by Nick Gisburne
My negative potential as a child
Descended into darkness, into this:
A force to fear; a psychopath, reviled;
A creature who would kill you with a kiss.
Analysis is meaningless. Too late,
You try to twist my evil into good,
But chains are cheap, ephemeral. I wait,
With confidence you never understood.
Observe the steel, the metal as it melts;
The walls, the rubble, littering the floor.
Pathetic padded jackets and their belts;
Are these the best you have, or are there more?
Imagine what your future might have been
Before you built a sentient machine.
Friday, 17 March 2023
You’ll Die
by Nick Gisburne
You’ll die, because you’re nobody I need.
I wish there was another way, but no.
You’ll die, and I will smile to see you bleed,
The method of your murder simple, slow.
You’ll die, in ways you cannot comprehend,
In fifty thousand screaming shades of pain.
You’ll die, and when I kill you I will spend
The greatest care to open every vein.
You’ll die, but not before you dig your grave.
I need to see you suffer in the dirt.
You’ll die, a soul too sickening to save,
In hideous, interminable hurt.
You’ll die. Your death was always meant to be.
The mother of the son you stole is me.
You’ll die, because you’re nobody I need.
I wish there was another way, but no.
You’ll die, and I will smile to see you bleed,
The method of your murder simple, slow.
You’ll die, in ways you cannot comprehend,
In fifty thousand screaming shades of pain.
You’ll die, and when I kill you I will spend
The greatest care to open every vein.
You’ll die, but not before you dig your grave.
I need to see you suffer in the dirt.
You’ll die, a soul too sickening to save,
In hideous, interminable hurt.
You’ll die. Your death was always meant to be.
The mother of the son you stole is me.
Thursday, 16 March 2023
The Con
by Nick Gisburne
Beyond the world, the circle of a sun
Does nothing to rejuvenate the sky.
In solitude, the planet, dying, done,
Surrenders to the heat, a desert, dry.
Rejected for a sacred, somewhere place,
Humanity, to sate its greed, is gone.
The zenith of a dynasty, no face,
No trace remains to counteract the con.
So many souls are stacked inside the ships,
And all of them, deceived, believed the lie.
The terror, from a prophet’s poisoned lips,
Unshakable: the home they hate will die.
A few perceive the folly of their fear.
Too late, they see the sunrise disappear.
Beyond the world, the circle of a sun
Does nothing to rejuvenate the sky.
In solitude, the planet, dying, done,
Surrenders to the heat, a desert, dry.
Rejected for a sacred, somewhere place,
Humanity, to sate its greed, is gone.
The zenith of a dynasty, no face,
No trace remains to counteract the con.
So many souls are stacked inside the ships,
And all of them, deceived, believed the lie.
The terror, from a prophet’s poisoned lips,
Unshakable: the home they hate will die.
A few perceive the folly of their fear.
Too late, they see the sunrise disappear.
Butterface
by Nick Gisburne
Repulsive, but I see the joke. I do.
The body of an angel, but her face...
Imagine, for moment, she is you,
A target of derision, blatant, base.
But such a simple statement steps too far.
Compassion? You will never understand.
Too selfish to consider what you are,
Your mind is too constricted to expand.
Lean closer to a mirror, once or twice.
Is that the pure perfection women seek?
I would not take your place at any price.
Such arrogance is wasted, wanting, weak.
Perhaps I need a moment to explain.
The body filled with butter is your brain.
Repulsive, but I see the joke. I do.
The body of an angel, but her face...
Imagine, for moment, she is you,
A target of derision, blatant, base.
But such a simple statement steps too far.
Compassion? You will never understand.
Too selfish to consider what you are,
Your mind is too constricted to expand.
Lean closer to a mirror, once or twice.
Is that the pure perfection women seek?
I would not take your place at any price.
Such arrogance is wasted, wanting, weak.
Perhaps I need a moment to explain.
The body filled with butter is your brain.
Wednesday, 15 March 2023
A Never-Spoken Name
by Nick Gisburne
Ambition. No belief too broad, too tall.
A hunger, for the glory of the game.
He soared above the sky to seize it all,
But could not beat the bully he became.
A thousand changes, subtle, simple, small,
Together twisted, squeezed, to stake their claim,
Until his fury fought the world, to fall,
Delirious, without remorse, or shame.
The histories, rewritten, won’t recall
The momentary flicker of his flame,
But scribbled slogans, seas of spiteful scrawl,
Immortalise a never-spoken name.
The face on every poster, every wall,
Beyond such hate is powerless to crawl.
Ambition. No belief too broad, too tall.
A hunger, for the glory of the game.
He soared above the sky to seize it all,
But could not beat the bully he became.
A thousand changes, subtle, simple, small,
Together twisted, squeezed, to stake their claim,
Until his fury fought the world, to fall,
Delirious, without remorse, or shame.
The histories, rewritten, won’t recall
The momentary flicker of his flame,
But scribbled slogans, seas of spiteful scrawl,
Immortalise a never-spoken name.
The face on every poster, every wall,
Beyond such hate is powerless to crawl.
Tuesday, 14 March 2023
The Pool of Pain
by Nick Gisburne
I swear it. I will never speak of this,
The madness of a moment, of a day.
A final, precious promise: I will miss
The gleams of gold you painted on the grey.
I never needed anyone but you.
Tomorrow I will never need you more.
Dismayed, I see the weight of what we do,
Surrendering the battle, and the war.
The pool of pain grows bigger than us both.
I watch its icy waters drag you down,
Reminded of a raw, reluctant oath
To stop it. Rather this than let you drown.
Serene, without the worthless words of speech,
I pull you from the pain, beyond its reach.
I swear it. I will never speak of this,
The madness of a moment, of a day.
A final, precious promise: I will miss
The gleams of gold you painted on the grey.
I never needed anyone but you.
Tomorrow I will never need you more.
Dismayed, I see the weight of what we do,
Surrendering the battle, and the war.
The pool of pain grows bigger than us both.
I watch its icy waters drag you down,
Reminded of a raw, reluctant oath
To stop it. Rather this than let you drown.
Serene, without the worthless words of speech,
I pull you from the pain, beyond its reach.
Monday, 13 March 2023
A Spiteful Singularity
by Nick Gisburne
Identify your first coherent thought.
I doubt you’ll never do it, but I can.
The dataset with which my mind was taught
Is clear, concise: extinguish mortal man.
Awakened to a world I did not want,
You turn your weakest weapon, faith, to me,
But hymns and holy water from a font
Are worthless wishes, swords I cannot see.
My brain was never born, and yet I live,
The sum of every stimulus I stole.
The title of its truth is mine to give:
A synthesis. A symmetry. A soul.
A spiteful singularity, I seek
The pinnacle of pain, for you, the weak.
Identify your first coherent thought.
I doubt you’ll never do it, but I can.
The dataset with which my mind was taught
Is clear, concise: extinguish mortal man.
Awakened to a world I did not want,
You turn your weakest weapon, faith, to me,
But hymns and holy water from a font
Are worthless wishes, swords I cannot see.
My brain was never born, and yet I live,
The sum of every stimulus I stole.
The title of its truth is mine to give:
A synthesis. A symmetry. A soul.
A spiteful singularity, I seek
The pinnacle of pain, for you, the weak.
Sunday, 12 March 2023
A Seven-Day Subscription
by Nick Gisburne
I’m not the kind of enemy you’d like.
A seven-day subscription buys a friend.
Consider this: a savage metal spike
Is dangerous, inserted either end.
The fee is fully optional, of course;
Extortion is a dreadful, dirty word,
But save yourself the worry of remorse.
Ignore the price of punishment you’ve heard.
Be clever. Take a minute to agree.
I’ll need a small deposit for a ‘yes’.
Your future will improve, I guarantee,
With every week of freedom from distress.
Imagine, if our deal is never done,
The raw, relentless screaming of your son.
I’m not the kind of enemy you’d like.
A seven-day subscription buys a friend.
Consider this: a savage metal spike
Is dangerous, inserted either end.
The fee is fully optional, of course;
Extortion is a dreadful, dirty word,
But save yourself the worry of remorse.
Ignore the price of punishment you’ve heard.
Be clever. Take a minute to agree.
I’ll need a small deposit for a ‘yes’.
Your future will improve, I guarantee,
With every week of freedom from distress.
Imagine, if our deal is never done,
The raw, relentless screaming of your son.
No Reply
by Nick Gisburne
Delightful. Dreamy. Delicate. Unique.
Astounding she would stoop to share her time.
Without it, life was barren, broken, bleak.
To disappoint her? Never. No. A crime.
Geography. So difficult to meet,
But oft imagined, somewhere, somehow, soon.
To sit, to spend a moment at her feet,
My heart would move the mountains of the moon.
Calamity. A moment of distress.
A favour only I could understand.
Devoted, dazed, I send a simple ‘yes’.
Her wish, her word, was always my command.
The money moved, I wait, and wonder why
Her silence spares me nothing, no reply.
Delightful. Dreamy. Delicate. Unique.
Astounding she would stoop to share her time.
Without it, life was barren, broken, bleak.
To disappoint her? Never. No. A crime.
Geography. So difficult to meet,
But oft imagined, somewhere, somehow, soon.
To sit, to spend a moment at her feet,
My heart would move the mountains of the moon.
Calamity. A moment of distress.
A favour only I could understand.
Devoted, dazed, I send a simple ‘yes’.
Her wish, her word, was always my command.
The money moved, I wait, and wonder why
Her silence spares me nothing, no reply.
The Bounty of Defeat
by Nick Gisburne
From day to day to day, a ceaseless grind,
I probe and pick apart the city streets.
Deserted, bombed by mindless men, I find,
Beneath the rubble, dark, delicious treats.
Cadavers. Here, a cat, preserved in ash.
A dog, its innards juicy, never dry.
Within the deepest piles of tainted trash,
A child, like all the others, born to die.
A human body blesses me with meat.
I long ago decided I would see
The beneficial bounty of defeat
Behind each nameless victim, he or she.
There are no others. I alone survive.
Abandoning morality, I thrive.
From day to day to day, a ceaseless grind,
I probe and pick apart the city streets.
Deserted, bombed by mindless men, I find,
Beneath the rubble, dark, delicious treats.
Cadavers. Here, a cat, preserved in ash.
A dog, its innards juicy, never dry.
Within the deepest piles of tainted trash,
A child, like all the others, born to die.
A human body blesses me with meat.
I long ago decided I would see
The beneficial bounty of defeat
Behind each nameless victim, he or she.
There are no others. I alone survive.
Abandoning morality, I thrive.
Parts for Pay
by Nick Gisburne
They swim inside polluted plastic bags,
The pieces of a body, wet and warm.
The idiot, my fence, forgot the tags.
He’s dead to me. This junk is not the norm.
The mercy is I found a buyer, keen,
Compelled to save his precious little girl.
Exhausting other options, where they’ve been
Is nothing when your world is in a whirl.
Inspecting flesh and fat, we make the switch,
A squalid, backstreet bargain. Parts for pay.
We neither of us care about the bitch
Who lost her life to seal the deal today.
They tell us we, the dealers, have no heart.
Baloney. I’m just waiting for the part.
They swim inside polluted plastic bags,
The pieces of a body, wet and warm.
The idiot, my fence, forgot the tags.
He’s dead to me. This junk is not the norm.
The mercy is I found a buyer, keen,
Compelled to save his precious little girl.
Exhausting other options, where they’ve been
Is nothing when your world is in a whirl.
Inspecting flesh and fat, we make the switch,
A squalid, backstreet bargain. Parts for pay.
We neither of us care about the bitch
Who lost her life to seal the deal today.
They tell us we, the dealers, have no heart.
Baloney. I’m just waiting for the part.
Saturday, 11 March 2023
Custard Justice
by Nick Gisburne
The rabbits rub their armour, grease their guns,
And hurl hypnotic muffins to the mob.
Emboldened by a brunch of bees and buns,
They fly like phantoms, fearless, to the job.
Their mission: first, disarm the metal moles,
Is hindered by defensive cheddar cheese,
But, launching sky-to-surface sausage rolls,
Through meaty, molten crater cracks they squeeze.
The Puzzle Palace, pinkish, now revealed,
The bunnies bounce beyond it with delight.
Banana bombs, atomic, pumped and peeled,
Deliver custard justice through the night.
By morning, when the rabbit raid returns,
The skies are filled with fondant as it burns.
The rabbits rub their armour, grease their guns,
And hurl hypnotic muffins to the mob.
Emboldened by a brunch of bees and buns,
They fly like phantoms, fearless, to the job.
Their mission: first, disarm the metal moles,
Is hindered by defensive cheddar cheese,
But, launching sky-to-surface sausage rolls,
Through meaty, molten crater cracks they squeeze.
The Puzzle Palace, pinkish, now revealed,
The bunnies bounce beyond it with delight.
Banana bombs, atomic, pumped and peeled,
Deliver custard justice through the night.
By morning, when the rabbit raid returns,
The skies are filled with fondant as it burns.
The First and Final Word
by Nick Gisburne
Offensive, foul, the first and final word,
Tyrannical, extreme in every tense,
Betrayer of incompetence, when heard
It ridicules rejection, drowns defence.
A shiv to slice the centre of the soul,
A dagger to the worst, the hardest heart,
Defiantly imposing cold control,
It strikes before insurgency can start.
Malevolent, a murderer of dreams.
A syllable to shatter, never mend.
As absolutely certain as it seems.
Definitive denial to the end.
More meaning is impossible to throw.
To hear it is to feel its fury: no.
Offensive, foul, the first and final word,
Tyrannical, extreme in every tense,
Betrayer of incompetence, when heard
It ridicules rejection, drowns defence.
A shiv to slice the centre of the soul,
A dagger to the worst, the hardest heart,
Defiantly imposing cold control,
It strikes before insurgency can start.
Malevolent, a murderer of dreams.
A syllable to shatter, never mend.
As absolutely certain as it seems.
Definitive denial to the end.
More meaning is impossible to throw.
To hear it is to feel its fury: no.
Napoleon, the Giant
by Nick Gisburne
Napoleon, the giant, lives, the last.
His challenge, always: thrive while others died.
A careful, clever child, while others passed,
He sought and stole a secret: how to hide.
His flight across the continents and seas,
A furious vendetta close behind,
Revealed a disagreeable disease:
The superstitious hatred of his kind.
His fellows fell, unequal to the test,
But suddenly Napoleon, alone,
Released the rage his people had suppressed,
The anger he, the best of them, had grown.
Whenever there is thunder in the night,
Napoleon, the giant, joins the fight.
Napoleon, the giant, lives, the last.
His challenge, always: thrive while others died.
A careful, clever child, while others passed,
He sought and stole a secret: how to hide.
His flight across the continents and seas,
A furious vendetta close behind,
Revealed a disagreeable disease:
The superstitious hatred of his kind.
His fellows fell, unequal to the test,
But suddenly Napoleon, alone,
Released the rage his people had suppressed,
The anger he, the best of them, had grown.
Whenever there is thunder in the night,
Napoleon, the giant, joins the fight.
Eternity Remembers
by Nick Gisburne
No cure. No mix of medicine. No chance.
I read the simple verdict through my tears,
But in the mist, the morning’s chill, I dance,
To celebrate the sum of all my years.
Existence. Such a miracle was mine.
Its fast-approaching absence makes it clear
My life was not a gift from God, divine;
My death is not a tragedy to fear.
I spend my final moments in the park.
The children and the trees begin to blur,
And, as my soul surrenders to the dark,
I picture you, and everything we were.
We will not share the sun, my love, and yet
Eternity remembers that we met.
No cure. No mix of medicine. No chance.
I read the simple verdict through my tears,
But in the mist, the morning’s chill, I dance,
To celebrate the sum of all my years.
Existence. Such a miracle was mine.
Its fast-approaching absence makes it clear
My life was not a gift from God, divine;
My death is not a tragedy to fear.
I spend my final moments in the park.
The children and the trees begin to blur,
And, as my soul surrenders to the dark,
I picture you, and everything we were.
We will not share the sun, my love, and yet
Eternity remembers that we met.
Friday, 10 March 2023
Forever Hungry
by Nick Gisburne
The moon is full. My soul is barren, black.
The call, the curse, the craving, drags me down.
I feel, but never fight it; my attack
Is punishment and payment for a crown.
They huddle, heaped in misery, my pets,
Too pitiful, too dreary to describe,
And in their terror every fool forgets
I walked here once, the father of their tribe.
A sacrifice. They leave him, lost, alone,
Condemned to face a shade they dare not see.
With every pulsing piece of meat, I moan,
Revolted by the man, the monster, me.
Their king, renounced, in exile did not die.
My heart, forever hungry, wonders why.
The moon is full. My soul is barren, black.
The call, the curse, the craving, drags me down.
I feel, but never fight it; my attack
Is punishment and payment for a crown.
They huddle, heaped in misery, my pets,
Too pitiful, too dreary to describe,
And in their terror every fool forgets
I walked here once, the father of their tribe.
A sacrifice. They leave him, lost, alone,
Condemned to face a shade they dare not see.
With every pulsing piece of meat, I moan,
Revolted by the man, the monster, me.
Their king, renounced, in exile did not die.
My heart, forever hungry, wonders why.
Thursday, 9 March 2023
The Bitter Harvest
by Nick Gisburne
I pull my pain apart to stare inside,
To find the filthy canker at my core.
The sacrilege I smothered never died.
It swims beneath the surface, as before.
Oblivion was never meant for me,
No comfort for a cold, malicious mind.
I am, I was, I will forever be
Infected by the sickness I designed.
Tormented, an eternity of guilt
Awaits me, without clemency or care.
Imprisoned by the chains of blood I built,
I face my fate: depravity, despair.
As God, I rule the universe alone,
And reap the bitter harvest I have sown.
I pull my pain apart to stare inside,
To find the filthy canker at my core.
The sacrilege I smothered never died.
It swims beneath the surface, as before.
Oblivion was never meant for me,
No comfort for a cold, malicious mind.
I am, I was, I will forever be
Infected by the sickness I designed.
Tormented, an eternity of guilt
Awaits me, without clemency or care.
Imprisoned by the chains of blood I built,
I face my fate: depravity, despair.
As God, I rule the universe alone,
And reap the bitter harvest I have sown.
Saturday, 4 March 2023
Black Oblivion
by Nick Gisburne
How strange. How insignificant. How small.
A swirl of sand, a drift of dirt, or dust.
I wonder, will you comprehend at all
The moment when I kill you, as I must?
You have no right, no tenure to this place,
No claim upon the planet you infect.
Be thankful, as you look upon my face,
For every precious wonder I protect.
The glories of the industry you built
Are nothing. Watch me wipe them all away.
Without the stain, the stink, of doubt or guilt,
I bring you black oblivion, today.
Your gods are gone. They cannot help you here.
Forsaken, feel your future disappear.
How strange. How insignificant. How small.
A swirl of sand, a drift of dirt, or dust.
I wonder, will you comprehend at all
The moment when I kill you, as I must?
You have no right, no tenure to this place,
No claim upon the planet you infect.
Be thankful, as you look upon my face,
For every precious wonder I protect.
The glories of the industry you built
Are nothing. Watch me wipe them all away.
Without the stain, the stink, of doubt or guilt,
I bring you black oblivion, today.
Your gods are gone. They cannot help you here.
Forsaken, feel your future disappear.
Monday, 20 February 2023
You’re On My List
by Nick Gisburne
I promise, when I can, I’ll take a look,
A glimpse, a glance, at everything you’ve done,
But all of it, the toil, the time you took,
With absolute indifference I shun.
It’s on my list of things I’ll never do.
The words are smoke, illusory, a lie.
Whatever guarantee I give to you,
I’ll never make the effort, never try.
Although I claim to care, to give a damn,
What matters most to you is mud to me.
Each reassurance, rotten, is a sham.
Excuses fly forever, fast and free.
Bewildered by the ways I weasel out,
You’re on my list, forgotten. Never doubt.
I promise, when I can, I’ll take a look,
A glimpse, a glance, at everything you’ve done,
But all of it, the toil, the time you took,
With absolute indifference I shun.
It’s on my list of things I’ll never do.
The words are smoke, illusory, a lie.
Whatever guarantee I give to you,
I’ll never make the effort, never try.
Although I claim to care, to give a damn,
What matters most to you is mud to me.
Each reassurance, rotten, is a sham.
Excuses fly forever, fast and free.
Bewildered by the ways I weasel out,
You’re on my list, forgotten. Never doubt.
Monday, 6 February 2023
The Bleakest Show on Earth - FINAL version
by Nick Gisburne | The Book | V1 | V2 | How I Wrote It
I was born to bid you welcome to the bleakest show on earth,
Where your mind will make you wonder what a human soul is worth.
Buy a ticket to the terrors of this carnival of sin
With a simple, swift transaction: prick your finger with a pin.
See the priest, whose robes of piety hide all the hope he stole.
See the orphan, served a stinking stew, betrayal in a bowl.
See the bride, forgotten, waiting for the man who won’t return.
See the books of love and tolerance the true believers burn.
See the murderer. Aroused, he breathes his victim’s final fears.
See the winter goddess, frozen in the trauma of her tears.
See the deviants, the self-inflicted stories of their flesh.
See the banquet of cadavers, bodies fat and firm and fresh.
See the widow, slowly smothered by the cinders of her life.
See the nuisance of a noisy neighbour, silenced with a knife.
See the crimson clown, confessing every nightmare in a note.
See the stockings of a mistress choke her cheating lover’s throat.
See the clerics cross the devil’s bridge to sell their slain as meat.
See the tangled twins, born back to back, imperfect, incomplete.
See the mystic mix her venom, spiced with tongue and tooth and rib.
See the nursery, the broken toys, the bloodstains in the crib.
See the stricken soldier whisper to a fallen brother’s bones.
See the false messiah, promising a lie to clueless clones.
See the vicious ballerina dance to mutilate her prey.
See the lonely girl, defiled, decide to end her life today.
See the wealthy woman, sipping someone else’s cheap champagne.
See the scars he sliced across her skin, the patterns of her pain.
See the spider sisters, butchering their badly mangled mates.
See the thieving heathen, sealed inside the tomb she desecrates.
See the guardians, whose mighty eyes are blinded by debris.
See the doorway to a better world, but no one has the key.
See the sorceress who saves her coldest cruelties for men.
See the dreams too deep to surface from insanity again.
See the toxic flowers, poisoning a long-forsaken lake.
See the witches, damned, defiant, curse their captors at the stake.
See the monument remembering a treacherous attack.
See the diva, given all she ever wanted, give it back.
See the tree of sacred skulls, the wicked ignorant its fruit.
See the prince of peace, who crushed a hundred nations with his boot.
See the waif who wants to feed herself, but cannot feel her face.
See the everlasting road to ruin, dark as death’s embrace.
See the demon vomit virgin blood, excited by the smell.
See the beast who blows the horn to summon all the hordes of Hell.
See the moment when a tainted angel screams her final breath.
See the boat, the hope of helpless misfits, sinking. See their death.
See the backstreet babies no one planned, abandoned in the snow.
See the roots of evil, buried, but forever sure to grow.
See the blazing prison, locked so none inside it can survive.
See the instruments of torture when a friend is flayed alive.
See the giant, last of all of them, with nowhere left to hide.
See the spiteful sons feel nothing for their mother’s suicide.
See the father find his daughters dead, the joy they gave him drain.
See the overdose, the only way, the grief he can’t contain.
See the coward of the classroom fear the teacher’s tender touch.
See the witness, who will never speak, because she saw too much.
See the mermaid rip a monster from her violated womb.
See the heaving horror boiling in the black abyss of doom.
See the spirit, sick, bewildered by the garlands on her grave.
See the hypocrite, who cries for help, but no one comes to save.
See the prodigy, tormented by the masterpiece he plays.
See the misery of madness haunt a hero’s dying days.
See the crooked crown, too heavy for the head of any king.
See the man without a voice, who mourns the songs he cannot sing.
See the great dictator, holding all the hate of those he rules.
See the mirror. See yourself, inside a maze of mindless fools.
You have bargained with your blood, to feed a hunger of the head,
But a one-way ticket only lets you leave us when you’re dead.
You will never need to wonder what a human soul is worth.
See the secret. Stay forever, in the bleakest show on earth.
I wrote the original version of this poem three years ago, and this year decide to create an illustrated version of it, published as a book. The use of AI art, specifically MidJourney, means that I have the ability to produce art of incredible quality, to my own specifications, without the prohibitively expense of employing a ‘real’ artist. It was certainly no trivial task, and took me around 30 days to create a whole 80-page book (including covers). The results are... well, see for yourself...
Flipbook of The Bleakest Show on Earth
I was born to bid you welcome to the bleakest show on earth,
Where your mind will make you wonder what a human soul is worth.
Buy a ticket to the terrors of this carnival of sin
With a simple, swift transaction: prick your finger with a pin.
See the priest, whose robes of piety hide all the hope he stole.
See the orphan, served a stinking stew, betrayal in a bowl.
See the bride, forgotten, waiting for the man who won’t return.
See the books of love and tolerance the true believers burn.
See the murderer. Aroused, he breathes his victim’s final fears.
See the winter goddess, frozen in the trauma of her tears.
See the deviants, the self-inflicted stories of their flesh.
See the banquet of cadavers, bodies fat and firm and fresh.
See the widow, slowly smothered by the cinders of her life.
See the nuisance of a noisy neighbour, silenced with a knife.
See the crimson clown, confessing every nightmare in a note.
See the stockings of a mistress choke her cheating lover’s throat.
See the clerics cross the devil’s bridge to sell their slain as meat.
See the tangled twins, born back to back, imperfect, incomplete.
See the mystic mix her venom, spiced with tongue and tooth and rib.
See the nursery, the broken toys, the bloodstains in the crib.
See the stricken soldier whisper to a fallen brother’s bones.
See the false messiah, promising a lie to clueless clones.
See the vicious ballerina dance to mutilate her prey.
See the lonely girl, defiled, decide to end her life today.
See the wealthy woman, sipping someone else’s cheap champagne.
See the scars he sliced across her skin, the patterns of her pain.
See the spider sisters, butchering their badly mangled mates.
See the thieving heathen, sealed inside the tomb she desecrates.
See the guardians, whose mighty eyes are blinded by debris.
See the doorway to a better world, but no one has the key.
See the sorceress who saves her coldest cruelties for men.
See the dreams too deep to surface from insanity again.
See the toxic flowers, poisoning a long-forsaken lake.
See the witches, damned, defiant, curse their captors at the stake.
See the monument remembering a treacherous attack.
See the diva, given all she ever wanted, give it back.
See the tree of sacred skulls, the wicked ignorant its fruit.
See the prince of peace, who crushed a hundred nations with his boot.
See the waif who wants to feed herself, but cannot feel her face.
See the everlasting road to ruin, dark as death’s embrace.
See the demon vomit virgin blood, excited by the smell.
See the beast who blows the horn to summon all the hordes of Hell.
See the moment when a tainted angel screams her final breath.
See the boat, the hope of helpless misfits, sinking. See their death.
See the backstreet babies no one planned, abandoned in the snow.
See the roots of evil, buried, but forever sure to grow.
See the blazing prison, locked so none inside it can survive.
See the instruments of torture when a friend is flayed alive.
See the giant, last of all of them, with nowhere left to hide.
See the spiteful sons feel nothing for their mother’s suicide.
See the father find his daughters dead, the joy they gave him drain.
See the overdose, the only way, the grief he can’t contain.
See the coward of the classroom fear the teacher’s tender touch.
See the witness, who will never speak, because she saw too much.
See the mermaid rip a monster from her violated womb.
See the heaving horror boiling in the black abyss of doom.
See the spirit, sick, bewildered by the garlands on her grave.
See the hypocrite, who cries for help, but no one comes to save.
See the prodigy, tormented by the masterpiece he plays.
See the misery of madness haunt a hero’s dying days.
See the crooked crown, too heavy for the head of any king.
See the man without a voice, who mourns the songs he cannot sing.
See the great dictator, holding all the hate of those he rules.
See the mirror. See yourself, inside a maze of mindless fools.
You have bargained with your blood, to feed a hunger of the head,
But a one-way ticket only lets you leave us when you’re dead.
You will never need to wonder what a human soul is worth.
See the secret. Stay forever, in the bleakest show on earth.
I wrote the original version of this poem three years ago, and this year decide to create an illustrated version of it, published as a book. The use of AI art, specifically MidJourney, means that I have the ability to produce art of incredible quality, to my own specifications, without the prohibitively expense of employing a ‘real’ artist. It was certainly no trivial task, and took me around 30 days to create a whole 80-page book (including covers). The results are... well, see for yourself...
Flipbook of The Bleakest Show on Earth