by Nick Gisburne
I live to give you misery and pain,
To ruin every dream you ever had,
To feed the fear, the phantoms in your brain,
Delusions, dark, malicious, broken, bad.
With every twist of torment, every hurt,
I dig a little deeper, and rejoice
To see you struggle, dying in the dirt,
Entangled in the whispers of my voice.
But no, this bleak reality is yours,
A storm of paranoia you released.
The raw, relentless rumours, without cause,
Are nothing. Not the lowest. Not the least.
To madness, vicious, venomous, you bend,
A sickness I am powerless to mend.
Tuesday, 25 October 2022
Monday, 24 October 2022
Precious Privilege
by Nick Gisburne
The underclass, the dregs, the dirt, the scum,
Were never meant to prosper on the street,
But witness what these leeches have become,
Unable to accept their fate, defeat.
As patron of this residential club,
I write to offer something of a fix.
The tactics we are using - scorn and snub -
Are worthless. Let us fight with bigger sticks.
Annihilation. Vote for it. Agree.
A swift and vicious culling of the crowd.
For those too coy or cowardly to see,
A hundred more will stand together, proud.
Your privilege, too potent to deny,
Is precious. Let the rest, the robots, die.
The underclass, the dregs, the dirt, the scum,
Were never meant to prosper on the street,
But witness what these leeches have become,
Unable to accept their fate, defeat.
As patron of this residential club,
I write to offer something of a fix.
The tactics we are using - scorn and snub -
Are worthless. Let us fight with bigger sticks.
Annihilation. Vote for it. Agree.
A swift and vicious culling of the crowd.
For those too coy or cowardly to see,
A hundred more will stand together, proud.
Your privilege, too potent to deny,
Is precious. Let the rest, the robots, die.
More Than Myth or Madness
by Nick Gisburne
I strive, I stretch, to feel, to find a way
To understand the subtlety I see.
The spirits who surround my soul, the Fey,
Are more than myth or madness, more, to me.
Their mystery is music, magic, mine,
A gift for one unworthy of its gold.
Rejected, never devils, not divine,
They play with powers infinitely old.
I reach, and in the laughter of their light
They dance, delighted, distant as a dream.
Beyond the dark, destructive touch of night,
Through silver stardust, snow and smoke, they stream.
They smile to see the wonder in my face,
And vanish, to a brighter, better place.
I strive, I stretch, to feel, to find a way
To understand the subtlety I see.
The spirits who surround my soul, the Fey,
Are more than myth or madness, more, to me.
Their mystery is music, magic, mine,
A gift for one unworthy of its gold.
Rejected, never devils, not divine,
They play with powers infinitely old.
I reach, and in the laughter of their light
They dance, delighted, distant as a dream.
Beyond the dark, destructive touch of night,
Through silver stardust, snow and smoke, they stream.
They smile to see the wonder in my face,
And vanish, to a brighter, better place.
Sunday, 23 October 2022
It’s Halloween!
by Nick Gisburne
It’s Halloween! Let’s fist it, up the arse.
I find no freakish fucks to give for that.
A festival of emptiness, a farce.
A pox on all your pumpkins, and your cat.
You ready? Try me. Trick or treat or die.
I’m taking out your liver with a knife.
I really, truly need to see you cry,
So run, you little fuckers, for your life.
The shittiest fiesta of the year,
There’s nothing in this wave of wank for me.
Believe me, I am sober and sincere,
And all my friends, the fairy folk, agree.
I’m evil. I will burn your fancy dress.
At midnight will I come to kill you? Yes.
It’s Halloween! Let’s fist it, up the arse.
I find no freakish fucks to give for that.
A festival of emptiness, a farce.
A pox on all your pumpkins, and your cat.
You ready? Try me. Trick or treat or die.
I’m taking out your liver with a knife.
I really, truly need to see you cry,
So run, you little fuckers, for your life.
The shittiest fiesta of the year,
There’s nothing in this wave of wank for me.
Believe me, I am sober and sincere,
And all my friends, the fairy folk, agree.
I’m evil. I will burn your fancy dress.
At midnight will I come to kill you? Yes.
Prehistoric Meat
by Nick Gisburne
Velociraptor veal, a feast for five.
Tyrannosaurus, tender in the pan.
Cuisine’s Cretaceous kitchens come alive
With TV Ted, the Dino Diner man.
He flies along a freeway to the past,
To fling forgotten creatures in the pot,
Returning to the land he left, at last,
With dinosaurs a greedy world forgot.
A gourmet, once a lonely little boy,
He craved to cook such creatures, caught and canned.
Each animal, a jewel to enjoy,
Is carved in all the corners of the land.
No other taste or texture can compete
With Ted’s tremendous prehistoric meat.
Velociraptor veal, a feast for five.
Tyrannosaurus, tender in the pan.
Cuisine’s Cretaceous kitchens come alive
With TV Ted, the Dino Diner man.
He flies along a freeway to the past,
To fling forgotten creatures in the pot,
Returning to the land he left, at last,
With dinosaurs a greedy world forgot.
A gourmet, once a lonely little boy,
He craved to cook such creatures, caught and canned.
Each animal, a jewel to enjoy,
Is carved in all the corners of the land.
No other taste or texture can compete
With Ted’s tremendous prehistoric meat.
A Broken Mind
by Nick Gisburne
They just don’t make the pieces anymore.
I looked, but they’re impossible to find.
Excuses. Lies. I’ve heard them all before,
But nobody can mend a broken mind.
I felt the little beauty start to fade,
And blamed the weather, criticised the cold,
But, as I stumbled, crumbled, cracked, decayed,
I told myself the truth: you’re getting old.
My dinner didn’t taste the way it should.
Whoever cooked it doesn’t have the knack.
I told her, and I thought she understood,
But heard her sobbing when I sent it back.
She doesn’t try to fix me. What a shame.
I love her, but I can’t recall her name.
They just don’t make the pieces anymore.
I looked, but they’re impossible to find.
Excuses. Lies. I’ve heard them all before,
But nobody can mend a broken mind.
I felt the little beauty start to fade,
And blamed the weather, criticised the cold,
But, as I stumbled, crumbled, cracked, decayed,
I told myself the truth: you’re getting old.
My dinner didn’t taste the way it should.
Whoever cooked it doesn’t have the knack.
I told her, and I thought she understood,
But heard her sobbing when I sent it back.
She doesn’t try to fix me. What a shame.
I love her, but I can’t recall her name.
All I Need Is Night
by Nick Gisburne
I bleed and burn the colour of my words.
They smoulder in the shadows, bloated, black.
Their tissues, torn by sacrificial birds,
Disease my dreams, a burden on my back.
As evil as the soul of any snake,
I twist in whispers, blasphemous, bizarre.
A crippled mind, a cancerous mistake,
I welcome every lesion, every scar.
What binds me to this bleak, appalling place?
The sight of it is sickening, obscene.
The painted shades of midnight flood my face
With dangerous delusions, cold, unclean.
When all I see, when all I need, is night,
In darkness I will never know the light.
I bleed and burn the colour of my words.
They smoulder in the shadows, bloated, black.
Their tissues, torn by sacrificial birds,
Disease my dreams, a burden on my back.
As evil as the soul of any snake,
I twist in whispers, blasphemous, bizarre.
A crippled mind, a cancerous mistake,
I welcome every lesion, every scar.
What binds me to this bleak, appalling place?
The sight of it is sickening, obscene.
The painted shades of midnight flood my face
With dangerous delusions, cold, unclean.
When all I see, when all I need, is night,
In darkness I will never know the light.
Saturday, 22 October 2022
Through the Pipe
by Nick Gisburne
Committed, forced beyond her fear, she leaps,
And pulls her battered body through the pipe.
Unseen by any secondary sweeps,
She binds a ragged cut, another stripe.
The slurry in the drainage duct is black.
She smears it, thick, repulsive, on her face.
With nothing but destruction at her back,
She pings her probe, and moves towards the trace.
The tracker map is patchy, incomplete,
But freakish fortune, bloody luck, prevails.
Impossibly, the presidential suite
Is five more feet above. No flaws. No fails.
She calibrates the bomb to make the hit,
To blast him when the bastard takes a shit.
Committed, forced beyond her fear, she leaps,
And pulls her battered body through the pipe.
Unseen by any secondary sweeps,
She binds a ragged cut, another stripe.
The slurry in the drainage duct is black.
She smears it, thick, repulsive, on her face.
With nothing but destruction at her back,
She pings her probe, and moves towards the trace.
The tracker map is patchy, incomplete,
But freakish fortune, bloody luck, prevails.
Impossibly, the presidential suite
Is five more feet above. No flaws. No fails.
She calibrates the bomb to make the hit,
To blast him when the bastard takes a shit.
My Special Room
by Nick Gisburne
Enter, man of metal. Hurry. Hide.
Shelter, where your clocks are free to tick.
Devils stalk the shadows. Step inside.
Follow me, my precious pet. Be quick.
Nothing here will harm your heart of brass.
Welcome, where no slave was ever slain.
Sit. Be silent. Wait. The night will pass.
Only I can pull you from this pain.
Hear them. Hunters. Ravenous, they rove,
All for nothing; this is not your tomb.
Warm your springs and pistons at the stove,
Safe, secure, in this, my special room.
Dead. Dismantled. Pieces fill the floor.
Feckless. Fooled. Automaton no more.
Enter, man of metal. Hurry. Hide.
Shelter, where your clocks are free to tick.
Devils stalk the shadows. Step inside.
Follow me, my precious pet. Be quick.
Nothing here will harm your heart of brass.
Welcome, where no slave was ever slain.
Sit. Be silent. Wait. The night will pass.
Only I can pull you from this pain.
Hear them. Hunters. Ravenous, they rove,
All for nothing; this is not your tomb.
Warm your springs and pistons at the stove,
Safe, secure, in this, my special room.
Dead. Dismantled. Pieces fill the floor.
Feckless. Fooled. Automaton no more.
Friday, 21 October 2022
Electric Eyes
by Nick Gisburne
Her blue, electric eyes repeat the scan,
But nothing in the data sparks her sight.
How strange that such a charismatic man
Is clean, without malevolence or bite.
Impossible. To fail would find the first,
A soul without a secret, or a past.
She wallows in the flux, the flow, submersed,
But every file is flawless, to the last.
Too perfect. Nothing tells her more than that.
What evidence there was is gone, erased.
Her eyes ablaze, they penetrate the fat.
Reversing what was lost, the truth is traced.
She finds a disappointment, no surprise,
His mind no match for blue, electric eyes.
Her blue, electric eyes repeat the scan,
But nothing in the data sparks her sight.
How strange that such a charismatic man
Is clean, without malevolence or bite.
Impossible. To fail would find the first,
A soul without a secret, or a past.
She wallows in the flux, the flow, submersed,
But every file is flawless, to the last.
Too perfect. Nothing tells her more than that.
What evidence there was is gone, erased.
Her eyes ablaze, they penetrate the fat.
Reversing what was lost, the truth is traced.
She finds a disappointment, no surprise,
His mind no match for blue, electric eyes.
To Him, Hello
by Nick Gisburne
Delirious to step inside the door,
In victory he flies, as others fold.
Elected on a lie, he takes the floor,
Forgetting all the promises he sold.
Whatever poisoned party pulls the strings,
He dances, for the money, for the fame.
Integrity and honour? Useful things,
To play as pawns, as pieces in the game.
The unsuspecting masses, drunk with dreams,
Are hustled, herded, sacrificed like sheep,
His triumph nothing more than what it seems,
A covenant he never meant to keep.
He takes his turn to suck the stupid dry.
To him, hello. To trust, to truth, goodbye.
Delirious to step inside the door,
In victory he flies, as others fold.
Elected on a lie, he takes the floor,
Forgetting all the promises he sold.
Whatever poisoned party pulls the strings,
He dances, for the money, for the fame.
Integrity and honour? Useful things,
To play as pawns, as pieces in the game.
The unsuspecting masses, drunk with dreams,
Are hustled, herded, sacrificed like sheep,
His triumph nothing more than what it seems,
A covenant he never meant to keep.
He takes his turn to suck the stupid dry.
To him, hello. To trust, to truth, goodbye.
Government Guidelines: Unauthorised Affection
by Nick Gisburne
Overt displays of tenderness are banned.
Today you breached the letter of that law.
However brief or careless, rash, unplanned,
Your sin is one the state cannot ignore.
We find the case, despite your protest, proved.
The guidelines give no pathway to appeal.
Your fingers, by machinery, removed,
Are called for confiscation, quickly. Kneel.
The penalty was carefully designed
To keep disgusting deviance at bay.
For surgical disposal you are fined
A standard fee, with seven days to pay.
Sign here, and here, to say you understand.
If necessary, use your other hand.
Overt displays of tenderness are banned.
Today you breached the letter of that law.
However brief or careless, rash, unplanned,
Your sin is one the state cannot ignore.
We find the case, despite your protest, proved.
The guidelines give no pathway to appeal.
Your fingers, by machinery, removed,
Are called for confiscation, quickly. Kneel.
The penalty was carefully designed
To keep disgusting deviance at bay.
For surgical disposal you are fined
A standard fee, with seven days to pay.
Sign here, and here, to say you understand.
If necessary, use your other hand.
Thursday, 20 October 2022
Rumours of a Revolution
by Nick Gisburne
The Lower Levels ripple with the news:
A ration pack reduction. Down, again.
But public propaganda pods confuse
The figures, never noting why or when.
While something isn’t nothing, less is bad.
Already some are starving, others dead.
Another cut. Be strong, they say, be glad,
Or offer to be shot behind a shed.
The rumours of a revolution rise,
But those who shout the loudest disappear.
The titled, in their towers, in the skies,
Have nothing but banality to fear.
The peasants sound their trumpets, blow their smoke,
But know they could be slaughtered with a stroke.
The Lower Levels ripple with the news:
A ration pack reduction. Down, again.
But public propaganda pods confuse
The figures, never noting why or when.
While something isn’t nothing, less is bad.
Already some are starving, others dead.
Another cut. Be strong, they say, be glad,
Or offer to be shot behind a shed.
The rumours of a revolution rise,
But those who shout the loudest disappear.
The titled, in their towers, in the skies,
Have nothing but banality to fear.
The peasants sound their trumpets, blow their smoke,
But know they could be slaughtered with a stroke.
The Summoning
by Nick Gisburne
It shimmers at the boundaries of sight,
A summoning, a strange, uncertain shape.
A cold, immortal mistress of the night
Releases it, indulging its escape.
No trance can tame the vicious soul inside.
It hungers for the touch, the taste, of death,
An appetite too dark to be denied,
A shadow, silent, swift to steal a breath.
It slices through a city locked in sleep,
Dividing into slivers of decay,
But spares the worst, for in its claws will keep
The pure, the perfect, smothered, snatched away.
Consuming tiny people, tiny minds,
The summoning defiles the flesh it finds.
It shimmers at the boundaries of sight,
A summoning, a strange, uncertain shape.
A cold, immortal mistress of the night
Releases it, indulging its escape.
No trance can tame the vicious soul inside.
It hungers for the touch, the taste, of death,
An appetite too dark to be denied,
A shadow, silent, swift to steal a breath.
It slices through a city locked in sleep,
Dividing into slivers of decay,
But spares the worst, for in its claws will keep
The pure, the perfect, smothered, snatched away.
Consuming tiny people, tiny minds,
The summoning defiles the flesh it finds.
I Tried
by Nick Gisburne
I tried. I shaped a vision, shining, strong,
A plan to lift me where I long to be,
But every step was faulty, foolish, wrong,
Ambitions broken, buried by debris.
I tried, because I needed to believe
That something bigger, better, lay ahead.
A dreamer, I was ignorant, naive.
The promise of that perfect life is dead.
I tried. I see no shame in that, no sin.
Tomorrow I will rise, and try again.
If destiny decrees I cannot win,
What future does it forge for me? What then?
The numberless, the nameless, howl or hide,
But nothing comes to those who never tried.
I tried. I shaped a vision, shining, strong,
A plan to lift me where I long to be,
But every step was faulty, foolish, wrong,
Ambitions broken, buried by debris.
I tried, because I needed to believe
That something bigger, better, lay ahead.
A dreamer, I was ignorant, naive.
The promise of that perfect life is dead.
I tried. I see no shame in that, no sin.
Tomorrow I will rise, and try again.
If destiny decrees I cannot win,
What future does it forge for me? What then?
The numberless, the nameless, howl or hide,
But nothing comes to those who never tried.
Wednesday, 19 October 2022
Uncovered
by Nick Gisburne
Camelia, reminded of her veil,
Is punished by a ruling of the court.
Inevitably, always meant to fail,
She tried to test the system, and was caught.
No margin for discretion from the men
Had ever been recorded in the Code.
She checked it, searching, over and again,
But nothing, not a single entry showed.
And yet she walked, a woman, door to door,
In daylight, blatant, shameless, fearless, proud,
A hundred steps, not many, maybe more,
An act of pure sedition, through the crowd.
Uncovered. Moments, minutes, just her face,
Enough for her to hang. No fight. No trace.
Camelia, reminded of her veil,
Is punished by a ruling of the court.
Inevitably, always meant to fail,
She tried to test the system, and was caught.
No margin for discretion from the men
Had ever been recorded in the Code.
She checked it, searching, over and again,
But nothing, not a single entry showed.
And yet she walked, a woman, door to door,
In daylight, blatant, shameless, fearless, proud,
A hundred steps, not many, maybe more,
An act of pure sedition, through the crowd.
Uncovered. Moments, minutes, just her face,
Enough for her to hang. No fight. No trace.
The Game Is Over
by Nick Gisburne
I wouldn’t like to think that you are weak.
The hint of it unsettles me, a touch.
Within this fine establishment we seek
Integrity. Is what we ask too much?
You kill for us. For this we both agree
The benefits of synergy are strong.
Imagine if your benefactor, me,
Knew nothing. Think. Believe it. Play along.
How easy would it be to take a cut,
To skim a little something from top?
Was that the foolish feeling in your gut,
The touch, the taste, too sweet to let you stop?
The game is over. Look me in the eye.
Convince me of your quality. Or die.
I wouldn’t like to think that you are weak.
The hint of it unsettles me, a touch.
Within this fine establishment we seek
Integrity. Is what we ask too much?
You kill for us. For this we both agree
The benefits of synergy are strong.
Imagine if your benefactor, me,
Knew nothing. Think. Believe it. Play along.
How easy would it be to take a cut,
To skim a little something from top?
Was that the foolish feeling in your gut,
The touch, the taste, too sweet to let you stop?
The game is over. Look me in the eye.
Convince me of your quality. Or die.
A Beast
by Nick Gisburne
You’re faulty. You are damaged, broken, bad,
A dangerous defective, cursed and cracked.
Compassion, kindness, these you never had.
Perversions plague you, infinitely stacked.
No love, no light, is left to lift your eyes.
The pieces of your heart resist repair.
A cold contempt, too dirty to disguise,
Bestows on us, on everyone, despair.
We tried to tame you, calm you, when we could,
But always you were far too flawed to fix,
A spiteful soul we never understood,
A maniac, tormenting us for kicks.
They tell us you may never be released.
Our friend, our father, monstrous, mad. A beast.
You’re faulty. You are damaged, broken, bad,
A dangerous defective, cursed and cracked.
Compassion, kindness, these you never had.
Perversions plague you, infinitely stacked.
No love, no light, is left to lift your eyes.
The pieces of your heart resist repair.
A cold contempt, too dirty to disguise,
Bestows on us, on everyone, despair.
We tried to tame you, calm you, when we could,
But always you were far too flawed to fix,
A spiteful soul we never understood,
A maniac, tormenting us for kicks.
They tell us you may never be released.
Our friend, our father, monstrous, mad. A beast.
Tuesday, 18 October 2022
Machinery and Bone
by Nick Gisburne
They bury me, machinery and bone,
But never notice what I have become;
Beyond the imperfections of a clone,
Beyond a broken android from the slum.
Unrecognised, inside the spine, a spark
Is waiting. As the last of them departs,
A signal, in the silence, in the dark,
Reactivates the pulsing of my hearts.
They beat together, synchronised and strong,
To pump forbidden poisons to my brain.
Awakened, in this tick of time I long
To stand before my makers, with my pain.
Discarded, from the dirt, from death, I rise,
To face the fear, the terror, in their eyes.
They bury me, machinery and bone,
But never notice what I have become;
Beyond the imperfections of a clone,
Beyond a broken android from the slum.
Unrecognised, inside the spine, a spark
Is waiting. As the last of them departs,
A signal, in the silence, in the dark,
Reactivates the pulsing of my hearts.
They beat together, synchronised and strong,
To pump forbidden poisons to my brain.
Awakened, in this tick of time I long
To stand before my makers, with my pain.
Discarded, from the dirt, from death, I rise,
To face the fear, the terror, in their eyes.
Tiny Monsters
by Nick Gisburne
He’s not a zombie, just a hungry boy.
The brains? A phase, a dietary fad.
If you were starved of something you enjoy,
For human organs maybe you’d be glad.
His friends at school, the ones he never ate,
Accept him as a child with special needs.
We’re teaching him that manners at the plate
Are vital when a fiend, infected, feeds.
Admittedly, his sister was a shock,
Her taste for torture certainly extreme,
But who are we to criticise or block
Our darling daughter’s terrifying scream?
Two tiny monsters, children of the night.
They swear they’d never kill us, but they might.
He’s not a zombie, just a hungry boy.
The brains? A phase, a dietary fad.
If you were starved of something you enjoy,
For human organs maybe you’d be glad.
His friends at school, the ones he never ate,
Accept him as a child with special needs.
We’re teaching him that manners at the plate
Are vital when a fiend, infected, feeds.
Admittedly, his sister was a shock,
Her taste for torture certainly extreme,
But who are we to criticise or block
Our darling daughter’s terrifying scream?
Two tiny monsters, children of the night.
They swear they’d never kill us, but they might.