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.
Thursday, 30 April 2026
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.
Bait
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.