by Nick Gisburne
He draws our secrets, everything we are,
The mysteries his mind was never told,
Insanely detailed sketches of our star,
The worlds we left behind us, cursed and cold.
He threatens us, to shame our lives, our lies,
To bring us to the justice we deserve.
Exhibiting no panic, no surprise,
From none of his convictions do we swerve.
Bewildered by the wonders of The Sight,
He looks upon what all of us can see.
The gift we share is his by birth, by right,
A glimpse at what we were, and want to be.
He understands. His journey has begun.
The Sight gives pride and purpose to our son.
Friday, 16 September 2022
Thursday, 15 September 2022
A Grievance
by Nick Gisburne
You left me, lost, alone, afraid, to die,
Abandoned on a filthy, frozen moon,
But something found me, fed me. What, or why,
You’ll know when I return to see you, soon.
It asked me, once, what brought me to this place,
Digesting every detail, all I knew,
Then snarled to see the photograph, the face,
For now we share a bond, a grievance. You.
I shouldn’t be alive. Perhaps I’m not.
The memory, still hazy, never clears.
My sanity, susceptible to rot,
Is damaged by the sum of all my fears.
Your treason gave me purpose, and a friend,
But more, I found the means to make your end.
You left me, lost, alone, afraid, to die,
Abandoned on a filthy, frozen moon,
But something found me, fed me. What, or why,
You’ll know when I return to see you, soon.
It asked me, once, what brought me to this place,
Digesting every detail, all I knew,
Then snarled to see the photograph, the face,
For now we share a bond, a grievance. You.
I shouldn’t be alive. Perhaps I’m not.
The memory, still hazy, never clears.
My sanity, susceptible to rot,
Is damaged by the sum of all my fears.
Your treason gave me purpose, and a friend,
But more, I found the means to make your end.
Wake Up
by Nick Gisburne
You’re dreaming. This is progress, this is good,
But this is not the life you thought you had.
The pieces of the past you understood
Were put there to protect you from the bad.
We dragged you from a dangerous disease,
Extinguished its intolerable pain,
But always you were difficult to please,
Denying what we painted in your brain.
We tried to hide what is and isn’t real,
But saw you, somehow, sabotage the lie.
We never wanted hope to break the deal.
Remember us. Remember this. Goodbye.
Wake up, to find the world you always knew:
Reality, where dreams are never true.
You’re dreaming. This is progress, this is good,
But this is not the life you thought you had.
The pieces of the past you understood
Were put there to protect you from the bad.
We dragged you from a dangerous disease,
Extinguished its intolerable pain,
But always you were difficult to please,
Denying what we painted in your brain.
We tried to hide what is and isn’t real,
But saw you, somehow, sabotage the lie.
We never wanted hope to break the deal.
Remember us. Remember this. Goodbye.
Wake up, to find the world you always knew:
Reality, where dreams are never true.
Wednesday, 14 September 2022
A Shadow in the Ruins
by Nick Gisburne
A shadow in the ruins, wet, she waits,
Disgusted as the nomads gnaw their meat.
Concealed behind the broken border gates,
She prays her scent will not reveal her seat.
No veterans, no bounty hunting scum,
But handy with a weapon nonetheless,
These traders, hauling junk from slum to slum,
Would kill her cold, in seconds, with finesse.
The foulest of the foursome, fat and fed,
Declares his wish to desecrate her land.
He squats behind a fallen statue’s head,
But feels her cold, her claws, and cannot stand.
She drags him to the marshes, through the weeds,
To flay his flesh, euphoric as she feeds.
A shadow in the ruins, wet, she waits,
Disgusted as the nomads gnaw their meat.
Concealed behind the broken border gates,
She prays her scent will not reveal her seat.
No veterans, no bounty hunting scum,
But handy with a weapon nonetheless,
These traders, hauling junk from slum to slum,
Would kill her cold, in seconds, with finesse.
The foulest of the foursome, fat and fed,
Declares his wish to desecrate her land.
He squats behind a fallen statue’s head,
But feels her cold, her claws, and cannot stand.
She drags him to the marshes, through the weeds,
To flay his flesh, euphoric as she feeds.
A Monster’s Manifesto
by Nick Gisburne
The bondage of bureaucracy begins,
With subtleties of delicate design,
To hammer at the souls beneath our skins.
The skies will break before they shatter mine.
Submissive, pawns of power, we are fools,
The sheep who see their slaughter as a gift.
Distorted by unfathomable rules,
Our freedoms wither, daily, as we drift.
For thunderous rebellion, for war,
A monster’s manifesto I create.
My words, my whispers, warned them once before.
Today they will be listening, too late.
The world will know what I, in death, have done,
And witness what my malice has begun.
The bondage of bureaucracy begins,
With subtleties of delicate design,
To hammer at the souls beneath our skins.
The skies will break before they shatter mine.
Submissive, pawns of power, we are fools,
The sheep who see their slaughter as a gift.
Distorted by unfathomable rules,
Our freedoms wither, daily, as we drift.
For thunderous rebellion, for war,
A monster’s manifesto I create.
My words, my whispers, warned them once before.
Today they will be listening, too late.
The world will know what I, in death, have done,
And witness what my malice has begun.
Tuesday, 13 September 2022
An Empty Triumph
by Nick Gisburne
The seven of us barely clear the cut,
And two are dropped by trackers in the trees.
Intruder traps secure the seams. They shut
Another brother’s body in their squeeze.
A problem blows a bullet through the plan:
Our scanners flash, but fail to make a match.
No time, no choice. We sacrifice a man.
His body bomb annihilates the latch.
The tunnels boil with black, genetic smoke,
But nothing we were not expecting, yet.
Man down, another. Visor cracked. His choke
So hideous I struggle to forget.
An empty triumph; nothing here to kill.
How many more beyond this filthy hill?
The seven of us barely clear the cut,
And two are dropped by trackers in the trees.
Intruder traps secure the seams. They shut
Another brother’s body in their squeeze.
A problem blows a bullet through the plan:
Our scanners flash, but fail to make a match.
No time, no choice. We sacrifice a man.
His body bomb annihilates the latch.
The tunnels boil with black, genetic smoke,
But nothing we were not expecting, yet.
Man down, another. Visor cracked. His choke
So hideous I struggle to forget.
An empty triumph; nothing here to kill.
How many more beyond this filthy hill?
Primrose Punks
by Nick Gisburne
The Punks prepare an ambush for the snatch,
Psychotic Fey, no kinsmen of the Queen.
Before her precious eggs, her dragons, hatch,
They steal them, in a storm of gold and green.
Two legions of the fearsome Flower Guard
Are slaughtered in the Elemental Wood.
The Queen, her wings in tatters, twisted, charred,
Retreats, the threat of murder understood.
Unruffled, knowing something they do not,
Returning to the wilderness, she waits.
The eggs, beyond her care, begin to rot,
And those who took them curse their twisted fates.
As dragon maggots strip their silver skins,
The Primrose Punks are punished for their sins.
The Punks prepare an ambush for the snatch,
Psychotic Fey, no kinsmen of the Queen.
Before her precious eggs, her dragons, hatch,
They steal them, in a storm of gold and green.
Two legions of the fearsome Flower Guard
Are slaughtered in the Elemental Wood.
The Queen, her wings in tatters, twisted, charred,
Retreats, the threat of murder understood.
Unruffled, knowing something they do not,
Returning to the wilderness, she waits.
The eggs, beyond her care, begin to rot,
And those who took them curse their twisted fates.
As dragon maggots strip their silver skins,
The Primrose Punks are punished for their sins.
The Grave of God
by Nick Gisburne
We gather at the grave of God to pray,
But recognise how futile is our fear.
The terror of the moment drains away.
We know, at last, our Lord was never near.
He died before belief was ever born.
How weak he was, how impotent, how small.
We try to find the reverence to mourn,
But only shame is summoned by the call.
The paradise he promised was a lie,
Eternity impossible to give.
Millennia were wasted on him. Why?
The fraud we find did not deserve to live.
For something more, to comfort us, we yearn,
But from this trick, this travesty, we turn.
We gather at the grave of God to pray,
But recognise how futile is our fear.
The terror of the moment drains away.
We know, at last, our Lord was never near.
He died before belief was ever born.
How weak he was, how impotent, how small.
We try to find the reverence to mourn,
But only shame is summoned by the call.
The paradise he promised was a lie,
Eternity impossible to give.
Millennia were wasted on him. Why?
The fraud we find did not deserve to live.
For something more, to comfort us, we yearn,
But from this trick, this travesty, we turn.
Monday, 12 September 2022
Selected for the Feast
by Nick Gisburne
The teacher carves her sigil in the meat,
A carcass she selected for the feast.
The fullness of its flesh, sublimely sweet,
Is treasured in this rare, exotic beast.
Excited, as their appetites are stirred,
Attentive students fortify their notes.
By all the whispered rumours each has heard,
Their best may find its flavour in their throats.
The Forward Fleet, the navy’s brave and bold,
Will celebrate new victories tonight,
And those who seek to serve the meat are told
How courage killed these creatures in the fight.
With delicate finesse she bags the bones,
And starts to simmer, slowly, Trooper Jones.
The teacher carves her sigil in the meat,
A carcass she selected for the feast.
The fullness of its flesh, sublimely sweet,
Is treasured in this rare, exotic beast.
Excited, as their appetites are stirred,
Attentive students fortify their notes.
By all the whispered rumours each has heard,
Their best may find its flavour in their throats.
The Forward Fleet, the navy’s brave and bold,
Will celebrate new victories tonight,
And those who seek to serve the meat are told
How courage killed these creatures in the fight.
With delicate finesse she bags the bones,
And starts to simmer, slowly, Trooper Jones.
A Quiet Kind of Life
by Nick Gisburne
My temper is too volatile, too hot,
To waste my words with nauseating fools.
The sober voice of reason I am not,
Contemptuous of etiquette, of rules.
I long to face them, truly, freak by freak,
But surgery would certainly ensue,
Ignited by the twisted shit they speak,
By every crooked con or crime they do.
A short and simple statement I recite
When one of them strays close enough to kill:
“I’m taking medication, and I bite.”
They never dare to gamble that I will.
I live a careful, quiet kind of life,
But those who think to fight me need a knife.
My temper is too volatile, too hot,
To waste my words with nauseating fools.
The sober voice of reason I am not,
Contemptuous of etiquette, of rules.
I long to face them, truly, freak by freak,
But surgery would certainly ensue,
Ignited by the twisted shit they speak,
By every crooked con or crime they do.
A short and simple statement I recite
When one of them strays close enough to kill:
“I’m taking medication, and I bite.”
They never dare to gamble that I will.
I live a careful, quiet kind of life,
But those who think to fight me need a knife.
In the Cracks
by Nick Gisburne
The people’s park, a verdant city space,
Is destined for destruction by the state.
Confused, chaotic, nature has no place.
The future, flawless, faceless, will not wait.
Our elders walked here, paused to find their peace,
But we, their grey descendants, are the last.
Tomorrow, every sight and sound will cease,
A footnote for the archives, for the past.
Ashamed to be complicit in the crime,
We find a way to fight, behind their backs.
With stolen seeds, with secrecy, with time,
We colonise the concrete, in the cracks.
With every shoot a hint of growth, of green,
Reminds a sterile world what might have been.
The people’s park, a verdant city space,
Is destined for destruction by the state.
Confused, chaotic, nature has no place.
The future, flawless, faceless, will not wait.
Our elders walked here, paused to find their peace,
But we, their grey descendants, are the last.
Tomorrow, every sight and sound will cease,
A footnote for the archives, for the past.
Ashamed to be complicit in the crime,
We find a way to fight, behind their backs.
With stolen seeds, with secrecy, with time,
We colonise the concrete, in the cracks.
With every shoot a hint of growth, of green,
Reminds a sterile world what might have been.
Sunday, 11 September 2022
Rage Returns
by Nick Gisburne
Unwise we were, to trust your brother’s blood.
The poison of its passion boils and burns.
We look too late, too slow to fight the flood,
The darkness as his vicious rage returns.
The people are his puppets, playthings, toys,
Destroyed, disfigured, twisted on a whim.
Their suffering, the greatest of his joys,
Is breathless bliss, a miracle, to him.
New nightmares are the scripture of his crimes.
The screams of troubled slumber paint his plan.
You warned us this would be, a thousand times,
And still we offered mercy to the man.
Sadistic shades of evil stain his face.
Destroy him, daughter. Take your brother’s place.
Unwise we were, to trust your brother’s blood.
The poison of its passion boils and burns.
We look too late, too slow to fight the flood,
The darkness as his vicious rage returns.
The people are his puppets, playthings, toys,
Destroyed, disfigured, twisted on a whim.
Their suffering, the greatest of his joys,
Is breathless bliss, a miracle, to him.
New nightmares are the scripture of his crimes.
The screams of troubled slumber paint his plan.
You warned us this would be, a thousand times,
And still we offered mercy to the man.
Sadistic shades of evil stain his face.
Destroy him, daughter. Take your brother’s place.
Saturday, 10 September 2022
The Broken King
by Nick Gisburne
I take the shortest straw, by chance, by choice,
Selected by the fickleness of fate.
Untroubled by its meaning, I rejoice,
My focus on the figurehead of hate.
The monarch, mad, malicious, crazed, confused,
Dishonours every jewel of the crown.
The empire, warped by wickedness, abused,
Will breathe, reborn, when justice drags him down.
Unchallenged by the soldiers of the guard,
By those who knew this day would surely come,
I deal the broken king his final card.
They find me, still and silent, kneeling, numb.
A servant of the greater good, a pawn,
My sentence will be swift. I die at dawn.
I take the shortest straw, by chance, by choice,
Selected by the fickleness of fate.
Untroubled by its meaning, I rejoice,
My focus on the figurehead of hate.
The monarch, mad, malicious, crazed, confused,
Dishonours every jewel of the crown.
The empire, warped by wickedness, abused,
Will breathe, reborn, when justice drags him down.
Unchallenged by the soldiers of the guard,
By those who knew this day would surely come,
I deal the broken king his final card.
They find me, still and silent, kneeling, numb.
A servant of the greater good, a pawn,
My sentence will be swift. I die at dawn.
Stolen Spirits
by Nick Gisburne
The bottle is a timeless prison, mine.
A psychedelic sweetness pulled me in.
Hypnotic songs, addictive by design,
Concealed a deadly secret in their spin.
Her laughter, fevered, frequent, fills the space,
The torment of a thousand captive years.
I strive to split the smoke, to find her face,
But soon her swirling spectre disappears.
Another, more, for she was not the last.
How many, snatched and shackled by the spell?
A legion, without name or number, vast,
Surrounds me in this vessel forged in Hell.
My flesh unravels, pain with every twist,
A stolen spirit, screaming in the mist.
The bottle is a timeless prison, mine.
A psychedelic sweetness pulled me in.
Hypnotic songs, addictive by design,
Concealed a deadly secret in their spin.
Her laughter, fevered, frequent, fills the space,
The torment of a thousand captive years.
I strive to split the smoke, to find her face,
But soon her swirling spectre disappears.
Another, more, for she was not the last.
How many, snatched and shackled by the spell?
A legion, without name or number, vast,
Surrounds me in this vessel forged in Hell.
My flesh unravels, pain with every twist,
A stolen spirit, screaming in the mist.
A Family of Hearts
by Nick Gisburne
A crate of strange materials is lost,
Diverted by deception, murder, lies.
We chip and scrape through thick, metallic frost,
And scrutinise the hoard with eager eyes.
The Duchess studies every precious piece,
And scrupulously scribbles cryptic notes.
Among the damned Dystopian Police
She rules a list of hated, hunted throats.
For her this was no ordinary heist,
No random snatch of scientific parts.
Each piece of pure perfection, packed and iced,
A relic from a family of hearts.
To each the pulse of treason will return,
United, as the human cities burn.
A crate of strange materials is lost,
Diverted by deception, murder, lies.
We chip and scrape through thick, metallic frost,
And scrutinise the hoard with eager eyes.
The Duchess studies every precious piece,
And scrupulously scribbles cryptic notes.
Among the damned Dystopian Police
She rules a list of hated, hunted throats.
For her this was no ordinary heist,
No random snatch of scientific parts.
Each piece of pure perfection, packed and iced,
A relic from a family of hearts.
To each the pulse of treason will return,
United, as the human cities burn.
Friday, 9 September 2022
A Portrait of Despair
by Nick Gisburne
She scratches at the mask to find her face,
But sorrow, shame and worry drag her back.
Her memories are tainted with disgrace,
Distorted, dark illusions, broken, black.
The world beyond the prison of her mind
Is one she fears to touch, to taste, to try.
Emotions maim her. Better to be blind
Than see the pity in another’s eye.
Frustrated, frozen, failing to perform,
She hides behind excuses, reasons, lies.
Seclusion brings her comfort, keeps her warm,
But, safe inside its sterile walls, she cries.
She longs to be a someone, something rare,
But paints a painful portrait of despair.
She scratches at the mask to find her face,
But sorrow, shame and worry drag her back.
Her memories are tainted with disgrace,
Distorted, dark illusions, broken, black.
The world beyond the prison of her mind
Is one she fears to touch, to taste, to try.
Emotions maim her. Better to be blind
Than see the pity in another’s eye.
Frustrated, frozen, failing to perform,
She hides behind excuses, reasons, lies.
Seclusion brings her comfort, keeps her warm,
But, safe inside its sterile walls, she cries.
She longs to be a someone, something rare,
But paints a painful portrait of despair.
Thursday, 8 September 2022
Cheer Up
by Nick Gisburne
Your pity soaks the sinews of my soul,
A misery too bleak for me to bear.
An infinite abyss. A gaping hole.
A poisoned pit of pain-polluted air.
I’m dying, and you’ve known it for a while,
Yet somehow made it personal to you.
You sit, without the flicker of a smile,
And simmer in a self-indulgent stew.
Traumatic? You’re the one who thinks me dead,
And wishes you were punished in my place.
Believe me, I would offer you this bed,
But would not splash my sorrow in your face.
A middle finger, fragile, will suffice.
Cheer up, you cunt. Don’t make me tell you twice.
Your pity soaks the sinews of my soul,
A misery too bleak for me to bear.
An infinite abyss. A gaping hole.
A poisoned pit of pain-polluted air.
I’m dying, and you’ve known it for a while,
Yet somehow made it personal to you.
You sit, without the flicker of a smile,
And simmer in a self-indulgent stew.
Traumatic? You’re the one who thinks me dead,
And wishes you were punished in my place.
Believe me, I would offer you this bed,
But would not splash my sorrow in your face.
A middle finger, fragile, will suffice.
Cheer up, you cunt. Don’t make me tell you twice.
Swarming to the Stars
by Nick Gisburne
I fail to fetch the nutrients I need
To satisfy the creatures in my jars,
A penalty to paralyse their greed,
A punishment for swarming to the stars.
Disgusted, I contaminate their drink.
They shiver as the heat is dialled down.
Encircled by insanity, they think
My shadow dances in a demon’s crown.
I wait. I watch, in quiet, placid peace,
My specimens, my starving, stricken pets,
And, when their woeful, cold convulsions cease,
I find no time for trivial regrets.
They came to claim the universe, but no,
I will not let this human cancer grow.
I fail to fetch the nutrients I need
To satisfy the creatures in my jars,
A penalty to paralyse their greed,
A punishment for swarming to the stars.
Disgusted, I contaminate their drink.
They shiver as the heat is dialled down.
Encircled by insanity, they think
My shadow dances in a demon’s crown.
I wait. I watch, in quiet, placid peace,
My specimens, my starving, stricken pets,
And, when their woeful, cold convulsions cease,
I find no time for trivial regrets.
They came to claim the universe, but no,
I will not let this human cancer grow.
Wednesday, 7 September 2022
A Stubborn Man
by Nick Gisburne
He spells his name, a letter at a time,
And smiles to see the writing in her book.
A petty, unimaginative crime,
The fine should not deserve a second look.
For days like this he memorised the law,
A little knowledge, day by day, with lunch.
She quotes the code but he, of course, knows more.
The loopholes let him land a sucker punch.
In arguments to which a judge would yield,
He points to statutes, by-laws, by the ton,
Expecting her to bend, to leave the field,
Conceding he is right, the battle won.
The officer knows something he does not,
The silence when a stubborn man is shot.
He spells his name, a letter at a time,
And smiles to see the writing in her book.
A petty, unimaginative crime,
The fine should not deserve a second look.
For days like this he memorised the law,
A little knowledge, day by day, with lunch.
She quotes the code but he, of course, knows more.
The loopholes let him land a sucker punch.
In arguments to which a judge would yield,
He points to statutes, by-laws, by the ton,
Expecting her to bend, to leave the field,
Conceding he is right, the battle won.
The officer knows something he does not,
The silence when a stubborn man is shot.
Dirt
by Nick Gisburne
The light is brutal, banishing the gloom,
Revealing twisted blasphemies, grotesque.
Uncovered, in a corner of the room,
The sorcerer spills poison from his desk.
Bedazzled by the daggers of the sun,
Still pushing buttons, trafficking disease,
He peddles evil other spirits shun,
Relentless in his drive to play, to please.
No mercy, no repentance, stains his mind.
No servant of morality is he.
Whatever fiendish photo he can find
Becomes a prize for broken souls to see.
He spreads a plague of misery and hurt,
Perverted by depravity, by dirt.
The light is brutal, banishing the gloom,
Revealing twisted blasphemies, grotesque.
Uncovered, in a corner of the room,
The sorcerer spills poison from his desk.
Bedazzled by the daggers of the sun,
Still pushing buttons, trafficking disease,
He peddles evil other spirits shun,
Relentless in his drive to play, to please.
No mercy, no repentance, stains his mind.
No servant of morality is he.
Whatever fiendish photo he can find
Becomes a prize for broken souls to see.
He spreads a plague of misery and hurt,
Perverted by depravity, by dirt.