by Nick Gisburne
It hit me, hard, a cardiac arrest,
Entirely unexpected for a ghost.
Excruciating torment in the chest,
Then, faster than a ferret, I was toast.
I found myself not heading for a light,
But separating, slowly, from my skin,
And, as my spectre slithered out of sight,
I took my second passing on the chin.
My soul, by some extraordinary fluke,
Inhabits a dimension of its own.
Without a higher power to rebuke,
It seems a phantom’s phantom flies alone.
Absurdly, unambiguously odd,
If I’m the only ghost, perhaps I’m God.
Thursday, 16 June 2022
An Ordinary Boy
by Nick Gisburne
He claims to be an ordinary boy,
But all her superstitions soon persuade
The Queen of Light his powers can destroy
The armies of the Emperor of Shade.
He bears the Scar of Symmetry, the Mark,
A certain sign the legend lives within.
His destiny is clear: destroy the dark,
To rid the world of misery and sin.
We march to meet the Shade, to wage a war,
Beyond the wildest margins of the map,
But I have walked these barren fields before.
Tonight the Queen will find my home, my trap.
The child I scarred at birth, a tool, a toy,
Is just another ordinary boy.
He claims to be an ordinary boy,
But all her superstitions soon persuade
The Queen of Light his powers can destroy
The armies of the Emperor of Shade.
He bears the Scar of Symmetry, the Mark,
A certain sign the legend lives within.
His destiny is clear: destroy the dark,
To rid the world of misery and sin.
We march to meet the Shade, to wage a war,
Beyond the wildest margins of the map,
But I have walked these barren fields before.
Tonight the Queen will find my home, my trap.
The child I scarred at birth, a tool, a toy,
Is just another ordinary boy.
Come Home Clean
by Nick Gisburne
I’m here to take the child, as we agreed.
The scandal, be assured, will fade away.
Your penitence, the guilt you bear and bleed,
Will damage him forever if you stay.
I give you what you grudgingly deserve,
The chance to see your failings from afar.
In every fibre, every tainted nerve,
Perhaps you can discover what you are.
Today he needs protection, free from you,
The tragedy his mother might have been.
I think you know exactly what to do.
To find him in your future, come home clean.
I cannot let you wake him for a kiss.
Remember how it feels. Remember this.
I’m here to take the child, as we agreed.
The scandal, be assured, will fade away.
Your penitence, the guilt you bear and bleed,
Will damage him forever if you stay.
I give you what you grudgingly deserve,
The chance to see your failings from afar.
In every fibre, every tainted nerve,
Perhaps you can discover what you are.
Today he needs protection, free from you,
The tragedy his mother might have been.
I think you know exactly what to do.
To find him in your future, come home clean.
I cannot let you wake him for a kiss.
Remember how it feels. Remember this.
Wednesday, 15 June 2022
Hairy Hearts
by Nick Gisburne
I sell the finest organs, but be warned,
I’ve had a prickly problem with my hearts.
An old supplier, dead, and deeply mourned,
Abandoned his apprentice in the arts.
The gods are truly testing me, I feel.
His mastery of metalwork is grim,
But, with a little paint to prime the steel,
You’ll never know its clockwork came from him.
A major moan to mention is the cat.
His moggy has a tendency to sleep
And moult, inside its master’s mixing vat,
The reason hairy hearts are going cheap.
When fitted, if your ribs begin to itch,
You’ll need a one-off waxing from a witch.
I sell the finest organs, but be warned,
I’ve had a prickly problem with my hearts.
An old supplier, dead, and deeply mourned,
Abandoned his apprentice in the arts.
The gods are truly testing me, I feel.
His mastery of metalwork is grim,
But, with a little paint to prime the steel,
You’ll never know its clockwork came from him.
A major moan to mention is the cat.
His moggy has a tendency to sleep
And moult, inside its master’s mixing vat,
The reason hairy hearts are going cheap.
When fitted, if your ribs begin to itch,
You’ll need a one-off waxing from a witch.
Resistance
by Nick Gisburne
The victims of a murderous regime,
We live, we fear, from day to endless day,
But we are not the spineless slaves we seem.
Resistance makes us predators, not prey.
Machinery mysteriously dies,
The means to fix it hidden, stolen, smashed.
On every corner, pieces of their prize
Are damaged in defiance, twisted, trashed.
Intruders, trained to conquer, not to rule,
Are negligent, undisciplined, inept.
In every frightened face they see a fool,
Until we burn their bodies where they slept.
A trick, a trap, whatever we can do,
Reminds them we are many, they are few.
The victims of a murderous regime,
We live, we fear, from day to endless day,
But we are not the spineless slaves we seem.
Resistance makes us predators, not prey.
Machinery mysteriously dies,
The means to fix it hidden, stolen, smashed.
On every corner, pieces of their prize
Are damaged in defiance, twisted, trashed.
Intruders, trained to conquer, not to rule,
Are negligent, undisciplined, inept.
In every frightened face they see a fool,
Until we burn their bodies where they slept.
A trick, a trap, whatever we can do,
Reminds them we are many, they are few.
A Serious Experiment
by Nick Gisburne
We’ve added something special to your blood,
A serious experiment, a test.
Be wary when your skin begins to bud;
Its flowers can be vicious when distressed.
The species we injected has a name,
But not in any language you could speak.
We need to know the world from which it came,
Before your brain and bones become too weak.
The visions and the voices you will hear
Should focus as infection grips your glands.
To stop its tendrils spreading, have no fear,
Our botanist removed your feet and hands.
We think we’ll have an antidote, today.
If not, you’ll make a beautiful bouquet.
We’ve added something special to your blood,
A serious experiment, a test.
Be wary when your skin begins to bud;
Its flowers can be vicious when distressed.
The species we injected has a name,
But not in any language you could speak.
We need to know the world from which it came,
Before your brain and bones become too weak.
The visions and the voices you will hear
Should focus as infection grips your glands.
To stop its tendrils spreading, have no fear,
Our botanist removed your feet and hands.
We think we’ll have an antidote, today.
If not, you’ll make a beautiful bouquet.
Tuesday, 14 June 2022
Creation Is Complete
by Nick Gisburne
The flawless, white, illuminated stone,
The energy in all us, our star,
Was twisted from the firmament and thrown
By Mother Spirit, rising from the tar.
It settled in the shadow smoke of space.
Behind it, trails of ashes in the black.
With these, she painted patterns on her face,
To warn her scheming sisters, “Turn. Go back.”
A demon, Darkness, hungry for the light,
The Mother fought and wrestled to its death.
The skull survives, the moon we see at night,
Its teeth the mountains, frozen by her breath.
And we, the children swarming at her feet,
Are proof her plan, Creation, is complete.
The flawless, white, illuminated stone,
The energy in all us, our star,
Was twisted from the firmament and thrown
By Mother Spirit, rising from the tar.
It settled in the shadow smoke of space.
Behind it, trails of ashes in the black.
With these, she painted patterns on her face,
To warn her scheming sisters, “Turn. Go back.”
A demon, Darkness, hungry for the light,
The Mother fought and wrestled to its death.
The skull survives, the moon we see at night,
Its teeth the mountains, frozen by her breath.
And we, the children swarming at her feet,
Are proof her plan, Creation, is complete.
Still Empty
by Nick Gisburne
Protective of her pets, her precious toys,
Two barely breathing children in a box,
She slips a mouldy morsel to the boys,
Completing her inspection of the locks.
Escape would bring disaster to the plan,
And separate her body from its head.
She keeps them both alive as best she can;
No ransom now if either one were dead.
The birds disturb her schizophrenic sleep.
She shuffles to the spyhole of the door,
But, seeing only ghosts, who walk, and weep,
She checks the box, still empty, as before.
We note her moves, her moods, however strange.
Expecting nothing more, we see no change.
Protective of her pets, her precious toys,
Two barely breathing children in a box,
She slips a mouldy morsel to the boys,
Completing her inspection of the locks.
Escape would bring disaster to the plan,
And separate her body from its head.
She keeps them both alive as best she can;
No ransom now if either one were dead.
The birds disturb her schizophrenic sleep.
She shuffles to the spyhole of the door,
But, seeing only ghosts, who walk, and weep,
She checks the box, still empty, as before.
We note her moves, her moods, however strange.
Expecting nothing more, we see no change.
Bankable or Banned
by Nick Gisburne
Enjoy the crimson carnival of pain,
Its brutal, bloody, barbarous extremes,
Depravities too savage to explain,
A vicious violation of your dreams.
But pleasure, that can never be allowed,
Too dirty, too despicable to view.
Decapitate or massacre a crowd,
But sex is still the ultimate taboo.
Performers, paid to fuck, or paid to fight,
Produce a thrilling climax on demand.
The fluids on their faces, red or white,
Determine what is bankable or banned.
While blood and brains are splashed on every screen,
The symbol of consent is never seen.
Enjoy the crimson carnival of pain,
Its brutal, bloody, barbarous extremes,
Depravities too savage to explain,
A vicious violation of your dreams.
But pleasure, that can never be allowed,
Too dirty, too despicable to view.
Decapitate or massacre a crowd,
But sex is still the ultimate taboo.
Performers, paid to fuck, or paid to fight,
Produce a thrilling climax on demand.
The fluids on their faces, red or white,
Determine what is bankable or banned.
While blood and brains are splashed on every screen,
The symbol of consent is never seen.
Angelique
by Nick Gisburne
She was seven when she killed a man, for me,
When I told her it was what she had to do,
And she whispered, sipping lemon-scented tea,
That she liked it, so I taught her, and she grew.
There was never any doubt she was the best,
Always clinical, methodical, precise.
As she murdered, each invigorating test
Gave her qualities I never taught her twice.
At eleven there was nothing more to know,
Now the ultimate assassination tool.
When they came to claim her, many years ago,
Did the gang who bought her think to find a fool?
They were dead, their dreams dismantled, in a week.
There is darkness in my daughter, Angelique.
She was seven when she killed a man, for me,
When I told her it was what she had to do,
And she whispered, sipping lemon-scented tea,
That she liked it, so I taught her, and she grew.
There was never any doubt she was the best,
Always clinical, methodical, precise.
As she murdered, each invigorating test
Gave her qualities I never taught her twice.
At eleven there was nothing more to know,
Now the ultimate assassination tool.
When they came to claim her, many years ago,
Did the gang who bought her think to find a fool?
They were dead, their dreams dismantled, in a week.
There is darkness in my daughter, Angelique.
Monday, 13 June 2022
She Is Angel
by Nick Gisburne
I tell you story. Listen. Silent. Please.
Your mother. Wicked. Selfish. Fly away.
She leave you sick. She give you pain. Disease.
I find her, yes? I kill her? Tell me. Say.
So, story. She is angel. She is good.
She perfect. But she happy? No, is not.
In tree she find me. Hiding. Me, in wood.
But father old. Too slow. I bend. I rot.
We talk. We laugh. She fix me. Younger now.
We... private things. I do not say. Not that.
You born. You baby. She is angel. How?
And God say, “Bomination. Child is rat.”
She give you curse. She go. Go home. Go cloud.
But father. Me. I take you. Love you. Proud.
I tell you story. Listen. Silent. Please.
Your mother. Wicked. Selfish. Fly away.
She leave you sick. She give you pain. Disease.
I find her, yes? I kill her? Tell me. Say.
So, story. She is angel. She is good.
She perfect. But she happy? No, is not.
In tree she find me. Hiding. Me, in wood.
But father old. Too slow. I bend. I rot.
We talk. We laugh. She fix me. Younger now.
We... private things. I do not say. Not that.
You born. You baby. She is angel. How?
And God say, “Bomination. Child is rat.”
She give you curse. She go. Go home. Go cloud.
But father. Me. I take you. Love you. Proud.
The Palest Devil
by Nick Gisburne
The palest of the devils is the worst.
A slimy, silver sickness smears his flesh.
Infections, as he bites the bodies, burst,
The milk of muffled screaming, foaming, fresh.
He vomits on a mutilated corpse,
But laps the acid filth for which he yearns.
The blistering behemoth’s belly warps.
Within it, every victim boils and burns.
The toxin-tainted slivers of his teeth
Are speckled with the maggots of the meal.
He spits their sludge, a rancid, writhing wreath,
Upon the palsied pilgrims he will peel.
And wrapped around the palest devil’s horn,
The shrivelled skins of babies never born.
The palest of the devils is the worst.
A slimy, silver sickness smears his flesh.
Infections, as he bites the bodies, burst,
The milk of muffled screaming, foaming, fresh.
He vomits on a mutilated corpse,
But laps the acid filth for which he yearns.
The blistering behemoth’s belly warps.
Within it, every victim boils and burns.
The toxin-tainted slivers of his teeth
Are speckled with the maggots of the meal.
He spits their sludge, a rancid, writhing wreath,
Upon the palsied pilgrims he will peel.
And wrapped around the palest devil’s horn,
The shrivelled skins of babies never born.
One Heart
by Nick Gisburne
Two special sisters share a single heart,
Malevolent misfortune, nature’s curse.
They learn to live as one, until they start
To weaken. Every day the pain is worse.
One heart was never strong enough for two.
It fights to find the strength to beat for both.
Accepting there is nothing they can do,
The sisters make a simple, sacred oath.
A game of chance determines who survives.
The promise binds them: death, or life, today.
They cut the cards to separate their lives.
Together, for the final time, they play.
Two aces, hearts. Their choices are the same.
Two cheats, two sisters, dying, share their shame.
Two special sisters share a single heart,
Malevolent misfortune, nature’s curse.
They learn to live as one, until they start
To weaken. Every day the pain is worse.
One heart was never strong enough for two.
It fights to find the strength to beat for both.
Accepting there is nothing they can do,
The sisters make a simple, sacred oath.
A game of chance determines who survives.
The promise binds them: death, or life, today.
They cut the cards to separate their lives.
Together, for the final time, they play.
Two aces, hearts. Their choices are the same.
Two cheats, two sisters, dying, share their shame.
Sunday, 12 June 2022
Perfect Bitch
by Nick Gisburne
From streets of gold to pathways paved with shit,
The road to ruin leads her, limping, down.
A burning sky reveals the scale of it,
The city where a princess crushed her crown.
No tyrant or dictator ever rules
Beyond the cold corruption of the rich,
But when they tried to train her, tame her, fools,
She found her perfect calling: perfect bitch.
A stab of hatred, envy, or deceit,
Whatever grim advantage she could find,
Destroyed them, inch by inch, the dazed elite,
Too slow to sense the malice of her mind.
She let them fight, to let the city learn,
Remembering the bitch who made it burn.
From streets of gold to pathways paved with shit,
The road to ruin leads her, limping, down.
A burning sky reveals the scale of it,
The city where a princess crushed her crown.
No tyrant or dictator ever rules
Beyond the cold corruption of the rich,
But when they tried to train her, tame her, fools,
She found her perfect calling: perfect bitch.
A stab of hatred, envy, or deceit,
Whatever grim advantage she could find,
Destroyed them, inch by inch, the dazed elite,
Too slow to sense the malice of her mind.
She let them fight, to let the city learn,
Remembering the bitch who made it burn.
When a King Is Dead
by Nick Gisburne
The regent’s panic, spreading, soaring, swells,
With every cry a painful, piercing howl.
He runs to where a sick man, dying, dwells,
With dreams too dark for decency, too foul.
He should have been, but never will be, king.
His mother, fertile, full, will see to that.
The youngest, by tradition, wears the ring.
Before the fits, his father made her fat.
Whatever fleeting influence he flaunts,
In ashes it will die before the dawn,
As all the years of mockery, the taunts,
Resurface, when his brother, soon, is born.
The power passes when a king is dead.
With time to spare, he finds his father’s bed.
The regent’s panic, spreading, soaring, swells,
With every cry a painful, piercing howl.
He runs to where a sick man, dying, dwells,
With dreams too dark for decency, too foul.
He should have been, but never will be, king.
His mother, fertile, full, will see to that.
The youngest, by tradition, wears the ring.
Before the fits, his father made her fat.
Whatever fleeting influence he flaunts,
In ashes it will die before the dawn,
As all the years of mockery, the taunts,
Resurface, when his brother, soon, is born.
The power passes when a king is dead.
With time to spare, he finds his father’s bed.
Saturday, 11 June 2022
Expendable
by Nick Gisburne
Her spine should now be ready to respond,
But something trips a critical alarm,
Discrepancies, disturbing, far beyond
The margins for dismissing minor harm.
Synthetic cells refuse to grip and grow,
Despite the plastic proteins they are fed.
A basic battle scan is quick to show
Exotic radiation, in the red.
She radios for rescue, but she knows
‘Expendable’ is what she has become.
In minutes, as the deadly damage grows,
Her silicon is certain to succumb.
Abandoned, when her circuits fail her, dead,
Computers will not mourn the life she led.
Her spine should now be ready to respond,
But something trips a critical alarm,
Discrepancies, disturbing, far beyond
The margins for dismissing minor harm.
Synthetic cells refuse to grip and grow,
Despite the plastic proteins they are fed.
A basic battle scan is quick to show
Exotic radiation, in the red.
She radios for rescue, but she knows
‘Expendable’ is what she has become.
In minutes, as the deadly damage grows,
Her silicon is certain to succumb.
Abandoned, when her circuits fail her, dead,
Computers will not mourn the life she led.
Traces of Tomorrow
by Nick Gisburne
The seven slots arranged around her neck
Accept the seven keys of future sight.
Her servants, scowling, feverishly check
That every premonition spring is tight.
A secret sip of silver starts the dream,
And lubricates the cogwheels as they whir.
Absorbing electricity and steam,
Distorted visions flash and blend and blur.
In traces of tomorrow she can see
The fate of those who dare to plead and pray.
Their seven questions, one for every key,
Will bring them only darkness on this day.
Tomorrow, kings and criminals will die,
A trace of truth no doubting can defy.
The seven slots arranged around her neck
Accept the seven keys of future sight.
Her servants, scowling, feverishly check
That every premonition spring is tight.
A secret sip of silver starts the dream,
And lubricates the cogwheels as they whir.
Absorbing electricity and steam,
Distorted visions flash and blend and blur.
In traces of tomorrow she can see
The fate of those who dare to plead and pray.
Their seven questions, one for every key,
Will bring them only darkness on this day.
Tomorrow, kings and criminals will die,
A trace of truth no doubting can defy.
Friday, 10 June 2022
Quantum Cunts
by Nick Gisburne
These baby-breeding bastards are the worst.
Already there are more than I can take,
But now, with this contraption, they can burst
Beyond the stars. It makes my anus ache.
I’m Death, the Dark One. This is where I work,
Not wandering the shitty shores of space.
A ‘Quantum Drive’? It’s driving me berserk.
I should have stabbed its maker in the face.
If any of these morons make it through,
What happens when it’s time to croak and die?
There’s only one Destroyer, You-Know-Who,
And how’m I s’posed to get there? Fucking fly?
I’m not commuting anywhere to reap.
It’s time to put those quantum cunts to sleep.
These baby-breeding bastards are the worst.
Already there are more than I can take,
But now, with this contraption, they can burst
Beyond the stars. It makes my anus ache.
I’m Death, the Dark One. This is where I work,
Not wandering the shitty shores of space.
A ‘Quantum Drive’? It’s driving me berserk.
I should have stabbed its maker in the face.
If any of these morons make it through,
What happens when it’s time to croak and die?
There’s only one Destroyer, You-Know-Who,
And how’m I s’posed to get there? Fucking fly?
I’m not commuting anywhere to reap.
It’s time to put those quantum cunts to sleep.
Back to Life
by Nick Gisburne
She sees her father, bludgeoned with a gun,
And spits upon the sadist in the chair.
She understands her crime can be undone,
With magic, malice, cleverness, and care.
She searches for a sacrilege, a spell,
A charm, forgotten, buried in a book,
A blasphemy, a dark deceit from Hell,
On which no woman ever dared to look.
The page, too steeped in treason to be turned,
When stealing scraps of evil as child,
Was meaningless until, today, she learned
The secret could be seen by those defiled.
She works to bring his body back to life,
To make him suffer, slowly, with a knife.
She sees her father, bludgeoned with a gun,
And spits upon the sadist in the chair.
She understands her crime can be undone,
With magic, malice, cleverness, and care.
She searches for a sacrilege, a spell,
A charm, forgotten, buried in a book,
A blasphemy, a dark deceit from Hell,
On which no woman ever dared to look.
The page, too steeped in treason to be turned,
When stealing scraps of evil as child,
Was meaningless until, today, she learned
The secret could be seen by those defiled.
She works to bring his body back to life,
To make him suffer, slowly, with a knife.
Thursday, 9 June 2022
The Final Three
by Nick Gisburne
A battlefield of broken, bloody dreams.
The warriors who suffered here, today,
Were ill-equipped to counter such extremes.
Exhausted, all resistance drains away.
Survivors, three, retreating from the beast,
Avoid the mouth, the murder of its reach.
They look for reinforcements, always east,
But nothing stirs the seas beyond the beach.
They rally for a reckless, savage surge,
And swing their swords with courage, heroes all,
But on this day no champions emerge.
The final three, defeated, dying, fall.
Three children, fighting dragons in the sand,
A story only they can understand.
A battlefield of broken, bloody dreams.
The warriors who suffered here, today,
Were ill-equipped to counter such extremes.
Exhausted, all resistance drains away.
Survivors, three, retreating from the beast,
Avoid the mouth, the murder of its reach.
They look for reinforcements, always east,
But nothing stirs the seas beyond the beach.
They rally for a reckless, savage surge,
And swing their swords with courage, heroes all,
But on this day no champions emerge.
The final three, defeated, dying, fall.
Three children, fighting dragons in the sand,
A story only they can understand.