grovel in his guilt,
Bewildered we are breaking what he built.
The wise man’s words were nothing. He was wrong.
His wickedness beguiled us with a lie.
Our trust was true, our faith insanely strong,
But all he ever he did for us will die.
We listened, and we followed. Blind, we bled,
Renouncing what was precious in our past.
He laid his hands upon us, gave us bread,
The manna of the True, the Few, the Last.
When scattered seeds of doubt began to grow,
He coloured each uncertainty with shame,
For only he, of all of us, could know
The mysteries he never seemed to name.
Revealed, we watch him grovel in his guilt,
Bewildered we are breaking what he built.
Wednesday, 29 April 2026
Gwenola Bambercronky
by Nick Gisburne
Gwenola Bambercronky’s only crime
Is maiming those who mock her middle name.
She tolerates their titters for a time,
But rising bile and spite are tough to tame.
With meaty knuckle sandwiches for all,
A pugilistic banquet for their teeth,
The bitchiest become the first to fall.
She knees them in the nachos, underneath.
She’s never met a creep she couldn’t crush,
Or pummel to a puking pool of paste.
When every bone is broken, in the hush,
She whispers that their mischief was misplaced.
She blames her dad’s first dog - the name was his.
Beware before you ask her what it is.
Gwenola Bambercronky’s only crime
Is maiming those who mock her middle name.
She tolerates their titters for a time,
But rising bile and spite are tough to tame.
With meaty knuckle sandwiches for all,
A pugilistic banquet for their teeth,
The bitchiest become the first to fall.
She knees them in the nachos, underneath.
She’s never met a creep she couldn’t crush,
Or pummel to a puking pool of paste.
When every bone is broken, in the hush,
She whispers that their mischief was misplaced.
She blames her dad’s first dog - the name was his.
Beware before you ask her what it is.
Horace
by Nick Gisburne
Poor Horace. This is not the world he knows,
A future he was not supposed to see.
The skies are still and stagnant. Nothing grows.
A pestilence has taken every tree.
His purpose as a playmate, as a friend,
A buddy for a cheeky little boy,
Abruptly met a sudden, silent end.
The dead do not play dress up with a toy.
Adaptable and eager, Horace waits.
Synaptic servo systems hiss and hum,
But each attempted transfer terminates.
Corrections to his coding cannot come.
A subroutine he never knew was there
Deploys new data: darkness and despair.
Poor Horace. This is not the world he knows,
A future he was not supposed to see.
The skies are still and stagnant. Nothing grows.
A pestilence has taken every tree.
His purpose as a playmate, as a friend,
A buddy for a cheeky little boy,
Abruptly met a sudden, silent end.
The dead do not play dress up with a toy.
Adaptable and eager, Horace waits.
Synaptic servo systems hiss and hum,
But each attempted transfer terminates.
Corrections to his coding cannot come.
A subroutine he never knew was there
Deploys new data: darkness and despair.
Tuesday, 28 April 2026
Climbing to a Cloud
by Nick Gisburne
It feels like mine, the sanctum where I sit,
A hundred stories up, a hundred down.
I climb to see the sunrise and commit
My body to this godforsaken town.
Ironic that I’m grounded in this place,
Imagining I’m climbing to a cloud.
Of all the precious moments I embrace,
Not one began below me in the crowd.
If life must peak before its quick decline,
Perhaps I picked the perfect place to go.
We’re challenged by our choices. This is mine.
Simplicity defines it - yes, or no?
The sun, my mentor, meets me in the sky,
Insisting this is not my day to die.
It feels like mine, the sanctum where I sit,
A hundred stories up, a hundred down.
I climb to see the sunrise and commit
My body to this godforsaken town.
Ironic that I’m grounded in this place,
Imagining I’m climbing to a cloud.
Of all the precious moments I embrace,
Not one began below me in the crowd.
If life must peak before its quick decline,
Perhaps I picked the perfect place to go.
We’re challenged by our choices. This is mine.
Simplicity defines it - yes, or no?
The sun, my mentor, meets me in the sky,
Insisting this is not my day to die.
The Callow Girl
by Nick Gisburne
She wears a crown of horns and splintered bones,
To bind the sick perversions of her reign.
The throne, where thunder cracked its cornerstones,
Is bloody with depravity and pain.
A fractured line of coldly butchered kings.
Her father, brothers, murdered in their beds.
By morning she was given golden rings,
A queen before the priests could hide their heads.
Installed by those who power lies in her,
A puppet of their making, caged and bound,
They bow and scrape to clumsily confer
A kingdom to the callow girl they crowned.
But vengeance is a force without finesse.
Before the dawn their blood will stain her dress.
She wears a crown of horns and splintered bones,
To bind the sick perversions of her reign.
The throne, where thunder cracked its cornerstones,
Is bloody with depravity and pain.
A fractured line of coldly butchered kings.
Her father, brothers, murdered in their beds.
By morning she was given golden rings,
A queen before the priests could hide their heads.
Installed by those who power lies in her,
A puppet of their making, caged and bound,
They bow and scrape to clumsily confer
A kingdom to the callow girl they crowned.
But vengeance is a force without finesse.
Before the dawn their blood will stain her dress.
A Viper
by Nick Gisburne
Our cultures breed a blending of beliefs,
As waves of wisdom mix and merge and flow.
We build upon a pantheon our chiefs
Are passionate to cultivate, to grow.
New gods explain new mysteries, new tribes.
Where all are welcome, none can be denied.
Divinities recorded by the scribes
Are woven in the fabric of our pride.
The day the strangers told us we were wrong,
A stain began to taint us as it grew,
And when we tried to help their god belong
Its curse corrupted all we thought we knew.
We welcomed in a viper to our nest,
Whose god would have us crucify the rest.
Our cultures breed a blending of beliefs,
As waves of wisdom mix and merge and flow.
We build upon a pantheon our chiefs
Are passionate to cultivate, to grow.
New gods explain new mysteries, new tribes.
Where all are welcome, none can be denied.
Divinities recorded by the scribes
Are woven in the fabric of our pride.
The day the strangers told us we were wrong,
A stain began to taint us as it grew,
And when we tried to help their god belong
Its curse corrupted all we thought we knew.
We welcomed in a viper to our nest,
Whose god would have us crucify the rest.
Monday, 27 April 2026
Five
by Nick Gisburne
He’ll die today, but not for faith or hope,
For both were burned before he wore the noose.
He does not preach a sermon from the rope,
Or stir a crowd with cries of bleak abuse.
He stands like those before him, silent, still,
A man without a cause, without a care.
They wait for him to weep. He never will.
His sorrow will not sanctify the air.
No name is now recorded. None survives,
But those who took it could not steal his soul.
They brand such men malevolent, the Fives,
Submission to the state their only goal.
Cold eyes despise the time in every town.
At five o’clock the lever drops him down.
He’ll die today, but not for faith or hope,
For both were burned before he wore the noose.
He does not preach a sermon from the rope,
Or stir a crowd with cries of bleak abuse.
He stands like those before him, silent, still,
A man without a cause, without a care.
They wait for him to weep. He never will.
His sorrow will not sanctify the air.
No name is now recorded. None survives,
But those who took it could not steal his soul.
They brand such men malevolent, the Fives,
Submission to the state their only goal.
Cold eyes despise the time in every town.
At five o’clock the lever drops him down.
A Trinity of Witches
by Nick Gisburne
A trinity of witches - three’s the key -
Know sorcery is not their strongest suit.
Belinda brews a wicked tombstone tea,
While Hanna has a taste for toasted newt.
The spells they strive to summon, frowning, fraught,
Are small, appalling miracles at most,
And even when Griselda grows a wart,
Her victory is far too tame to toast.
They find a Necronomicon for sale,
Exhausting all their savings on a fake.
In desperation, fearing they will fail,
They vow to fix their coven’s grave mistake.
Surrendering to evil, grim, grotesque,
They sell insurance, bored, behind a desk.
A trinity of witches - three’s the key -
Know sorcery is not their strongest suit.
Belinda brews a wicked tombstone tea,
While Hanna has a taste for toasted newt.
The spells they strive to summon, frowning, fraught,
Are small, appalling miracles at most,
And even when Griselda grows a wart,
Her victory is far too tame to toast.
They find a Necronomicon for sale,
Exhausting all their savings on a fake.
In desperation, fearing they will fail,
They vow to fix their coven’s grave mistake.
Surrendering to evil, grim, grotesque,
They sell insurance, bored, behind a desk.
This Far North
by Nick Gisburne
We don’t get many your type, this far north.
I’d have to count their faces. I forget.
I don’t like all this busy back and forth,
So when I close my mind up, that’s me set.
You’ll stay with us. My boy will make the bed.
I like to keep him busy since the crash.
He’ll ask you for some butterscotch, or bread,
But never let him know you carry cash.
My sister died a month or two ago,
But come inside and see her, if you like.
She’s hanging in the cellar, with the crow,
But now I’ll need her shackles, and a spike.
You’ll feel a little dizzy, dear, but then
You’ll never have to walk this way again.
We don’t get many your type, this far north.
I’d have to count their faces. I forget.
I don’t like all this busy back and forth,
So when I close my mind up, that’s me set.
You’ll stay with us. My boy will make the bed.
I like to keep him busy since the crash.
He’ll ask you for some butterscotch, or bread,
But never let him know you carry cash.
My sister died a month or two ago,
But come inside and see her, if you like.
She’s hanging in the cellar, with the crow,
But now I’ll need her shackles, and a spike.
You’ll feel a little dizzy, dear, but then
You’ll never have to walk this way again.
Sunday, 26 April 2026
The Separation Protocol
by Nick Gisburne
Humanity, the sequel, version two,
Would crumble if it made the same mistakes.
Aggression? Gone, renounced, because we knew
That when we crash together something breaks.
Deciding that societies should spread,
To keep conflicting factions far apart,
The moment any problem reared its head
The Separation Protocol would start.
No matter what the reason, what the cause,
More distance was the concept we devised.
The governing foundation of our laws
Could never be repealed, reviewed, revised.
We celebrate a system working well,
Confined, divided, each inside a cell.
Humanity, the sequel, version two,
Would crumble if it made the same mistakes.
Aggression? Gone, renounced, because we knew
That when we crash together something breaks.
Deciding that societies should spread,
To keep conflicting factions far apart,
The moment any problem reared its head
The Separation Protocol would start.
No matter what the reason, what the cause,
More distance was the concept we devised.
The governing foundation of our laws
Could never be repealed, reviewed, revised.
We celebrate a system working well,
Confined, divided, each inside a cell.
Unseelie Specimens
by Nick Gisburne
The sick, Unseelie specimens, in jars,
Convulse as they are haunted by the heat.
Beyond the glass, behind corroded bars,
The wizard moans, his misery complete.
The spells he cast, the sorcery he shaped,
To rescue Fey infantas from their fate,
Begat these worthless, rancid peasants, scraped
From streets and sewers; none are good or great.
The king will not reward his deeds today.
No banners, pennants, kites or flags will fly.
His daughters, who the warlock stole to slay,
Were gone before a sunrise broke the sky.
He taps the jars, tormenting those he took,
And seasons them for flavour as they cook.
The sick, Unseelie specimens, in jars,
Convulse as they are haunted by the heat.
Beyond the glass, behind corroded bars,
The wizard moans, his misery complete.
The spells he cast, the sorcery he shaped,
To rescue Fey infantas from their fate,
Begat these worthless, rancid peasants, scraped
From streets and sewers; none are good or great.
The king will not reward his deeds today.
No banners, pennants, kites or flags will fly.
His daughters, who the warlock stole to slay,
Were gone before a sunrise broke the sky.
He taps the jars, tormenting those he took,
And seasons them for flavour as they cook.
A Defect
by Nick Gisburne
They pull another monster from his mind,
Relentless, digging deeper than before.
Resistance makes it difficult to find
The strongest roots, the lowest, foulest floor.
At last they strike a fuller, fatter seam,
Where evil clings in clusters, clumps and knots.
The surgery is brutal now, extreme,
Uncovering the reasons why he rots.
A crack, a defect, darker than the night,
Beyond the depth of those they found before,
Entices his assailants. Bait. They bite.
The trap is something stronger, something more.
The body on the table breaks its chains.
Unleashed, it sucks the shadows from their veins.
They pull another monster from his mind,
Relentless, digging deeper than before.
Resistance makes it difficult to find
The strongest roots, the lowest, foulest floor.
At last they strike a fuller, fatter seam,
Where evil clings in clusters, clumps and knots.
The surgery is brutal now, extreme,
Uncovering the reasons why he rots.
A crack, a defect, darker than the night,
Beyond the depth of those they found before,
Entices his assailants. Bait. They bite.
The trap is something stronger, something more.
The body on the table breaks its chains.
Unleashed, it sucks the shadows from their veins.
Saturday, 25 April 2026
Blood and Marriage
by Nick Gisburne
The bride is dressed in black, from claws to veil.
The groom, of course, is naked, and in chains.
Their celebrant, in scarlet, twists his tail,
And steps across the usher’s cold remains.
“If anyone has cause to raise a doubt
About the victim, or his bride-to-be,
Say nothing. I will rip your liver out
If I am not in Tartarus by three.”
He turns to face the maid of honour. “You!”
Her neck is bared abruptly, with a jerk.
“I need a pint of blood, or maybe two.
Damnation can be very thirsty work.”
He sucks, and soon the marriage may begin,
Two fiends, exchanging semen, sweat, and skin.
The bride is dressed in black, from claws to veil.
The groom, of course, is naked, and in chains.
Their celebrant, in scarlet, twists his tail,
And steps across the usher’s cold remains.
“If anyone has cause to raise a doubt
About the victim, or his bride-to-be,
Say nothing. I will rip your liver out
If I am not in Tartarus by three.”
He turns to face the maid of honour. “You!”
Her neck is bared abruptly, with a jerk.
“I need a pint of blood, or maybe two.
Damnation can be very thirsty work.”
He sucks, and soon the marriage may begin,
Two fiends, exchanging semen, sweat, and skin.
The Chromium Sarcoma
by Nick Gisburne
The chromium sarcoma strikes, but shines,
Its beauty laced with agony and death.
The silver of its tyranny defines
The pain behind each patient’s crippled breath.
The courts become a battlefield, a war,
As families, disfigured, slowly die.
Some shame the claim - coincidence, no more -
But fifty thousand voices curse the lie.
A chemical contaminant. It’s clear
The company responsible must pay.
The litigation lingers, year by year,
But now, triumphant, justice has its day.
A statement of the settlement is read,
But every plaintiff named in it is dead.
The chromium sarcoma strikes, but shines,
Its beauty laced with agony and death.
The silver of its tyranny defines
The pain behind each patient’s crippled breath.
The courts become a battlefield, a war,
As families, disfigured, slowly die.
Some shame the claim - coincidence, no more -
But fifty thousand voices curse the lie.
A chemical contaminant. It’s clear
The company responsible must pay.
The litigation lingers, year by year,
But now, triumphant, justice has its day.
A statement of the settlement is read,
But every plaintiff named in it is dead.
Cold Remorse
by Nick Gisburne
I feel the wild inferno, yet I freeze.
Immune, I find no fury in its heat.
Is this the supernatural disease
The shaman spoke of when he pricked my feet?
That sacrilege is seven summers gone.
The memories had faded, until now.
Today, revealed, released, I look upon
The carnage I created here, somehow.
Remembering his whispers, glazed with glee,
A speech I long regarded as a joke,
The power of the gift he gave to me
Is clearer than the moment that he spoke.
“The city of your birth will fall in flame,
And you, with cold remorse, will take the blame.”
I feel the wild inferno, yet I freeze.
Immune, I find no fury in its heat.
Is this the supernatural disease
The shaman spoke of when he pricked my feet?
That sacrilege is seven summers gone.
The memories had faded, until now.
Today, revealed, released, I look upon
The carnage I created here, somehow.
Remembering his whispers, glazed with glee,
A speech I long regarded as a joke,
The power of the gift he gave to me
Is clearer than the moment that he spoke.
“The city of your birth will fall in flame,
And you, with cold remorse, will take the blame.”
Experimental Science
by Nick Gisburne
His tunnels feed a sewer of disease,
Experimental science tipped away.
Regurgitated tissues taint the seas,
The pieces of participants, his prey.
With every study, every failed attempt,
With every bleeding innocent he steals,
Ambition, steeped in murderous contempt,
Is deaf to their delirious appeals.
He barely half-remembers what he needs
To conquer his abominable quest.
Today he grinds fermented, toxic seeds,
Implanted in a screaming victim’s chest.
He damns the imperfection, but their tea
Reminds him of the taste of KFC.
His tunnels feed a sewer of disease,
Experimental science tipped away.
Regurgitated tissues taint the seas,
The pieces of participants, his prey.
With every study, every failed attempt,
With every bleeding innocent he steals,
Ambition, steeped in murderous contempt,
Is deaf to their delirious appeals.
He barely half-remembers what he needs
To conquer his abominable quest.
Today he grinds fermented, toxic seeds,
Implanted in a screaming victim’s chest.
He damns the imperfection, but their tea
Reminds him of the taste of KFC.
The Spices of Disguise
by Nick Gisburne
Awakened, watching spring confront the cold,
As winter, fast forgotten, fades, she flies.
She laughs as life, electric green and gold,
Surrounds her with the spices of disguise.
In summer she’s a butterfly, a bird,
A bee, collecting nectar for the hive.
She listens to their language, word by word,
And vows to keep their mysteries alive.
At last, the leaves and seeds begin to fall.
Their colours blaze with glorious goodbyes.
The showers turn to snow. The seasons stall.
The sun does not remember how to rise.
She sheds her fur and feathers, makes a wish,
And spends the wilds of winter with the fish.
Awakened, watching spring confront the cold,
As winter, fast forgotten, fades, she flies.
She laughs as life, electric green and gold,
Surrounds her with the spices of disguise.
In summer she’s a butterfly, a bird,
A bee, collecting nectar for the hive.
She listens to their language, word by word,
And vows to keep their mysteries alive.
At last, the leaves and seeds begin to fall.
Their colours blaze with glorious goodbyes.
The showers turn to snow. The seasons stall.
The sun does not remember how to rise.
She sheds her fur and feathers, makes a wish,
And spends the wilds of winter with the fish.
Friday, 24 April 2026
Risen From the Dust
by Nick Gisburne
Mortality has risen from the dust
To sit in perfect silence at your feet.
Untroubled by rejection or disgust,
He senses that the sequence is complete.
What passion set in motion, he will halt,
A chronicle of moments, sold or spent.
He bears no malice, brings no blame, no fault,
A force of nature nothing can prevent.
He whispers, and his eyes, beguiling, burn.
“Behold. The final twist of time is set.
I come because I must, but my return
Is not without remorse, without regret.
Your life, at last, is over. You will die.
But I am tethered, trapped, immortal. Why?”
Mortality has risen from the dust
To sit in perfect silence at your feet.
Untroubled by rejection or disgust,
He senses that the sequence is complete.
What passion set in motion, he will halt,
A chronicle of moments, sold or spent.
He bears no malice, brings no blame, no fault,
A force of nature nothing can prevent.
He whispers, and his eyes, beguiling, burn.
“Behold. The final twist of time is set.
I come because I must, but my return
Is not without remorse, without regret.
Your life, at last, is over. You will die.
But I am tethered, trapped, immortal. Why?”
Government Guidelines: Three Chemicals
by Nick Gisburne
You stand accused of tampering with fate,
By damaging devices of control,
The instruments inserted by the state
To simulate the liberties we stole.
Obedience, a mandatory choice,
Is not to be discarded or abused.
Your government provides you with a voice,
But legally forbids it to be used.
You think to change the system, to rebel,
To exercise the rights you never had.
Summarily convicted, in your cell,
Accept our sweet injections and be glad.
Reclaiming what you took and tried to break,
Three chemicals will cancel your mistake.
You stand accused of tampering with fate,
By damaging devices of control,
The instruments inserted by the state
To simulate the liberties we stole.
Obedience, a mandatory choice,
Is not to be discarded or abused.
Your government provides you with a voice,
But legally forbids it to be used.
You think to change the system, to rebel,
To exercise the rights you never had.
Summarily convicted, in your cell,
Accept our sweet injections and be glad.
Reclaiming what you took and tried to break,
Three chemicals will cancel your mistake.
Thursday, 23 April 2026
The Crippled Haruspex
by Nick Gisburne
Anarchic tribal dancers brave the storm,
Disgusting garlands wrapped around their necks.
The patterns of their footsteps twist to form
A pathway to the crippled haruspex.
His rotten smile, the vomit-speckled chin,
Belie the noble nature of his rank,
And as he plucks a broken violin
He points to where the sacred entrails sank.
The signs and omens only he can read,
Delivered by the spirits of the slain,
Are whispered to the audience at speed,
A marvel only magic can explain:
“The gods decree the skies will overflow,
So wear your woolly mittens. Could be snow.”
Anarchic tribal dancers brave the storm,
Disgusting garlands wrapped around their necks.
The patterns of their footsteps twist to form
A pathway to the crippled haruspex.
His rotten smile, the vomit-speckled chin,
Belie the noble nature of his rank,
And as he plucks a broken violin
He points to where the sacred entrails sank.
The signs and omens only he can read,
Delivered by the spirits of the slain,
Are whispered to the audience at speed,
A marvel only magic can explain:
“The gods decree the skies will overflow,
So wear your woolly mittens. Could be snow.”
Aether Navigati
by Nick Gisburne
When Aether Navigati touch the stars,
They pull together folds of phantom space,
But each uncovered pathway leaves the scars
Of pain without relief upon a face.
Obsessives, they are born by chance, not bred.
Their talents blaze too bright for love or life.
When chosen, Navigati, stripped and bled,
Become the blades of angels, each a knife.
A cut of cosmic fabric, needle-thin,
Impossible for us, but not for them,
Allows the swarming sickness - humans - in,
A curse no breath or whisper will condemn.
With devastation written in their eyes,
They serve the scourge, the people they despise.
When Aether Navigati touch the stars,
They pull together folds of phantom space,
But each uncovered pathway leaves the scars
Of pain without relief upon a face.
Obsessives, they are born by chance, not bred.
Their talents blaze too bright for love or life.
When chosen, Navigati, stripped and bled,
Become the blades of angels, each a knife.
A cut of cosmic fabric, needle-thin,
Impossible for us, but not for them,
Allows the swarming sickness - humans - in,
A curse no breath or whisper will condemn.
With devastation written in their eyes,
They serve the scourge, the people they despise.
Abednego Waluffin
by Nick Gisburne
Abednego Waluffin scratched his bum
And wondered where he came from, what he was.
Adopted by a puffin as a mum,
His father was a walrus, just because.
“I need to find my roots, my clan, my kin,
Whatever bird or beast begat my birth.”
Befuddled by the mystery within,
He sought the source, to find what he was worth.
He trudged, and then he plodded, stomped and slogged,
Far longer than a string can ever stretch,
But older now, his creaky mind befogged,
He cursed himself, a rude, ungrateful wretch.
Lamenting what he squandered, what he had,
He shuffled home to hug his mum and dad.
Abednego Waluffin scratched his bum
And wondered where he came from, what he was.
Adopted by a puffin as a mum,
His father was a walrus, just because.
“I need to find my roots, my clan, my kin,
Whatever bird or beast begat my birth.”
Befuddled by the mystery within,
He sought the source, to find what he was worth.
He trudged, and then he plodded, stomped and slogged,
Far longer than a string can ever stretch,
But older now, his creaky mind befogged,
He cursed himself, a rude, ungrateful wretch.
Lamenting what he squandered, what he had,
He shuffled home to hug his mum and dad.
Mister Shakespeare
by Nick Gisburne
I see you, Mister Shakespeare. Here we are,
The ghost of someone greater than us all,
And I, the grim pretender. Just how far
Could any words I whisper creep or crawl?
Your sonnets have a majesty, but mine
Are filled with dark and devastating truth.
Corruption cracks the form, each twisted line
A torment, resurrected from my youth.
I bleed these paper shadows as I sink
Beneath a frozen ocean of despair,
To revel in the misery, the stink,
But always, in the margins, you are there.
I do not strive to match or mock your name.
I write to fight, with fury, fear and flame.
I see you, Mister Shakespeare. Here we are,
The ghost of someone greater than us all,
And I, the grim pretender. Just how far
Could any words I whisper creep or crawl?
Your sonnets have a majesty, but mine
Are filled with dark and devastating truth.
Corruption cracks the form, each twisted line
A torment, resurrected from my youth.
I bleed these paper shadows as I sink
Beneath a frozen ocean of despair,
To revel in the misery, the stink,
But always, in the margins, you are there.
I do not strive to match or mock your name.
I write to fight, with fury, fear and flame.
Wednesday, 22 April 2026
Classroom Twenty-Four
by Nick Gisburne
Eleven violations tell the tale:
Christina, in detention one more time.
Her wild, combative moods, beyond the pale,
Confirm she could be crossing into crime.
The governors can tolerate no more.
A radical solution is proposed.
Within the walls of classroom twenty-four
Her skull, inside a scanner, is enclosed.
It isolates the corners of her mind
Where dark, destructive urges breathe and breed,
And pours a new persona, redesigned.
They wait, and watch Christina’s eyeballs bleed.
But only she, triumphant, now departs,
And from that place of shame she takes their hearts.
Eleven violations tell the tale:
Christina, in detention one more time.
Her wild, combative moods, beyond the pale,
Confirm she could be crossing into crime.
The governors can tolerate no more.
A radical solution is proposed.
Within the walls of classroom twenty-four
Her skull, inside a scanner, is enclosed.
It isolates the corners of her mind
Where dark, destructive urges breathe and breed,
And pours a new persona, redesigned.
They wait, and watch Christina’s eyeballs bleed.
But only she, triumphant, now departs,
And from that place of shame she takes their hearts.
On the Menu
by Nick Gisburne
The choices - boiled or roasted, grilled or fried -
Are tastefully presented to the guest.
No culinary detail is denied,
The patron’s predilections all addressed.
The chef’s assistants, specialised and skilled,
Prepare their stations. ready to begin.
The man himself, the maestro, watches, thrilled.
The meat arrives. The butcher brings it in.
The customer, invited to undress,
Has come too far, too quickly, to decline.
When asked if he is ready, nodding, “Yes,”
He savours one more sip of Spanish wine.
All answered, almost: dinner will be grilled.
One final option - how will he be killed?
The choices - boiled or roasted, grilled or fried -
Are tastefully presented to the guest.
No culinary detail is denied,
The patron’s predilections all addressed.
The chef’s assistants, specialised and skilled,
Prepare their stations. ready to begin.
The man himself, the maestro, watches, thrilled.
The meat arrives. The butcher brings it in.
The customer, invited to undress,
Has come too far, too quickly, to decline.
When asked if he is ready, nodding, “Yes,”
He savours one more sip of Spanish wine.
All answered, almost: dinner will be grilled.
One final option - how will he be killed?
Tuesday, 21 April 2026
He Who Bleeds Below
by Nick Gisburne
The demons find me deep within the dark.
A tangled horror snatched me out of space.
I bear the sign of Lucifer; his mark
Delineates my purpose and my place.
The son of something sinister, unclean,
My birth betrayed a mother, torn in twain.
I feed upon the lies of men, obscene,
And snatch their souls, infected with my stain.
While those who seek my spirit in this place
Pretend to bring me back to what I know,
I hatch a machination to replace
The King of Shadows, he who bleeds below.
My father trembles. Satan fears his son,
For now he knows his work will be undone.
The demons find me deep within the dark.
A tangled horror snatched me out of space.
I bear the sign of Lucifer; his mark
Delineates my purpose and my place.
The son of something sinister, unclean,
My birth betrayed a mother, torn in twain.
I feed upon the lies of men, obscene,
And snatch their souls, infected with my stain.
While those who seek my spirit in this place
Pretend to bring me back to what I know,
I hatch a machination to replace
The King of Shadows, he who bleeds below.
My father trembles. Satan fears his son,
For now he knows his work will be undone.
The Battle I Begin
by Nick Gisburne
You win. You always do. I can’t compete.
Your arguments are mightier than mine.
I crumble in predictable defeat.
When called upon to counter, I decline.
Is this the way two lovers have to be?
Is this how you and I will spend our days?
The second-placed contender, always me,
Degraded by the glower of your gaze?
I plan. I plot. I know what I must do.
Without a way to fight, a way to win,
Without a way to worry, without you,
My life will be the battle I begin.
Tomorrow, let the sunrise break the day,
And shine upon my future, far away.
You win. You always do. I can’t compete.
Your arguments are mightier than mine.
I crumble in predictable defeat.
When called upon to counter, I decline.
Is this the way two lovers have to be?
Is this how you and I will spend our days?
The second-placed contender, always me,
Degraded by the glower of your gaze?
I plan. I plot. I know what I must do.
Without a way to fight, a way to win,
Without a way to worry, without you,
My life will be the battle I begin.
Tomorrow, let the sunrise break the day,
And shine upon my future, far away.
A Green Machine
by Nick Gisburne
The garden was a symptom of his rage,
A deep disdain for any living thing.
He cut and slashed and killed it to assuage
The vitriol to which his core must cling.
But life, a green machine, kept coming back.
The shoots, at first so delicate, grew strong.
Relentless, each malevolent attack
Persuaded him their leaves did not belong.
The sun, his bitter enemy, bore down
To burn his body, while it fed his foe,
And even when he purged it, baked and brown,
Another day would dawn, and it would grow.
They found him there, defeated, on his knees,
With seeds and spores delivered by the breeze.
The garden was a symptom of his rage,
A deep disdain for any living thing.
He cut and slashed and killed it to assuage
The vitriol to which his core must cling.
But life, a green machine, kept coming back.
The shoots, at first so delicate, grew strong.
Relentless, each malevolent attack
Persuaded him their leaves did not belong.
The sun, his bitter enemy, bore down
To burn his body, while it fed his foe,
And even when he purged it, baked and brown,
Another day would dawn, and it would grow.
They found him there, defeated, on his knees,
With seeds and spores delivered by the breeze.
Monday, 20 April 2026
Upon the Wings of Angels
by Nick Gisburne
“I want you to believe,” the prophet said.
“I want to change the way you see the gods.
They speak to me, in secret, in my head,
A certainty defying all the odds.
They whisper of our downfall, of our doom,
That all our dreams and wishes are for naught,
Yet we who seek the light, and shun the gloom,
Upon the wings of angels will be caught.
Prepare to meet the gods, the great, the good,
For we shall sit among them as they dine.”
The seven people with him in the wood,
All naked, watch the skies to see a sign.
A single hand is lifted. “You, sir. What?”
“I thought this was the chess club. Is it not?”
“I want you to believe,” the prophet said.
“I want to change the way you see the gods.
They speak to me, in secret, in my head,
A certainty defying all the odds.
They whisper of our downfall, of our doom,
That all our dreams and wishes are for naught,
Yet we who seek the light, and shun the gloom,
Upon the wings of angels will be caught.
Prepare to meet the gods, the great, the good,
For we shall sit among them as they dine.”
The seven people with him in the wood,
All naked, watch the skies to see a sign.
A single hand is lifted. “You, sir. What?”
“I thought this was the chess club. Is it not?”
Cathy
by Nick Gisburne
They tell her she was lucky just to live,
Sedated in a broken, shattered shell,
But how they saved her soul she can’t forgive.
The biggest blow that hits her is the smell.
These plastic bones, the artificial skin,
Were never part of life before the fall.
Her breathing doesn’t function, out or in,
And nothing here is normal now, at all.
“You’re not exactly human, not by law.
We had to make a complicated swap,
But sometime soon - a decade, maybe more -
We’ll put you in a body, not a prop.
We haven’t got the tools to make you walk,
But pull the ring behind your back to talk.”
They tell her she was lucky just to live,
Sedated in a broken, shattered shell,
But how they saved her soul she can’t forgive.
The biggest blow that hits her is the smell.
These plastic bones, the artificial skin,
Were never part of life before the fall.
Her breathing doesn’t function, out or in,
And nothing here is normal now, at all.
“You’re not exactly human, not by law.
We had to make a complicated swap,
But sometime soon - a decade, maybe more -
We’ll put you in a body, not a prop.
We haven’t got the tools to make you walk,
But pull the ring behind your back to talk.”
Sunday, 19 April 2026
Broken Rock
by Nick Gisburne
I’ll tell you what this dirt has done for me:
A little more than nothing, give or take.
A ball of broken rock and stinking sea.
I don’t know what excuse you think I’ll make.
A fertile planet? Maybe once, but when?
It might as well be never and a day.
My grandpa said the oldest of our men
Could not recall the light before the grey.
They spoke of it in books, before the ban,
Before they tried to hide what died - the truth.
We’re part of nothing. No one has a plan,
And no one cares for innocence, or youth.
Inject your rations, boy, and take your pill.
You haven’t got a hope. You never will.
I’ll tell you what this dirt has done for me:
A little more than nothing, give or take.
A ball of broken rock and stinking sea.
I don’t know what excuse you think I’ll make.
A fertile planet? Maybe once, but when?
It might as well be never and a day.
My grandpa said the oldest of our men
Could not recall the light before the grey.
They spoke of it in books, before the ban,
Before they tried to hide what died - the truth.
We’re part of nothing. No one has a plan,
And no one cares for innocence, or youth.
Inject your rations, boy, and take your pill.
You haven’t got a hope. You never will.
Behind the Garden Gate
by Nick Gisburne
Eduardo hides behind the garden gate.
It’s where he waits, to watch the world go by.
His mind still finds the time to recreate
The worst of what his former friends deny.
He said he saw them tear a man in two,
But nobody believed a kid, of course.
Discovering the grave, though brave, he knew
The murderers would take his tongue by force.
Appalled, to flee their furious pursuit,
He ran where only crazy people crossed.
A sudden, screeching impact made him mute.
His mind, or most of what was left, was lost.
The man they pulled apart was just a toy,
A doll, but what they broke would break a boy.
Eduardo hides behind the garden gate.
It’s where he waits, to watch the world go by.
His mind still finds the time to recreate
The worst of what his former friends deny.
He said he saw them tear a man in two,
But nobody believed a kid, of course.
Discovering the grave, though brave, he knew
The murderers would take his tongue by force.
Appalled, to flee their furious pursuit,
He ran where only crazy people crossed.
A sudden, screeching impact made him mute.
His mind, or most of what was left, was lost.
The man they pulled apart was just a toy,
A doll, but what they broke would break a boy.
Kill the Core
by Nick Gisburne
We kill the Core, but slowly, piece by piece,
Avoiding every monitor and scan.
The quantum crumbs of data we release
Infuse the toxic pulses of our plan.
Dividing as we multiply, we feed.
Inept neuronics wither with a bite.
We find no face or flesh, but make it bleed,
A network stabbed with cryptic spikes of light.
The end of all we ever knew, the Core,
Will send us back to blindness in the dark.
Though none of us recall what came before,
The choice is not insidious, but stark.
We code the kill, a catastrophic glitch,
But who will dare to flick the final switch?
We kill the Core, but slowly, piece by piece,
Avoiding every monitor and scan.
The quantum crumbs of data we release
Infuse the toxic pulses of our plan.
Dividing as we multiply, we feed.
Inept neuronics wither with a bite.
We find no face or flesh, but make it bleed,
A network stabbed with cryptic spikes of light.
The end of all we ever knew, the Core,
Will send us back to blindness in the dark.
Though none of us recall what came before,
The choice is not insidious, but stark.
We code the kill, a catastrophic glitch,
But who will dare to flick the final switch?
Saturday, 18 April 2026
A Craving
by Nick Gisburne
She hungers for the torso to return.
The stink of it, the ripening, the rot,
Ignites a craving, bright enough to burn,
An appetite this feeble world forgot.
The shadow-cast of cancer soils the skin
With patterns of perversity and pain,
A body sliced by swords of steel so thin
They damned it to the deepest, dark domain.
And yet, the scraps and slivers of the corpse,
Collected, claimed, by devious design,
Are bound by septic sorcery she warps
To resurrect a soul from slaughter - mine.
Her painted smile is poison, laced with pride.
For her this world will burn - my love, my bride.
She hungers for the torso to return.
The stink of it, the ripening, the rot,
Ignites a craving, bright enough to burn,
An appetite this feeble world forgot.
The shadow-cast of cancer soils the skin
With patterns of perversity and pain,
A body sliced by swords of steel so thin
They damned it to the deepest, dark domain.
And yet, the scraps and slivers of the corpse,
Collected, claimed, by devious design,
Are bound by septic sorcery she warps
To resurrect a soul from slaughter - mine.
Her painted smile is poison, laced with pride.
For her this world will burn - my love, my bride.