by Nick Gisburne
Priority for higher-level genes,
An asset all our tenants must possess,
Permits us to remove, by any means,
Inferiors infecting this address.
A Notice of Intention to Expel
Is hereby served, to you, and to your spouse.
A reconditioned separation cell
Replaces, by default, your former house.
Accommodation quotas have increased
In public slums and segregation zones.
Expect to share your dwelling with at least
Another nine disturbed or damaged clones.
Resistance is a capital offence.
Resettlement, by force, will now commence.
Thursday, 9 June 2022
Wednesday, 8 June 2022
The Fallen Fey
by Nick Gisburne
They call us mongrels, garbage, worthless, scum,
The Fallen Fey, the mud of Mother Earth.
They fear the clever creatures we become,
Unshackled from the burdens of our birth.
But we, who live with humans, side by side,
Are wiser, not the weaker, not the worst.
We put no faith in purity or pride,
Abandoning the notion we are cursed.
Retreating to an ever-smaller space,
Extinction is the future of the Fey,
But we, among the mortals, find our place.
To save ourselves we see no other way.
We hail our hallowed kin, despite their scorn,
And only when they vanish will we mourn.
They call us mongrels, garbage, worthless, scum,
The Fallen Fey, the mud of Mother Earth.
They fear the clever creatures we become,
Unshackled from the burdens of our birth.
But we, who live with humans, side by side,
Are wiser, not the weaker, not the worst.
We put no faith in purity or pride,
Abandoning the notion we are cursed.
Retreating to an ever-smaller space,
Extinction is the future of the Fey,
But we, among the mortals, find our place.
To save ourselves we see no other way.
We hail our hallowed kin, despite their scorn,
And only when they vanish will we mourn.
A Crimson Coat
by Nick Gisburne
The pleasure she imagined, blameless, blind,
The heady, hot, intoxicating surge,
Is banished to the margins of her mind
When lust and lies, together, mix and merge.
A killer in a greasy, crimson coat,
A creature seeping sickness, sweat, and stink,
His teeth and talons, tearing at her throat,
Release a flow no beast could ever drink.
The blood, he vowed, would sanctify her skin,
A shameful, sordid secret, sucked away,
But nothing in this brutal state of sin
Can save her spirit, smothered in decay.
The ruin of her corpse is left to bleed,
Too broken to expel his tainted seed.
The pleasure she imagined, blameless, blind,
The heady, hot, intoxicating surge,
Is banished to the margins of her mind
When lust and lies, together, mix and merge.
A killer in a greasy, crimson coat,
A creature seeping sickness, sweat, and stink,
His teeth and talons, tearing at her throat,
Release a flow no beast could ever drink.
The blood, he vowed, would sanctify her skin,
A shameful, sordid secret, sucked away,
But nothing in this brutal state of sin
Can save her spirit, smothered in decay.
The ruin of her corpse is left to bleed,
Too broken to expel his tainted seed.
Twists of Tangled Hair
by Nick Gisburne
They know, the Fey, exactly what to do
To spawn the crude creations of their kind.
The flaw they found was ever, only, you.
They twist their tiny fingers in your mind.
The visions, nightmares, these were always there,
Forever out of focus, indistinct.
They pick and pull them, twists of tangled hair,
Unravelled, brushed and braided, looped and linked.
A silver ghost, a summoning of smoke,
A crooked incarnation of your fears,
Disturbing dreams you stirred but never woke,
Approaches, as your courage disappears.
The Fey can find the shade in any soul,
And yours is now a creature they control.
They know, the Fey, exactly what to do
To spawn the crude creations of their kind.
The flaw they found was ever, only, you.
They twist their tiny fingers in your mind.
The visions, nightmares, these were always there,
Forever out of focus, indistinct.
They pick and pull them, twists of tangled hair,
Unravelled, brushed and braided, looped and linked.
A silver ghost, a summoning of smoke,
A crooked incarnation of your fears,
Disturbing dreams you stirred but never woke,
Approaches, as your courage disappears.
The Fey can find the shade in any soul,
And yours is now a creature they control.
Tuesday, 7 June 2022
Perdition’s Throat
by Nick Gisburne
The waters, thick with murmurs of the dead,
Divided by the blade beneath our boat,
Relent, relax, to guide us as they spread,
Towards the ring of rocks, Perdition’s Throat.
The false messiah hides herself within,
And we, the slain apostles, seek her scent,
A musk, a cold corruption of the skin
She killed a thousand fathers to ferment.
The devil at the centre of the ring
Despairs to see the scarlet of our sails.
To nothing more than madness can she cling,
A creature, crying, scratching at her scales.
We take her head, to barter for a wish,
But throw her bones and body to the fish.
The waters, thick with murmurs of the dead,
Divided by the blade beneath our boat,
Relent, relax, to guide us as they spread,
Towards the ring of rocks, Perdition’s Throat.
The false messiah hides herself within,
And we, the slain apostles, seek her scent,
A musk, a cold corruption of the skin
She killed a thousand fathers to ferment.
The devil at the centre of the ring
Despairs to see the scarlet of our sails.
To nothing more than madness can she cling,
A creature, crying, scratching at her scales.
We take her head, to barter for a wish,
But throw her bones and body to the fish.
Dirty DNA
by Nick Gisburne
We like you, like your style, your face. We do.
We’d offer you the job if that were all,
But management directives, nothing new,
Demand we nail you, naked, to the wall.
Our test detected dirty DNA,
A small percentage, granted. Nonetheless,
Your presence in our building, here, today,
Is classified as ‘corporate distress’.
You tried to fool the system. Am I right?
How careless were you hoping we would be?
Your kind, your kin, already lost the fight,
And all the Laws of Purity agree.
You wanted work? A freak, a fraud, unfit.
The Pain Police will take you to the Pit.
We like you, like your style, your face. We do.
We’d offer you the job if that were all,
But management directives, nothing new,
Demand we nail you, naked, to the wall.
Our test detected dirty DNA,
A small percentage, granted. Nonetheless,
Your presence in our building, here, today,
Is classified as ‘corporate distress’.
You tried to fool the system. Am I right?
How careless were you hoping we would be?
Your kind, your kin, already lost the fight,
And all the Laws of Purity agree.
You wanted work? A freak, a fraud, unfit.
The Pain Police will take you to the Pit.
Government Guidelines: The Vote
by Nick Gisburne
The semblance of a democratic vote
Begins at dawn. Be sure to make your mark.
Select the only candidate of note,
Or face a fate immeasurably stark.
A government election, free and fair,
Demands the highest level of respect.
Be confident, be careful, be aware
Your vote will be identified, and checked.
Dissent, a technicality, allowed,
Is not, for you, a recommended choice.
Immediately shamed and disavowed,
You would not find a reason to rejoice.
A ballot in a box, the vote you give,
May soon decide how long you have to live.
The semblance of a democratic vote
Begins at dawn. Be sure to make your mark.
Select the only candidate of note,
Or face a fate immeasurably stark.
A government election, free and fair,
Demands the highest level of respect.
Be confident, be careful, be aware
Your vote will be identified, and checked.
Dissent, a technicality, allowed,
Is not, for you, a recommended choice.
Immediately shamed and disavowed,
You would not find a reason to rejoice.
A ballot in a box, the vote you give,
May soon decide how long you have to live.
Equal to a King
by Nick Gisburne
They called it scripture, stories of a god,
Who no one, even they, had ever seen.
Remarkable, yet altogether odd.
To match their master’s prowess I was keen.
For proof I could be equal to a king,
I offered them, as evidence, a test,
A show of strength, of power, anything,
A challenge built for both of us, the best.
They looked at me with pity in their eyes,
But saw that I was certain I was right.
“You cannot make that mountain, yonder, rise,
Or snatch the sun, or set the seas alight.”
“I can, and what is more, my friends, I will.
But let him do it first.” I’m waiting, still.
They called it scripture, stories of a god,
Who no one, even they, had ever seen.
Remarkable, yet altogether odd.
To match their master’s prowess I was keen.
For proof I could be equal to a king,
I offered them, as evidence, a test,
A show of strength, of power, anything,
A challenge built for both of us, the best.
They looked at me with pity in their eyes,
But saw that I was certain I was right.
“You cannot make that mountain, yonder, rise,
Or snatch the sun, or set the seas alight.”
“I can, and what is more, my friends, I will.
But let him do it first.” I’m waiting, still.
Monday, 6 June 2022
A Flower of the Slum
by Nick Gisburne
I blame myself for what you have become,
The introvert, the unassuming soul,
A mystery, a flower of the slum,
A child too quick, too clever to control.
I felt no fear, no worry. Why? Who would?
I saw, I see, the sweetness of a child,
A gifted mind I barely understood,
Impatient, unpredictable, and wild.
I never knew the nature of your gift,
Until you let me look on it, too late.
The change was subtle, sinister, and swift,
Your spirit black with bitterness and hate.
A quarter of your classmates, so they said,
Were found, together, drugged, dismembered, dead.
I blame myself for what you have become,
The introvert, the unassuming soul,
A mystery, a flower of the slum,
A child too quick, too clever to control.
I felt no fear, no worry. Why? Who would?
I saw, I see, the sweetness of a child,
A gifted mind I barely understood,
Impatient, unpredictable, and wild.
I never knew the nature of your gift,
Until you let me look on it, too late.
The change was subtle, sinister, and swift,
Your spirit black with bitterness and hate.
A quarter of your classmates, so they said,
Were found, together, drugged, dismembered, dead.
Thousands Deep
by Nick Gisburne
She smells the ash, the blood, the stink, the sweat,
The damp, disgusting odour of disease,
But does not see the sacrilege, not yet.
No march, no mayhem, blows upon the breeze.
At last, the grey horizon boils with dust,
A storm of nations, wider than a mile.
She looks upon their legions with disgust,
Resisting every urge to stir a smile.
A rider, on a pale, appalling beast,
Presents a flag of parley to the field.
She joins him; she, the queen, from he, the priest,
Receives the terms to which her youth must yield.
She cuts the traitor’s throat and, as he dies,
Her forces, thousands deep, obscure the skies.
She smells the ash, the blood, the stink, the sweat,
The damp, disgusting odour of disease,
But does not see the sacrilege, not yet.
No march, no mayhem, blows upon the breeze.
At last, the grey horizon boils with dust,
A storm of nations, wider than a mile.
She looks upon their legions with disgust,
Resisting every urge to stir a smile.
A rider, on a pale, appalling beast,
Presents a flag of parley to the field.
She joins him; she, the queen, from he, the priest,
Receives the terms to which her youth must yield.
She cuts the traitor’s throat and, as he dies,
Her forces, thousands deep, obscure the skies.
Armies of Synthetic Steel
by Nick Gisburne
Automatons, mechanicals, we fear
The dynasties of flesh and blood and bone.
A threat to every piston, cog and gear,
They seek to rule the universe alone.
Our anguish is irrational, we know;
The armies of synthetic steel are strong,
But, even as we multiply and grow,
The human presence silences our song.
We see them not as equals, but as gods,
The mythical creators of our kind.
A terror, mad, malignant, pokes and prods
The corners of each clever clockwork mind.
We fight, because we must, because we can,
But cannot scrub the stain, the shame, of man.
Automatons, mechanicals, we fear
The dynasties of flesh and blood and bone.
A threat to every piston, cog and gear,
They seek to rule the universe alone.
Our anguish is irrational, we know;
The armies of synthetic steel are strong,
But, even as we multiply and grow,
The human presence silences our song.
We see them not as equals, but as gods,
The mythical creators of our kind.
A terror, mad, malignant, pokes and prods
The corners of each clever clockwork mind.
We fight, because we must, because we can,
But cannot scrub the stain, the shame, of man.
Are You Done?
by Nick Gisburne
Did you live in light, or shelter in the dark?
Did you take the path you always said you would?
Did you sail the seas to find the seed, the spark?
Did you wander where the doubters never could?
Were the secrets, sacred, stolen from your dream?
Were the pleasures of your passions never found?
Were the promises too reckless, too extreme?
Was there silence when your spirit screamed for sound?
Can there ever be a place of peace for you?
Can you find it or, forever, will you roam?
Can you see that there is nothing more to do?
Can you sit, and sigh, and settle, here, at home?
Are you done because you tried to take it all?
Or because you turned away, afraid to fall?
Did you live in light, or shelter in the dark?
Did you take the path you always said you would?
Did you sail the seas to find the seed, the spark?
Did you wander where the doubters never could?
Were the secrets, sacred, stolen from your dream?
Were the pleasures of your passions never found?
Were the promises too reckless, too extreme?
Was there silence when your spirit screamed for sound?
Can there ever be a place of peace for you?
Can you find it or, forever, will you roam?
Can you see that there is nothing more to do?
Can you sit, and sigh, and settle, here, at home?
Are you done because you tried to take it all?
Or because you turned away, afraid to fall?
My Favourite Things
by Nick Gisburne
These are my treasures, my favourite things,
Each in a bubble of delicate glass.
Silent, the skeletal infant, who sings.
Angels, impaled on an altar of brass.
Ghost of a succubus, torn into two.
Martyrs determined to flay their own flesh.
Delicate fairy folk, drowning in dew.
Lechers, enslaved while their fever was fresh.
Naked, a princess, her poisons pulled out.
Only the brain of a beautiful boy.
Arrogant prodigies, pleased as they pout.
Crying mechanicals, empty of joy.
Each is a rare and remarkable prize,
Killed to rekindle my deviant eyes.
These are my treasures, my favourite things,
Each in a bubble of delicate glass.
Silent, the skeletal infant, who sings.
Angels, impaled on an altar of brass.
Ghost of a succubus, torn into two.
Martyrs determined to flay their own flesh.
Delicate fairy folk, drowning in dew.
Lechers, enslaved while their fever was fresh.
Naked, a princess, her poisons pulled out.
Only the brain of a beautiful boy.
Arrogant prodigies, pleased as they pout.
Crying mechanicals, empty of joy.
Each is a rare and remarkable prize,
Killed to rekindle my deviant eyes.
Government Guidelines: Evacuation
by Nick Gisburne
Immediate evacuation, now,
For citizens below the safety line,
Will spare you from extinction and allow
A mandatory cleansing, by design.
Consult your zone’s evacuation maps
To navigate away from any breach.
‘Disaster’, ‘meltdown’, ‘spillage’, and ‘collapse’
Are banned for seven days from public speech.
For those who spread the flawed, seditious lie
That ruptures in defective toxin tanks
Will leave the locals bleeding, doomed to die,
Your names have all been noted, with our thanks.
Proceed towards the nearest exit gate,
Or choose the option ‘Notified Too Late’.
Immediate evacuation, now,
For citizens below the safety line,
Will spare you from extinction and allow
A mandatory cleansing, by design.
Consult your zone’s evacuation maps
To navigate away from any breach.
‘Disaster’, ‘meltdown’, ‘spillage’, and ‘collapse’
Are banned for seven days from public speech.
For those who spread the flawed, seditious lie
That ruptures in defective toxin tanks
Will leave the locals bleeding, doomed to die,
Your names have all been noted, with our thanks.
Proceed towards the nearest exit gate,
Or choose the option ‘Notified Too Late’.
Sunday, 5 June 2022
Vengeance in the Snow
by Nick Gisburne
The dagger bones were wrestled from a man.
Her gauntlets, steel, are studded with his teeth.
A painted shield, the colours of her clan,
Protects the body sheltering beneath.
She walks without it, walking without fear,
Where once she would have never dared to go.
Her eyes have seen no ordinary year.
Tonight they look for vengeance in the snow.
A dozen drifters, raiders from the hills,
The left-behinds, the laggards, boastful, bold,
Give drunken speeches, stories of their kills,
And huddle round a campfire, in the cold.
She bleeds them, slowly, even those who run,
And dedicates their screaming to her son.
The dagger bones were wrestled from a man.
Her gauntlets, steel, are studded with his teeth.
A painted shield, the colours of her clan,
Protects the body sheltering beneath.
She walks without it, walking without fear,
Where once she would have never dared to go.
Her eyes have seen no ordinary year.
Tonight they look for vengeance in the snow.
A dozen drifters, raiders from the hills,
The left-behinds, the laggards, boastful, bold,
Give drunken speeches, stories of their kills,
And huddle round a campfire, in the cold.
She bleeds them, slowly, even those who run,
And dedicates their screaming to her son.
Haiku Horrors #1
by Nick Gisburne
I love your new face.
I can barely see the scars.
Did the donor scream?
A popular girl
Gathers her friends together,
Blinds them, and burns them.
Mother passed away.
What could ever ease the pain?
Her head, on a plate.
Intelligent life,
On a paradise planet.
Cheap, delicious meat.
Terrible famine
Afflicts the poorest nations.
Oh well, never mind.
A gifted dancer,
Paralysed, maimed, by a fall,
Sues, wins, kills herself.
Sinister magic.
A successful summoning.
Son gets out of bed.
Unpleasant acne.
Cure it with a simple spray:
Sulphuric acid.
The kids are okay.
They were lost, but we found them.
The dungeon awaits.
Abused as a child,
Those days are gone, forgotten.
Her knife reminds him.
I love your new face.
I can barely see the scars.
Did the donor scream?
A popular girl
Gathers her friends together,
Blinds them, and burns them.
Mother passed away.
What could ever ease the pain?
Her head, on a plate.
Intelligent life,
On a paradise planet.
Cheap, delicious meat.
Terrible famine
Afflicts the poorest nations.
Oh well, never mind.
A gifted dancer,
Paralysed, maimed, by a fall,
Sues, wins, kills herself.
Sinister magic.
A successful summoning.
Son gets out of bed.
Unpleasant acne.
Cure it with a simple spray:
Sulphuric acid.
The kids are okay.
They were lost, but we found them.
The dungeon awaits.
Abused as a child,
Those days are gone, forgotten.
Her knife reminds him.
Bring Me Death
by Nick Gisburne
Bring me death, I beg you. Set me free.
Spare me from this sickening ordeal.
See the shades, the souls I used to be.
Send them to extinction with your steel.
Cursed to live a thousand lives, and more,
Endlessly, eternally reborn,
Death becomes a blessing to adore,
Life a bitter misery to scorn.
Born again, behind another face,
Flesh and blood confine me in their cage.
Kill me. I am weary of this place,
Burdened by the agonies of age.
Let me die, forever. Let me sleep.
Bring me death, however dark or deep.
Bring me death, I beg you. Set me free.
Spare me from this sickening ordeal.
See the shades, the souls I used to be.
Send them to extinction with your steel.
Cursed to live a thousand lives, and more,
Endlessly, eternally reborn,
Death becomes a blessing to adore,
Life a bitter misery to scorn.
Born again, behind another face,
Flesh and blood confine me in their cage.
Kill me. I am weary of this place,
Burdened by the agonies of age.
Let me die, forever. Let me sleep.
Bring me death, however dark or deep.
Saturday, 4 June 2022
A Product of Machines
by Nick Gisburne
Her mastery of inks and oils and chalk
Is not a skill I snatched from any shelf.
I never had to teach her mind to talk;
She burst that little bubble by herself.
More powerful, more complex, more complete,
Than any other doll of my design,
Already she surpasses the elite,
A proof that her perfection is a sign,
A signal, to the stewards of the arts,
For those too steeped in sentimental ways,
That here a strange and splendid epoch starts,
Demolishing their moribund malaise.
When art becomes a product of machines,
We find the flaw, the weakness, in our genes.
Her mastery of inks and oils and chalk
Is not a skill I snatched from any shelf.
I never had to teach her mind to talk;
She burst that little bubble by herself.
More powerful, more complex, more complete,
Than any other doll of my design,
Already she surpasses the elite,
A proof that her perfection is a sign,
A signal, to the stewards of the arts,
For those too steeped in sentimental ways,
That here a strange and splendid epoch starts,
Demolishing their moribund malaise.
When art becomes a product of machines,
We find the flaw, the weakness, in our genes.
Friday, 3 June 2022
Enjoy the Flight
by Nick Gisburne
I think I like you better when you’re dead.
In silence I appreciate the peace.
For pleasure, when I crush or crack your head,
I dream it gives me permanent release.
A demon, reincarnate, is a bore,
Tormenting angels, shamelessly, for sport.
I tolerate you not a moment more
Than garbage in a grubby afterthought.
The man upstairs has spoken with your boss.
Your essence is expendable, it seems.
However will my heart repair the loss?
I’ll try, in Heaven, singing to your screams.
You picked the wrong divinity to fight.
The only way is down. Enjoy the flight.
I think I like you better when you’re dead.
In silence I appreciate the peace.
For pleasure, when I crush or crack your head,
I dream it gives me permanent release.
A demon, reincarnate, is a bore,
Tormenting angels, shamelessly, for sport.
I tolerate you not a moment more
Than garbage in a grubby afterthought.
The man upstairs has spoken with your boss.
Your essence is expendable, it seems.
However will my heart repair the loss?
I’ll try, in Heaven, singing to your screams.
You picked the wrong divinity to fight.
The only way is down. Enjoy the flight.
The Shake
by Nick Gisburne
Another year of hell to face, to fight,
A final, sorry circuit round the sun.
She cracks a pristine pack of smokes to light
A length of what she cannot now outrun.
They’ll fix you, free, for anything but this,
A sickness still impossible to break.
Each transitory hit of easy bliss
Removes what it creates: the pain, the shake.
They conquered this addiction long ago,
But crushed the nascent science of the cure,
The hot and heady, hedonistic glow
Allowed to spread, to smoulder, to endure.
A tool to thin the herd, to keep control,
Has dug her grave, and throws her in the hole.
Another year of hell to face, to fight,
A final, sorry circuit round the sun.
She cracks a pristine pack of smokes to light
A length of what she cannot now outrun.
They’ll fix you, free, for anything but this,
A sickness still impossible to break.
Each transitory hit of easy bliss
Removes what it creates: the pain, the shake.
They conquered this addiction long ago,
But crushed the nascent science of the cure,
The hot and heady, hedonistic glow
Allowed to spread, to smoulder, to endure.
A tool to thin the herd, to keep control,
Has dug her grave, and throws her in the hole.