Ten Billion and One

by Nick Gisburne

---

We all signed up for this. I just never thought it would happen so soon.

Ten billion is enough. That’s what they told us. Ten billion. That’s the limit. One less, what’s that? Something with a lot of nines. That number, we can live with it. And we’ll take one more, to round it up. But another one, one over the top, the one that takes it over ten billion? No. Can’t be done.

Ten billion and one is too many. Too many people. We can all fit, of course we can. Pack us all together, side to side, up and down, and you can fit that many people into a small piece of land. Not small, but you see what I mean. There’s plenty of land. But there isn’t plenty of food.

It’s too many. Too many to feed. The rich, they get to eat, they always do. But we’re not all rich are we? And if we were, who would we buy the food from? We can’t all be rich. You couldn’t have ten billion rich people, and we don’t. We have ten billion ordinary people, and they all need food, and there’s just not enough. Not enough to go round. Not enough to feed us all.

Why did they pick that number, ten billion? Was it just the roundest number they could find? Why not nine billion? No, nine billion, that’s how many of us there were when we decided that ten, ten billion, yes, that’s the number. We all got together and we signed up for it and we said ‘ten billion and no more’.

I didn’t sign it of course. That’s not how it works. The nine billion didn’t sign anything. The rich ones signed it, the ones in charge, the ones who come up with these ideas. They told us it was something we had to do because if we didn’t we wouldn’t get very far. We all agreed though, because we were all hungry, and we didn’t want to be more hungry than we were then. It was hard enough with nine billion of us, they told us, so imagine how bad things would get if there were ten. ‘Do you want to be more hungry?’ they said. And we said no. So that was decided.

Ten billion. That would be the limit. But that was just a warning, a marker. Like a sign: ‘Danger! Do not pass this point’. You need to know what the limits are because then you know you can’t go any further. We’d never cross it because we knew what would happen if we did. There wouldn’t be enough food for ten billion people. Ten billion was the danger point. We’d stop.

Of course, you can make rules for anything, but not everybody follows the rules do they? I’ve seen plenty of Stop signs, and I’ve seen plenty of people going straight through, without stopping. Red lights are supposed to make you stop, but not everybody stops. Sometimes when you go through a red light you end up dead. That’s the danger. There are consequences. Ten billion was our red light, and we were sure we were going to stop.

We all decided on the limit, but what about the consequences? Mr or Mrs Ten-Billion-And-One, you have broken the limit and... and what? We take one bean away from everyone? No, that wouldn’t work. Nobody would take any notice of that. Consequences? That’s not a word to make you sit up and take notice. Penalties. Yes, penalties. That’s a word to open people’s eyes. We should impose penalties. Impose. That too – another strong word. They made that a big part of their decision. The rich people told us we needed a limit, and there would be penalties if we went over that limit, penalties they would impose on us. And we all agreed.

But really we agreed because we thought we didn’t want to be any more hungry than we were already, and having more people was going to make everyone more hungry. No need for penalties because we had something else to stop us getting to ten billion. Rules. Rules help you achieve a big result by telling the small people what to do. Lots of small people, people like me, all needed to follow the rules, and if we did that, all nine billion of us, well of course those penalties wouldn’t be needed.

They didn’t make too many rules, because you don’t need many. If you don’t want more people living in the world, the one big rule you make is that you can’t have children. Someone actually suggested that, back when they were deciding on the rules, but no, no, no, that was never going to happen. Without new people who would do all the work? So people could make more people, but they just weren’t allowed to make quite so many.

Two people could have one child, but no more. We’d see how that worked out, and if it did work, all well and good, but if not, we’d change it. Make a rule, change a rule. That’s how it’s always been. That’s why the people in charge, the rich people who make the rules, always have a lot to say. If it all stayed the same, what would the rule-makers do all day? So, one child per couple. If you broke that rule, you’d be in trouble. Consequences again. Penalties. All part of the agreement.

The rule worked, it really did. It worked if you fed it into a computer, if you made projections, if you produced figures and charts, and if you analysed all the data. People would be born, people would die, and we would never get to ten billion. So we’d never need the penalties. It would all work... if.

People don’t follow rules. Have I mentioned that? Some people had more children, more than one. Many countries were very strict. After one child, they would make it so it was impossible to have another. The mother would be stopped. You know how that works. I don’t have to tell you. There’s a procedure, and they used it. Now I think about it, I don’t remember them ever using a procedure on the men. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s something to do with how many rule-makers are men. They probably voted on it, amongst themselves. The rich men decided.

So that was some countries, but not all of them. Other countries, if they found out that people had had more than one child, they would bring them in, sit them down, and tell them they’d been very naughty, that they shouldn’t do it again. I don’t have to tell you how that worked out. Then the strict countries would tell the not-so-strict countries to change their ways, and they’d all talk, and they’d all agree, and after a few more years when nothing happened they’d do the same thing all over again.

The rules never worked. More babies were born. We’d already decided that ten billion was too many, and that was when we were nine billion. And then we were nine-point-something billion. I don’t remember there being much big news about nine-point-one, nine-point-two, nine-point-three or nine-point-four, but for some reason when we got to nine-point-five that was big news. We were already halfway there, they told us. Halfway between nine and ten billion. Stop now, or we’ll reach ten billion and there will be severe penalties! That’s what they told us.

Well, I remember what they said when it was nine. There wouldn’t be enough food for ten. But I didn’t feel any more hungry later than I did before. Nine-point-five hungry seemed a lot like it had always been that way. A good sign. Maybe we did have enough food after all. No, no, no, they said. That wasn’t right at all. It was all there in the agreement. We had to stick to it. It was the only way. Try harder, they told us. Try very hard not to reach ten billion.

Some of the not-so-strict countries tightened up their rules. But some of them didn’t, and one or two did the opposite. A few countries said no, we’re not even going to be part of the big ten-billion agreement now. We have enough food of our own, so if we keep it and feed the people who live here, that’s more for us and less for you, but that’s your problem. It was more complicated than that, I’m sure, but from the outside it looked like the big plan was fraying at the edges.

I remember hearing about threats (penalties again), military threats from compliant countries, directed at those who wanted out. That worked for a while, until they found out that when a threatened country says ‘we’ll do what you say’, they sometimes mean ‘we’ll look like we’re doing what you say’. By the time that difference was obvious, the world had moved on. It was a nine-point-eight world by that time. And nine-point-eight is when things really started to happen.

Someone set up a big clock, a countdown clock. Not really a clock. It was just a number, counting from 200 million down to zero. That was when nine-point-eight would become ten. I remember thinking it wasn’t moving very quickly, so I stopped watching it. But then a month later the number was a lot lower than I remembered, so after that I took more notice.

At some point the people who made the rules realised that ten billion was going to happen, whatever they said, whatever they did. And all the leaders, the rich leaders who had plenty of food for themselves, told us again that we would not have enough food for ten billion, and that we should remember that they’d all signed an agreement, and that we would have to face the consequences. The penalties would be imposed, and there was now nothing we could do about it.

August the 23rd. I remember the day clearly. It was a beautiful, clear, blue-sky day. Not cold, not hot, nothing you’d even notice. One of those days when you don’t even feel the air around you. Not so much as a breeze. I’d taken my dog for his morning walk and he was pulling me back home, because he pulls me everywhere, but today I wanted to take my time, because before we left I’d seen the numbers. When I’d looked at the clock, the countdown clock, it was only a few hundreds, and I knew what that meant. By the time we got home the clock would be zero and we, the human race, would be ten billion people.

In the end, I didn’t need to see the clock at all because I could hear the alarms. Everyone with a phone, all of them had the alarm, and they all went off together, all ringing when we reached ten billion. And for a minute, the longest minute I can remember, we all looked at each other and wondered what to do next. And then the alarms stopped, and we all went home.

I wasn’t expecting them to be there waiting for me, not right away, but I knew they would come. They looked very unsure of themselves, which I suppose is because they were doing this for the first time. They let me put the dog inside, even let me top up his water bowl. Even in difficult circumstances I’ve usually found that most people are decent human beings. We have to be – there are ten billion of us now.

I said I didn’t need the handcuffs, but they apologised and explained that they weren’t allowed to break the rules. More rules. The ride to the detention centre should have taken us through the city centre, but they told me the roads were cordoned off because of some trouble there. Demonstrations. People angry about the situation we were in. Angry about something we all knew was coming.

When the countdown clock started, every person on the planet was given a number, a random number. Once the population reached ten billion, the agreement we’d made, which we’d all voted for long ago, was that they would use those numbers, one after the other, to choose the people who would face the consequences of a population too big for this world to feed.

My number was easy to remember. It was ten billion and one.

Ignore the ten billion. For me, the one is more important.

The police car didn’t make it all the way to the door. There was a huge crowd gathered outside. Photographers. TV cameras. Media. The duty sergeant came out to meet us, then stood beside me to make a statement. No questions were allowed. I was taken inside and put into my cell very quickly, very efficiently. Maybe that was because I am the first. The first of the consequences. The first of the penalties.

I’ve been given a meal, which did make me smile. They’re doing this because they say there isn’t enough food for all of us. I wonder about the people in charge, the people who made the rules. I wonder about the numbers they were given, their random numbers.

I have one more hour. There are maybe a dozen of us here, but we’re not allowed to see each other. I’ll be the first, but there are thousands like me, all over the world, so the order for them isn’t important. So long as they get the population back down below ten billion, nobody will go hungry.

They’ll do this every day now. Every time someone is born, someone else will have to be processed.

These are the consequences, the penalties. We all signed up for this.

Ten billion and one is one too many.

That’s what they told us.

They Wanted to Fly to the Moon

by Nick Gisburne

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Two excitable sisters were certain
That they wanted to fly to the moon
But they couldn’t think how
And decided, for now
They would ride in a giant balloon

So they built up a basket with boxes
Tied together with tangles of string
And their paper balloon
Raised them up to the tune
Of the silliest song they could sing
And their flight was a magical thing

They soared high over Kilimanjaro
And they waved to the lions beneath
Skimming deserts and trees
And the billowing seas
Where the sharks bared their treacherous teeth

Swooping low they tracked leopards and tigers
Through the snow-covered hills of Nepal
But the dragons which flew
Over China they knew
Were the biggest and best of them all
But they suddenly started to fall

For a powerful storm raged around them
And it tore their balloon into shreds
Threw the box to the ground
Tossed the sisters around
As it lashed at their poor little heads

And they cried through the fury and thunder
As they watched it break all that they had
No more fun, no more play
No, together they lay
Bruised and broken, scared, shaken and sad
And they whispered, “Don’t hurt us. Please, Dad.”

At the end of each day came new dreaming
For the spell of the moonlight was strong
And together they swore
They would visit the shore
Of a land where brave sisters belong

So they chartered a ship from their bedroom
And they sailed on the blanket blue sea
With a pillow to steer
And a mutinous cheer
They were pirates, united and free
And they knew where the treasure would be

Far away in mysterious waters
Where the mermaids sing songs to the stars
On an island of gold
The two sisters were told
Of a secret to soothe all their scars

Climbing down the great creaky stairs mountain
Through the hall where the coat creatures creep
They discovered a room
The lost kitchen of doom
And the ice monster, humming, asleep
How they hoped that his slumbers were deep

Barely breathing, as silent as shadows
Arms entwined, they drew near to a door
In this tower of white
Lived a timorous light
No explorer had witnessed before

They must open this mystical portal
And release the cold secrets within
Each girl stretched out a hand
To at last understand
How such curious beams could begin
But a blaze of pain seared through their skin

’Twas the guardian, queen of the darkness
And her silhouette shifted and turned
Breathing venom and smoke
She made little girls choke
And their arms, with her white wand, she burned

With a scream, she administered justice
Which was angry and ruthless and red
They were naughty indeed
So of course they must bleed
And be dragged by the hair into bed
By a mother who wished they were dead

There are skies where the moon does not glimmer
And young dreams fade or fail in the dark
Life was bitter and bleak
Night and day, week by week
Each new suffering smothered their spark

And the faces of those who should love them
Were the ones they had learned to despise
But the father, they knew
Watched them change as they grew
And he looked now with different eyes;
In their innocence, sensed a new prize

On a night cold and clear, still and silent
Two young sisters knew what they must do
Of the moon they’d once dreamed
But that journey had seemed
An impossible thing to pursue

But the puzzle was finally fathomed
Now they knew how to fly to the moon
With particular care
They began to prepare
And planned all through the long afternoon
Now they waited, for night would fall soon

First, a final, ferocious encounter
With the monsters who menaced their world
But each furious fist
Though too strong to resist
Could not tear down the flag they’d unfurled

For its colours flew freely within them
In a whirlwind of moonshine and dreams
Yet a deepening red
Stained each shimmering thread
Painting pictures of sorrow and screams
Weaving pain through their secretive schemes

But at last these two valiant sisters
Stepped as astronauts into the night
In their raincoats and boots
Sharing solemn salutes
They made ready to launch into flight

From the capsule they gazed through the windows
With a courage that none could deny
And a rumble of sound
Filled the air, shook the ground
As the starship soared into the sky
Holding hands, they both whispered goodbye

No more monsters in space, no more worries
Just the stars and the moon and the night
And the earth with its glow
Wondrous cities below
But the sisters found sleep hard to fight

Though their fuel ran dry and they landed
From the ship itself nobody stepped
In this place without air
No one offered a prayer
But the souls of the sisters now slept
As the stars and the moon softly wept

They were found the next day by a neighbour
In their spaceship, in one of Dad’s vans
But its engines were still
In their bodies a chill
Two small astronauts, still holding hands

Bold, adventurous sisters, so certain
They could visit the moon, so must try
Tiny stars, they burned bright
Two brave shimmers of light
Over seas, over mountains and sky
All they’d wanted to do was to fly

A Golden Future

by Nick Gisburne

---

A golden future, easy street
A plan to live forever
The wealthy, prosperous elite
A privileged endeavour
With life to spare, the wealthy knew
Their gold would pay to freeze the few
And someday they would rise anew
At no risk whatsoever

For as they slept their stocks were sold
Invested and inflated
Converted into coins of gold
All fully automated
A scheme of elegant finance
Though shares might fall, the safer stance
A hoard of gold, cut free from chance
Could never be frustrated

For centuries these cold machines
Preserved the wealthy gentry
Their vaults, made stronger by all means
Where gold alone gained entry
Regimes saw change, and borders too
But one thing that was always true
The value of pure gold still grew
The concept elementary

No faults or failures, large or small
No shutdowns or disasters
Then came the time to wake them all
To thaw their frozen masters
And slowly now, from head to feet
A little more, a little heat
Revived the future’s new elite
Who knew they would outlast us

Strapped into beds, for safety’s sake
Sustained by deep injection
They wondered how long it might take
To leave this strict protection
In darkness nothing could be seen
Until a console light showed green
And through a now-clear window screen
The price of resurrection

Arrayed around a central hold
The rich, some seven hundred
Each faced, full on, their pile of gold
The fortune they had plundered
On every face, in every aisle
An arrogant, conceited smile
Their master plan was all worthwhile
Yet somehow they had blundered

The rich awoke, a triumph, yes
A miracle of science
But of the frozen, who might guess
The prize for such defiance?
A shattered earth, scorched black and red
Dark oceans, poison pools of lead
The human race forgotten, dead
Survived by this alliance

They lie, immobile, captive here
Upon these beds, forever
The gold they once learned to revere
A wretched fools’ endeavour
They sacrificed their lives for greed
Each coin a sterile, worthless weed
A golden future gone to seed
No future now, or ever

Fear the Spectre

by Nick Gisburne

---

Fear the spectre, know her touch
Limping, leering, see her clutch
Child of hate and strangled cries
Wraith of evanescent skies

Beauty, terror, dark deceit
Kisses tainted, sulphur-sweet
Severed soul-strands, grey as breath
Maimed, they scream acoustic death

Smoke and silk, she curls and creeps
Eyes the victim as he sleeps
Twists to give a fiend’s embrace
Whimpers as she sees his face

Dazed, she stumbles, feeble, weak
Drained of murderous mystique
And a blinding, blazing knife
Claims the wicked spectre’s life

“I am druid, know my peace
Love, not hatred, brings release
Overwhelmed, be overjoyed
Merge with sky and sea and void”

Dead, the silent, spectral slave
Swift, the druid charms her grave
Calls the magic of the moons
Seals the space with wands and runes

Thus, the magister of light
Hunts the savage spawn of night
Spectres - wards of dread and gloom -
Fear the druid, know thy doom

What Can You Do?

by Nick Gisburne

---

They stare as he lowers himself to the seat
Then wonder and guess at his age
His clothing is dated, but stylish and neat
Intentions not easy to gauge

‘Sir, how can I help you?’ The youngster is curt
Distracted, his focus is small
The old man looks sorry, regretful, and hurt
But nods at the sign on the wall

‘Employment - All Ages’, in letters of gold
He points to himself. ‘Eighty two’
Impatient, two eyes of pure boredom are rolled
A sigh, and then, ‘What can you do?’

I’ve worked in the cities, I’ve worked on the land
I’ve worked in most places between
There’s no job I’ve taken too low or too grand
Each day I start ready and keen

My father first taught me to sit out and fish
I’ve made my own rods, my own net
I’ve roasted whole salmon and served up a dish
No chef you could name would forget

I’ve worked on the railways, repairing the track
I’ve stoked up the engines with coal
It’s heavy, it’s dirty, it’s hard on your back
But sweat puts a shine on your soul

Spent time in the army, years earning my stripes
But left it to build my own boat
I’ve been a town crier - a fine set of pipes
But tone deaf, I can’t sing a note

I’ve washed the queen’s dishes, once tried on the crown
I boxed with bare fists in my prime
I’ve been a good juggler, a terrible clown
And I swallowed swords, long ones, part-time

I’ve sold baked potatoes, hot chestnuts, fresh pies
I pushed my old barrow for miles
I’ve wrestled all-comers, whatever their size
And walked every inch of these isles

It’s living with horses, wherever they’re found
That’s built a warm place in my heart
Good years as a drayman, or ploughing hard ground
And times when I worked the milk cart

The finest of all, though, the funeral hearse
Black geldings, they’d always behave
I’d taken on two jobs, to fill up my purse
The night before, I dug the grave

If black is your colour, a sweep beats the lot
There’s nothing that’s darker than soot
They say a sweep’s lucky, but chimneys stay hot
You know what was burning? My foot!

Some skills I’ve found useful for many a year
I mend my own clothes, I bake bread
I know how to brew up a fine drop of beer
And fifty-four years I was wed

I’d sailed off Down Under, for opals and gold
But brought back a jewel worth more
We knew we’d stay happy, live well and grow old
And that’s all we ever asked for

Our children, and theirs now, all over the place
A riotous river of life
But this year, the photos, they’re missing one face
My beauty, my angel, my wife

I can’t bring her back now, just make her more proud
I’ll work hard, if given a chance
I’m not like some buggers, that internet crowd
Not stuck to my phone in a trance

I saw how you looked at me when I walked in
And how you said, ‘What can you do?’
I’ve plenty more stories, so shall we begin?
Let’s start with: a lot more than you!

British Bathtime Anthem

by Nick Gisburne

---

God bathe our mangy queen
Hot rinse our mouldy queen
God bathe the queen

Smells of sick tortoises
Rat pee and walruses
Pongs like a hippopotamus
God bathe the queen

A Busy Weekend

by Nick Gisburne

---

“What did you do this weekend?” said the teacher.

“We buried grandma,” said the little girl.

“Oh dear, did that make you sad?”

“Only when she started screaming. But when she stopped we were all happy again.”

Design Flaw

by Nick Gisburne

---

Pull the pin. Throw.
Pull the pin. Let go.
Pull the pin. Throw and duck.
Pull the pin. Throw. Good luck.

Pin pulled. Ready.
Pin pulled. Steady.
Page two. More?
Page two. Design flaw.

Atomic hand grenade. First field trials.
Pull the pin and throw. Seventeen miles.
Hello? Technical support?
Abort.

A Sapphire at Sunrise

by Nick Gisburne

---

In the twilight of our history, the end of life on Earth
We together, we, the last of us, made plans for our re-birth
Midst the poisoned seas, the burning lands, the ruins and the dust
Shone our vision for an exodus, and follow it we must

It was not a dream, the science said, our measurements were true
In a perfect orbit of its sun, a world of perfect blue
Virgin seas and sprawling continents, an Eden to our eyes
Those who travelled there would live to see a sapphire at sunrise

Call it courage or stupidity, we built our silver ship
And a billion souls were crammed aboard and frozen, tip to tip
On a voyage of ten thousand years we journeyed into space
To that other star, that other world, we took the human race

What is time? One hundred centuries, unnoticed as we slept
Yet if each of us had known the truth, whose eyes would not have wept?
Did we think that humans stood alone, imperfect but unique?
No, the cultures on that perfect world were climbing to their peak

On the sapphire, kings and empires ruled, while others rose and fell
As its peoples spread and multiplied, discord began to swell
Angry citizens were offered less, but always wanted more
And in haste, on every continent they mobilised for war

Some escaped before the end of days, and knew what they must do
In their vessels, sharp and sleek, they sailed towards a world of blue
For it seemed that in this universe there was another place
Round a perfect star, a perfect world, a sapphire deep in space

They had travelled only fifty years, ten thousand still to spend
When the ship from Earth arrived at last, its voyage at an end
But a billion people woke to find not sapphire-blue but black
Now we have no hope, we have no home, and we have no way back

So our instruments we point towards the planet we once knew
With no human curse, the scourge all gone, the Earth shines pure and blue
In ten thousand years the last of those who fled their dark world’s doom
Will rejoice to find such paradise, while we have found our tomb

We have lived to see the Earth re-born, but mankind now must fall
And the authors of our destiny will surely take it all
We are doomed to die, but they will live to claim the final prize
And awake to see the light upon a sapphire at sunrise

Dystopian Children

by Nick Gisburne

---

Monday’s child has come from space
Tuesday’s child will eat your face
Wednesday’s child, a robot clone
Thursday’s child, the twilight zone
Friday’s child is hissing and spitting
Saturday’s child, time crimes committing
But the child who is born on the Sabbath Day
Needs an army of androids to keep it at bay

The Bloody Christmas Cake

by Nick Gisburne

---

It’s Christmas, how dismal, how cheerless, how fake
But this year I’m making my own Christmas cake
The oven is ready, I’ve drunk all the gin
So let’s check the list of the things I’ve put in

The leg of a neigbour, chopped off at the knee
Embalmed in a bucket of gravy and tea
The lips of a cousin who would not be hushed
The teeth from his petulant wife, finely crushed

A long middle finger, cracked off with a snap
Its owner died yesterday, caught in my trap
Two rosy cheeks, boiled in fresh tears for good luck
Four eyeballs, they’re always a challenge to pluck

A sprinkling of toes from the nephew I hate
His head I’ve reserved for my centre-piece plate
Intestines, a tender and savoury crop
So hard to know when to add more, when to stop

A scalp full of hair from an old woman’s head
I’m lucky to have it - she’s seven months dead
Four finger-bones, trapped by the edge of a door
A harvest of toe-nails, swept up from the floor

The spleen from a friend who invited himself
Some dried flakes of skin from the medicine shelf
The heart of an in-law, who won’t need it back
I’m shocked it’s so red, I assumed it was black

Fresh larynx of screaming child I could not find
The mother won’t visit, the drugs make her blind
The father dropped in but he won’t be home soon
I pulled out his kidneys with strings and a spoon

The balls from an uncle who no-one will miss
He stunk of stale vomit, old cabbage and piss
And grandfather’s liver, for flavour and taste
We can’t let a lifetime of booze go to waste

A mixture of knee-caps and noses and bones
Their owners all addicts of selfies and phones
A pinch of appendix, a handful of veins
The one thing I couldn’t find fresh was good brains

Black tar, to give all this an overnight soak
From grandma’s old lungs and their 60-year smoke
There’s gallons of blood and a pint of fresh spit
It’s mixed and it’s cooking and here I now sit

You’re welcome to try it, I’ll cut you a slice
And do try the pink skin and tonic, with ice
This Christmas is special, but please stay awake
Or you’ll become part of my next Christmas cake

Paper

by Nick Gisburne

---

When I was a boy I saw a man, a tall, thin man, a tall man who wore a long, black overcoat and silver-buttoned boots. He walked on the cobbles of a lamp-lit street, on a cold, clear evening. He walked towards me, and walked towards me still, until finally he stopped. I saw him and he saw me. He saw me watching him and he stood and stood, still and silent. He did not hide from me, did not look away from me, and I knew that he wanted to share a secret with me. The tall man took a small, black box, a small and perfect box, out of a coat pocket, and he held it up, up to his face, with thin, grey fingers. He waited, and I held my breath, and he waited, until I must breathe again. And we both breathed together, as he swung open the lid of the small, black box.

There. I saw it there, inside the box. A scrap of paper, and only that, a thin, square scrap of paper, plain and white and ordinary. What I saw was very, very ordinary, but I knew that it could not be, must not be ordinary, because it was inside that box. It was special. It was. I knew. The man, the box, the paper, they must all be important and special. As special as this place, at this moment. The man lifted the ordinary paper between two thin, grey fingers, lifted the paper and held it up, up to his eyes. He put the box away, somewhere, somehow, but I did not see where. I looked at the ordinary scrap of paper, and I watched, and I waited.

The tall man twisted the paper this way and that, as if this way was better, but no, that way was best, but then, this way and that, and again. I saw a fold, a fold in the paper, a new fold, but I did not see how it appeared. The twist of fingers and paper, of wrist and arm, of elbow and shoulder, all, all were one, one movement, one this way and that movement, and the fold was there, and I did not see how.

More folds, more folding, but these other folds I saw. I saw fingers folding the paper, twisting edges and corners, bending and folding. Grey fingers folded the white paper, and the white, folded paper, became a shape, a form, a form with a shape I knew. I knew the shape of a boat, and this boat, this tiny, paper boat was no ordinary boat. Here were sails, here were ropes and rigging and masts and anchor, perfect details, a perfect boat. The man, the tall man with thin, grey fingers, balanced the boat in the centre of one thin, grey palm, and we breathed in again, breathed in together. And our breaths ended, together, as before.

Thumb and finger, delicate finger and thumb, pulled and picked and raised the paper boat to his eyes, to the deep, dark eyes of the tall man. Those dark, darker, darkest eyes gazed at the tiny paper boat and those eyes knew what he would do now. I, with my bright eyes, the bright eyes of a boy, watched the man as he lifted the paper boat and held it, held it at both ends, held both ends of the boat, and pulled, and pulled, and pulled them apart. And I was cold, cold in an instant. I was cold as toes in the snow, cold as ice on the neck, cold at the thought that such a pure and perfect creation, this boat, this perfect paper boat, would be ripped and ruined and wrecked.

And yet, I heard no rips. I saw no ruin. I saw not what I knew would happen, not what I thought I knew. I saw something else, something I knew could not happen, could never, never happen. The small paper boat, pulled apart, pulled length-ways and long-ways and cross-ways, now grew. It grew larger, and it grew longer, and it grew, and again it grew. What had been smaller than a hand, smaller than his hand, smaller than my hand, was now five of his hands, or ten of mine, and soon ten of his, ten grey hands from end to end, then twenty, then longer, wider, taller. The paper boat grew, and the man, the tall man, stood now behind it, behind the boat, the boat which now was resting at his feet, but no, not resting, never resting. It rocked and it swayed as the man danced around it. The man with the grey fingers and the dark, dark eyes danced in his silver-buttoned boots, danced around what he had created, danced as the paper boat grew, and grew, and grew.

I did not see when the dance ended, because I could no longer see the man who danced, so large now was the boat, the boat he had folded and grown from a single, small scrap of ordinary paper. The paper boat towered above me, towered above my head, towered above the street. Paper planks, paper sails, paper ropes, paper everything, paper everywhere, but where was the tall man who had built this paper creation, this huge paper boat?

I heard footsteps, his footsteps, steps on the cobbles, but saw nothing, no sign, no tall man. But there, there he was, beneath the flickering street lamp. There, in his long, black overcoat and silver-buttoned boots. The tall man looked at me and we breathed together again. As the breath ended, as I struggled for another, and for more breaths as my heart demanded them, the tall man strode to the bow of the boat and raised his arms, raised both arms, raised them high overhead. His thin, grey fingers found a length of twisted paper twine and he pulled, pulled hard, and released a ladder, a long, loose ladder of paper ropes, swinging low from the bow. His steps were quick, always quick, quick and confident, and the tall man climbed up, up the ladder, up and into the paper boat.

He strode about the deck, fore and aft, port and starboard. I saw him touch the paper wherever he found it, smoothing and shaping, perfecting the imperfect, wherever it was needed. When he stopped, when he was still, I knew that his work was done, and I knew that he was ready. Ready to sail, ready to leave. Ready to leave without me.

“Take me with you!” I pleaded, pleaded to the tall man on the paper boat, though my tears would surely have reduced any paper creation, large or small, to a pile of warm, wet pulp. I knew he would not take me. I knew that his journey was not mine.

His grey fingers tossed something over the side and I caught the small, black box, the box which had held a small, ordinary scrap of paper, from which he had folded and twisted and stretched and grown this magnificent paper boat. The breath I took as I saw what it was, as I saw what he had thought to give me, was the last breath we shared together. When I released it, the paper boat began to rise, rise up, up into the dark of the night. Above the street lamps it rose, above the roofs and the chimneys, until at last the paper sails took a breath of their own and filled out, filled up, filled with the clear air of the cold, ink-black sky. The paper boat sailed away, and the tall man was gone.

I opened the small, black box only once, on that night, on that same night. Inside it I found a scrap of paper, a thin, square scrap of paper, plain and white and ordinary. I am no longer a boy, and have become a man. I am a tall man, but I am not yet an old man. The time will come when I am ready to open the small, black box again. And on that day I will build a boat, a splendid paper boat of my own, in which I will sail the skies, and I will find for myself a place where I can rest. One day. But not today. No, not today.

Ben the Van Man

by Nick Gisburne

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To the tune of ‘Enter Sandman’ by Metallica

Always swears at someone
But he loves his son
Never rude to his mum
He spills his gin down his chin
Pees into a bin
Hopes his van will still run
When the pub’s not open
Watch for his van, it’s white

Runs red lights
Turns hard right
Shakes his hand
Ben the wanker in his van

Never long, when he’s tight
Starts another fight
Drinks all day and all night
Smashing cars, slashing tyres
Starting major fires
He’s as high as a kite
Someone’s nose gets broken
Ben’s in his van, turns right

Ben hates bikes
Swerves to strike
Jailed and banned
Ben the wanker in his van

Ben is racing down the street
Finds a victim he can beat
Drives so fast the engine shakes
The van’s a Ford with dodgy brakes

Rushed, Ben is maybe late for his work
Already banned, he’s such a jerk
He puts his foot down, lights on red
Doesn’t make it, winds up dead

Never bright
Lost this fight
No more van

Mum’s boy died
Ben’s boy cried
He’s their man
Broken, bloody in his van

I’m Allergic to Christmas

by Nick Gisburne

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I’m allergic to Christmas, it’s always been true
And each year the symptoms come back, like the flu
The ear-ache from hearing the same Christmas tunes
And lip-strain from blowing up endless balloons
There’s nothing on telly, it’s all the same shit
So Christmas can fuck off, I’m cancelling it

I’m allergic to Christmas, the sprouts make me sick
The pigs wrapped in blankets, like skins on old dick
What kind of a monster eats parsnips for fun?
Or stuffing balls scorched by the heat of the sun?
The gravy’s like something leaked out of an arse
The best thing to do is abandon this farce

I’m allergic to Christmas, and starting this year
I’m taking my medicine - beer and more beer
A 24-pack of strong lager each day
Will keep all the unwanted callers at bay
This Christmas it won’t be the dinner you knew
No turkey, just re-heated lamb vindaloo

I’m allergic to Christmas, I make my own cards
For glitter I grind down some sharp metal shards
The snow is asbestos, crushed under my heel
The dead robin red-breast? I killed it - that’s real
The glue’s full of chemical solvents, all banned
Don’t touch it, you’ll burn half the skin off your hand

I’m allergic to Christmas, the people are worst
The grandma whose septic appendix won’t burst
Your uncle who’s constantly rubbing his knees
And picking at sores laced with fungal disease
The kids, little bastards who kick you and scream
Don’t wriggle so much when you scald them with steam

I’m allergic to Christmas, so piss off back home
I don’t want a gallon of cheap shaving foam
I’ve got enough bath soap to scrub down the moon
I won’t need more stripy socks any time soon
You knew what I wanted, I’ve got none of that
Don’t come back next year, you incompetent twat

I’m allergic to Christmas, just leave me alone
You’ll only sit stupidly glued to your phone
I don’t want your smiles and I don’t want your tat
I will not be wearing a comedy hat
Don’t argue, it’s over, stop asking me why
I’ve burned all the presents, I hope you all die

His Face Decays

by Nick Gisburne

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To the tune of 'Ace of Spades' by Motorhead

Zombies like to shamble
They stagger when they stand
Their skin so gruesome
The sores and brains and screams

Saliva starts to spray
Chewing on the tender prey
Drooling while he feeds
A zombie always bleeds and
His face decays
His face decays

Slay another shy one
Screaming and dishevelled
Feel the hunger grow
A call for brains and meat
Severing forever
Someone’s leg to chew
Struggling and sick
Decomposing quick
His face decays
His face decays

Those injuries will ooze
Contaminants infuse
For snacks he’ll slay and bite a lady
Whining as he slits her liver
He won’t forget to choke her

Thrashing wild and panting
The victim’s eyes are bleeding
Feed on the meat
He shreds their glands again

The squealing as he dines
Breaks and cracks the spine
A zombie guarantees
Disfiguring disease
His face decays
His face decays

The Dark Goodnight

by Nick Gisburne

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The tempest boils, belligerent
A storm of tainted rain
The aromatic stench of it
Repulsive to my brain

Unable to perceive my path
I near the naked edge
Expecting death, my hands become
A cup, to fill, to pledge

There is no place I can belong
No future, bleak or bright
My twisted frame a blot, a smear
A clumsy, dark goodnight

We Wish You Would Bury Christmas

We Wish You Would Bury Christmas
by Nick Gisburne

Yes it’s here again, believe it, there is nothing you can do
It’s been creeping up on all of us and now it’s coming true
Can’t ignore it, can’t escape it, you are trapped within a maze
Hearing Christmas music everywhere for ninety fucking days

Christmas Day? Christmas fanny! I am having none of that
I would rather chop my fingers off or violate the cat
If you want to know the reason for the season, this is it:
It’s a waste of money, Christmas time is shit

All the shops are filled with snowmen, there is tinsel by the mile
And on every cheery Christmas face a stupid fucking smile
I don’t understand the message that you want to get across
Balls to Christmas, I am bored of it, I couldn’t give a toss

Merry what? Merry bollocks! Stick the tree right up your arse
I am sick and tired of Christmas, it’s a scam and it’s a farce
If you want to know the reason for the season, here’s a clue:
Eat and drink and drink and eat and drink and screw

So the family is gathered for the first time in a year
And you wish they’d all been trampled by a herd of Santa’s deer
But the little ones are hoping they’ll see Rudolph in the sky
Can’t they choke on turkey sandwiches or fuck off home and die?

Santa who? Santa shit-head! You’re not on his fucking list
He’s your uncle in a costume and he’ll grope you when he’s pissed
If you want to know the reason for the season, check his breath
That’s not cranberries, it’s crystal fucking meth

And there’s always the religious one who wants to say a prayer
But she thinks again with boiling gravy poured onto her hair
It’s not bad enough that Easter gets the god squad in a flap
No, they have to ruin Christmas with their superstitious crap

Jesus who? Jesus wank stain! Who the bloody hell are you?
You were born inside a stable, eh? Well whoopty fucking do
If you tell me you’re the reason for the season, yeah, so what?
You were crucified? Well I’d have had you shot

Where’s my Christmas spirit? In a bottle, in my fucking hand
I’d be happier if Christmas time was burned alive or banned
It’s been sent to torture all of us, a never-ending grind
And it’s all because some pervy God took Mary from behind

Jingle what? Jingle bell end! I’ve had quite enough of this
Every happy smiling face I see sends shivers down my piss
If you want to know the reason for the season, read the book
Merry Christmas? I don’t give a flying fuck

Potionalia

Potionalia
by Nick Gisburne

Bleeding maggots boiled in wine
Mucus mixed with turpentine
Burning entrails thick with soot
Tiny skulls crushed underfoot

Tear ducts squeezed into a jar
Lungs split open for their tar
Teeth pulled from a screaming cat
Red, infected human fat

Crusted brown and yellow stains
Tissues torn by prison chains
Rancid eggs too sick to hatch
Lesions old men cannot scratch

Rats found stillborn in their beds
Cold, convulsing cockroach heads
Birds dismembered as they nest
Discharge from a dirty breast

Blowflies, steamed with curdled bile
Lips too bruised to form a smile
Tattooed fingers sliced away
Ulcers foetid with decay

Scabs ripped from a septic sore
Blister serum, quick to pour
Worm flesh crawling with disease
Swarming, virus-fattened fleas

Snake eyes pierced with poisoned pins
Skin conjoining mutant twins
Liars' tongues pulled from the head
Twitching muscles not quite dead

Dust of disinterred remains
Tangled, ragged, ruptured veins
Scrapings from a corpse's feet
Semen smeared on putrid meat

Foetal organs ground to paste
Sweat of pain and death to taste
Mashed with blood and bone and spit
Served with fries - I'm loving it

The Scream of Hearts

The Scream of Hearts
by Nick Gisburne

The queen makes tarts from babies’ hearts
Still succulent from slaughter
She blends their blood with bile and mud
And feeds them to her daughter

The princess eats these tainted meats
And strangles squirming kittens
Each throttled cat is bludgeoned flat
And skinned for winter mittens

The knave, of course, supplies a sauce
Most deadly to the dinner
And playing dice with blinded mice
Impales the lucky winner

The regal king, while pummeling
Two servants maimed at random,
Extracts their eyes, ignores their cries,
And beats them both in tandem

This brutal clash ends with the smash
Of organs, bones and sinews
More victims plead, but as they bleed
The killing spree continues

Still grieving, wives, impaled with knives,
Are whipped and stoned till tender
Their household pets are snared with nets
And puréed in a blender

Each orphan child is chopped and filed
According to their flavour
Such gourmet flesh is cooked while fresh
And served for all to savour

The scream of hearts, of all the arts,
Brings glory to the table
This cruel tea begins at three
Survive it if you’re able

Who I Am

Who I Am
by Nick Gisburne

It is time for me to show myself, for us to meet at last
I bring words to end your journey, for your life has almost passed
Do you see who stands before you, calling Death to bring his kiss?
Listen closely, hear my answer to your question: ‘Who is this?’

I am pieces of a puzzle which you could not make to fit
I am how you felt when you had hope, and when you wasted it
I am questions you refused to ask, too fearful of replies
I am truths you took and tore apart and tainted with your lies

I am beauty, locked within your soul, imprisoned there by hate
I am precious moments, ruined, you can never recreate
I am innocence, forgotten and long hidden from your sight
I am grief, I live in memories, returned to fill the night

I am rage at what you did not change because you never tried
I am courage; all you had to do was call me to your side
I am passions you will never know, emotions filled with dust
I am what you see through blinkered eyes and label with disgust

I am plans you did not build upon, ambitions left to rot
I am all the things you longed to be, and everything you’re not
I am hopes and dreams you put aside, abandoned on the way
I am longing, yearning, aching for a new and better day

I am what you failed to see because you could not bear to look *
I am photographs, the pictures from your life you never took
I am jealousy, unjustified, the doubts which drove you mad
I am love you always turned away, the chance it never had

I am knowledge you once hungered for but did not eat your fill
I am captain of the ship of life, its engines cold and still
I am time you never gave to those who needed it the most
I am life within this empty room, with you, the silent host

I am what you say you really are, but none of it is true
I am faded friends, long left behind; they do not think of you
I am countless interlocking parts which cannot keep you whole
I am surging tides of emptiness which flood your hollow soul

I am what was pure and perfect once, but lies now in the mud
I am venom spilling from your lips and poisoning your blood
I am stolen fragments of your heart which love did not return
I am flames of guilt and deep regret, the shadows as they burn

I am walls built high with bitter bricks, the prisons of your mind *
I am that which you were looking for, but never meant to find
I am fields of gold you did not reap, the seeds you would not sow
I am where you sit before me now, with nowhere else to go

I am dusty, empty pages from the journal of your past *
I am chance, the risks not taken when you thought the die was cast
I am broken-down relationships you did not try to mend
I am faces you will never see, not even at the end

I am wishes, each impossible because you won’t believe
I am payment, all that you deserve, and all you will receive
I am all the things you could have done, the things you did not do
And in death you see just who I am, and know that I am you