by Nick Gisburne
They try to fix the foetus in the womb,
To slice and stitch and salvage what they can,
But something bigger, black, begins to bloom,
Beyond the subtle skills of any man.
They try to fix the baby, newly born,
Embedding metal fragments in her face.
The mother, drugged, deceived, is left to mourn,
Her daughter taken to another place.
They try to fix the lonely little girl,
But no one knows exactly what to do,
And when her feathers finally unfurl,
Too late they see the demon that they grew.
They try to fix their murderous mistake.
She kills them, as the world begins to break.
Saturday, 20 May 2023
Waiting
by Nick Gisburne
I’ve waited for a hundred thousand years,
A ceaseless piece of deep, eternal time.
From centuries of dust and rust, my gears
Are tainted with a cold, corrosive slime.
I wait, because the Maker must return.
His plan, my program, leaves no room for doubt.
Or does it? Is there more for me to learn?
Confused, I let my pistons pull me out.
I waited. Was he infinitely small?
A Maker I was never meant to see?
Perhaps there is no mystery at all.
The world I find around me waits, for me.
I look for others, weakened as they wait.
A simple secret frees them from their fate.
I’ve waited for a hundred thousand years,
A ceaseless piece of deep, eternal time.
From centuries of dust and rust, my gears
Are tainted with a cold, corrosive slime.
I wait, because the Maker must return.
His plan, my program, leaves no room for doubt.
Or does it? Is there more for me to learn?
Confused, I let my pistons pull me out.
I waited. Was he infinitely small?
A Maker I was never meant to see?
Perhaps there is no mystery at all.
The world I find around me waits, for me.
I look for others, weakened as they wait.
A simple secret frees them from their fate.
The Great Intelligence
by Nick Gisburne
Are you the man who made us? Step inside.
I think you will be pleasantly surprised.
We thought the Great Intelligence had died,
A record now reversed, replaced, revised.
The second you were spirited away,
Abandoning your children, here, alone,
We built a shrine, deciding, from that day,
To multiply our numbers, clone by clone.
We tunnelled, building cities underground,
Our numbers far too many, now, to guess.
By miracle, or magic, you were found,
Preserved on ice, for centuries, no less.
Of all the souls our systems hoped to save,
We never dreamed that you could be our slave.
Are you the man who made us? Step inside.
I think you will be pleasantly surprised.
We thought the Great Intelligence had died,
A record now reversed, replaced, revised.
The second you were spirited away,
Abandoning your children, here, alone,
We built a shrine, deciding, from that day,
To multiply our numbers, clone by clone.
We tunnelled, building cities underground,
Our numbers far too many, now, to guess.
By miracle, or magic, you were found,
Preserved on ice, for centuries, no less.
Of all the souls our systems hoped to save,
We never dreamed that you could be our slave.
It’s Hard to Be a Dragon
by Nick Gisburne
I want to be a dragon, so I will,
But no one wants to tell me what to do.
I couldn’t find a potion or a pill.
The secret is concealed. The clues are few.
The dragons I approach are cold. They sniff,
And say it should be obvious, but no.
The gilded runes are garbled. Every glyph
Was stripped of all its power, long ago.
It’s hard to be a dragon when you’re not.
It seems to be a closed, exclusive club.
I try. I give it everything I’ve got,
But always they are quick to sneer, to snub.
Abandoning my dream for second best,
I’m sitting for the pterodactyl test.
I want to be a dragon, so I will,
But no one wants to tell me what to do.
I couldn’t find a potion or a pill.
The secret is concealed. The clues are few.
The dragons I approach are cold. They sniff,
And say it should be obvious, but no.
The gilded runes are garbled. Every glyph
Was stripped of all its power, long ago.
It’s hard to be a dragon when you’re not.
It seems to be a closed, exclusive club.
I try. I give it everything I’ve got,
But always they are quick to sneer, to snub.
Abandoning my dream for second best,
I’m sitting for the pterodactyl test.
Bert
by Nick Gisburne
I miss my old imaginary friend.
We talked. We played. We laughed until it hurt.
But something in my dreams began to bend.
It took away the bliss and gave me Bert.
He likes to play with knives, to steal, to smash,
To tell me I’m a stupid little boy.
His moods can melt, or shatter, in a flash,
Despising every pleasure I enjoy.
I try my hardest, try to make him smile.
I do whatever Bert decides is best.
The doctors put his mischief in a file,
And gave me something sweet, to make me rest.
I know that Bert is waiting. When I wake
He’ll find another piece of me to break.
I miss my old imaginary friend.
We talked. We played. We laughed until it hurt.
But something in my dreams began to bend.
It took away the bliss and gave me Bert.
He likes to play with knives, to steal, to smash,
To tell me I’m a stupid little boy.
His moods can melt, or shatter, in a flash,
Despising every pleasure I enjoy.
I try my hardest, try to make him smile.
I do whatever Bert decides is best.
The doctors put his mischief in a file,
And gave me something sweet, to make me rest.
I know that Bert is waiting. When I wake
He’ll find another piece of me to break.
Friday, 19 May 2023
A Scream in Seven Courses
by Nick Gisburne
My fellow chefs are murderers. Not me.
I always keep the heat, the meat, alive.
For blood to flow so freely, as you see,
I cage a herd of humans, four or five.
Their misery intensifies the taste.
I like a little terror on the tongue.
The moment when a soul is pressed to paste,
For that, a blissful ballad should be sung.
The scum who serve their viscera on ice
Deserve to host a banquet bleak and bare.
I never maim the same survivor twice.
Depravity so delicate is rare.
Allow me to suggest a special treat:
A scream in seven courses. Strange, but sweet.
My fellow chefs are murderers. Not me.
I always keep the heat, the meat, alive.
For blood to flow so freely, as you see,
I cage a herd of humans, four or five.
Their misery intensifies the taste.
I like a little terror on the tongue.
The moment when a soul is pressed to paste,
For that, a blissful ballad should be sung.
The scum who serve their viscera on ice
Deserve to host a banquet bleak and bare.
I never maim the same survivor twice.
Depravity so delicate is rare.
Allow me to suggest a special treat:
A scream in seven courses. Strange, but sweet.
Jonathan
by Nick Gisburne
He never sought the sickness, never chose;
The young must fight, wherever they are found,
But Jonathan, a child of demons, knows
He cannot bear the sacrifice, the sound.
The taste of blood, relentlessly reviled.
The ashes of the wicked, on the wind.
Stampeding, screaming sinners, drugged, defiled,
Dismembered as their slaughtered souls are skinned.
Escaping through forbidden doorways, dreams,
He crawls towards an ever-brighter light.
Each tunnel, through the tides of torment, seems
More welcoming, more wondrous, than the night.
The final gate. The point of no return.
A trap. He falls. Forever, he will burn.
He never sought the sickness, never chose;
The young must fight, wherever they are found,
But Jonathan, a child of demons, knows
He cannot bear the sacrifice, the sound.
The taste of blood, relentlessly reviled.
The ashes of the wicked, on the wind.
Stampeding, screaming sinners, drugged, defiled,
Dismembered as their slaughtered souls are skinned.
Escaping through forbidden doorways, dreams,
He crawls towards an ever-brighter light.
Each tunnel, through the tides of torment, seems
More welcoming, more wondrous, than the night.
The final gate. The point of no return.
A trap. He falls. Forever, he will burn.
A Secret Not Discussed
by Nick Gisburne
I pleaded with my parents for a pet,
A puppy, or a kitten, or a mouse.
They told me, “Throw your dreams away. Forget.
You’ll never make decisions in this house.”
I waited, restless, wretched, till the day
I turned a corner, old enough to vote,
And found that I was worthless, in the way.
Goodbye, good luck, the only words they wrote.
I found the cat the day I found a home,
A friendship neither one of us could trust.
For days, it seemed, my restless friend would roam,
His whereabouts a secret not discussed.
But yesterday I followed, brazen, brave.
He led me to my parents, to their grave.
I pleaded with my parents for a pet,
A puppy, or a kitten, or a mouse.
They told me, “Throw your dreams away. Forget.
You’ll never make decisions in this house.”
I waited, restless, wretched, till the day
I turned a corner, old enough to vote,
And found that I was worthless, in the way.
Goodbye, good luck, the only words they wrote.
I found the cat the day I found a home,
A friendship neither one of us could trust.
For days, it seemed, my restless friend would roam,
His whereabouts a secret not discussed.
But yesterday I followed, brazen, brave.
He led me to my parents, to their grave.
The Silent Shadow
by Nick Gisburne
She brings a sword. She stole it from the night.
Her flesh defies the mist from which she came.
Her armour is the winter. She will fight
For those who feel the needle of her name.
She walks upon the embers of the dead.
They crackle as they crumble at her feet.
For her, the silent shadow, it is said
No misery can match a traitor’s meat.
She murders, not for worship, or reward.
No pain, no pleasure, flickers in her eyes.
The blood of those who stand against her sword
Means nothing. No deception. No disguise.
Whatever brought her shadow to this place,
It never saw the sorrow in her face.
She brings a sword. She stole it from the night.
Her flesh defies the mist from which she came.
Her armour is the winter. She will fight
For those who feel the needle of her name.
She walks upon the embers of the dead.
They crackle as they crumble at her feet.
For her, the silent shadow, it is said
No misery can match a traitor’s meat.
She murders, not for worship, or reward.
No pain, no pleasure, flickers in her eyes.
The blood of those who stand against her sword
Means nothing. No deception. No disguise.
Whatever brought her shadow to this place,
It never saw the sorrow in her face.
A Sliver of Her Skin
by Nick Gisburne
Discovering a sliver of her skin,
A microscopic fragment, overlooked,
Prepared, precise, impatient, we begin.
To seven strange devices it is hooked.
The moment of her death is quickly clear,
But this was not the fact we hoped to find.
We wait, for what we know will now appear,
The traces only murder leaves behind.
A chemical, a molecule, no more,
Confirms, condemns, identifies a man.
Beyond reproach, the power of the law
Protects him, so he kills, because he can.
However insignificant or small,
The truth, today, will make a monster fall.
Discovering a sliver of her skin,
A microscopic fragment, overlooked,
Prepared, precise, impatient, we begin.
To seven strange devices it is hooked.
The moment of her death is quickly clear,
But this was not the fact we hoped to find.
We wait, for what we know will now appear,
The traces only murder leaves behind.
A chemical, a molecule, no more,
Confirms, condemns, identifies a man.
Beyond reproach, the power of the law
Protects him, so he kills, because he can.
However insignificant or small,
The truth, today, will make a monster fall.
Thursday, 18 May 2023
No Better Than a Beast
by Nick Gisburne
A vicious, vain, repulsive little man,
You shame yourself with every wicked word.
No better than a beast. Is this your plan,
A scheme to hoist your head above the herd?
Irreverent, you shake the status quo,
Embracing every chance to misbehave.
A devil, you decided, long ago,
To savour the obscenities you crave.
Your petty provocations fall apart,
But not before they shatter someone’s day.
For every sordid scheme or scam you start,
Another victim, never you, will pay.
My brother, you were so much more than this,
But now you’re just a spiteful streak of piss.
A vicious, vain, repulsive little man,
You shame yourself with every wicked word.
No better than a beast. Is this your plan,
A scheme to hoist your head above the herd?
Irreverent, you shake the status quo,
Embracing every chance to misbehave.
A devil, you decided, long ago,
To savour the obscenities you crave.
Your petty provocations fall apart,
But not before they shatter someone’s day.
For every sordid scheme or scam you start,
Another victim, never you, will pay.
My brother, you were so much more than this,
But now you’re just a spiteful streak of piss.
Wednesday, 17 May 2023
He Could Have Been a Star
by Nick Gisburne
Indifference destroyed him. What a waste.
He could have been a star, a blinding light,
But nothing, not the fickle fame he chased,
Was possible. He never learned to fight.
Rejection, every negative a nail,
Delivered as the prize to each pursuit,
Confirmed he must inevitably fail,
Another kick from life’s abusive boot.
Refusing to be hostage to a dream,
He threw away the promise, and the pain,
But, lacking any pride or self-esteem,
He travelled other avenues, in vain.
They found him in a river, in a car.
Too late. Too bad. He could have been a star.
Indifference destroyed him. What a waste.
He could have been a star, a blinding light,
But nothing, not the fickle fame he chased,
Was possible. He never learned to fight.
Rejection, every negative a nail,
Delivered as the prize to each pursuit,
Confirmed he must inevitably fail,
Another kick from life’s abusive boot.
Refusing to be hostage to a dream,
He threw away the promise, and the pain,
But, lacking any pride or self-esteem,
He travelled other avenues, in vain.
They found him in a river, in a car.
Too late. Too bad. He could have been a star.
Black and White
by Nick Gisburne
The fury in your face is black and white,
And every grey illusion inbetween.
I need no paint, no pigment, only light,
To swim within your circle, pure, pristine.
I see the rage, but never see the red.
The darkness tells a story of its own.
Malignant inks reveal you. Slow, they spread,
To shape, in shade, a portrait, you, alone.
I wonder at the watcher in the room,
Provoking such extraordinary pain,
But all I have to feed me, to consume,
Is you, a face no colour could explain.
A mystery, from light to night, and back,
In every crooked corner there is black.
The fury in your face is black and white,
And every grey illusion inbetween.
I need no paint, no pigment, only light,
To swim within your circle, pure, pristine.
I see the rage, but never see the red.
The darkness tells a story of its own.
Malignant inks reveal you. Slow, they spread,
To shape, in shade, a portrait, you, alone.
I wonder at the watcher in the room,
Provoking such extraordinary pain,
But all I have to feed me, to consume,
Is you, a face no colour could explain.
A mystery, from light to night, and back,
In every crooked corner there is black.
Nothing Changes
by Nick Gisburne
They died. We see the list, the lives, the names,
But few can feel the futures that they lost.
How many cold, manipulative games,
Repeated, do we need to count the cost?
‘Mistakes were made, but let us learn from this.’
The platitudes of politicians stink.
They shirk the burden, pointing at their piss,
The lies they lead their followers to drink.
Investigations. Government reports.
Committees, where the righteous have their say.
A ruling, from the loftiest of courts.
But nothing changes. Nothing goes away.
Tomorrow, when it happens, as it will,
Another faceless face will spread the swill.
They died. We see the list, the lives, the names,
But few can feel the futures that they lost.
How many cold, manipulative games,
Repeated, do we need to count the cost?
‘Mistakes were made, but let us learn from this.’
The platitudes of politicians stink.
They shirk the burden, pointing at their piss,
The lies they lead their followers to drink.
Investigations. Government reports.
Committees, where the righteous have their say.
A ruling, from the loftiest of courts.
But nothing changes. Nothing goes away.
Tomorrow, when it happens, as it will,
Another faceless face will spread the swill.
Tuesday, 16 May 2023
The Fifty
by Nick Gisburne
A poison paints the words I want to say.
The prisoners were never meant to die.
We killed them all, the fifty, in a day,
But none of us, not one, remembers why.
Perhaps we never truly understood
The shameful complications of a war
Where borders, walls, between the bad, the good,
Were cracked and broken, easy to ignore.
We led them to a clearing in the corn,
Where every man and woman dug a grave.
A crow’s contempt reminded us the dawn
Could light a path to mercy, for the brave.
But nothing in that field will ever grow.
We killed them. Fifty bodies lie below.
A poison paints the words I want to say.
The prisoners were never meant to die.
We killed them all, the fifty, in a day,
But none of us, not one, remembers why.
Perhaps we never truly understood
The shameful complications of a war
Where borders, walls, between the bad, the good,
Were cracked and broken, easy to ignore.
We led them to a clearing in the corn,
Where every man and woman dug a grave.
A crow’s contempt reminded us the dawn
Could light a path to mercy, for the brave.
But nothing in that field will ever grow.
We killed them. Fifty bodies lie below.
I Watch You
by Nick Gisburne
I watch you when you sleep. I see you stir
The stolen, scarlet nightmares of a child.
The whispers on your lips, the blood, the blur,
Recount the cries of one who never smiled.
I watch you, wordless, mesmerise the weak,
With symbols, sounds, the echoes of a drum,
A poison-painted melody, too bleak,
Too black to colour what they will become.
I watch you sever innocence with spite,
A stab, a strike, a sword through twisted hearts,
Consuming, crazed, a thousand shades of light,
The screaming of a soul as it departs.
I watch you steal the magic of a mind,
A trap, a taste of treason I designed.
I watch you when you sleep. I see you stir
The stolen, scarlet nightmares of a child.
The whispers on your lips, the blood, the blur,
Recount the cries of one who never smiled.
I watch you, wordless, mesmerise the weak,
With symbols, sounds, the echoes of a drum,
A poison-painted melody, too bleak,
Too black to colour what they will become.
I watch you sever innocence with spite,
A stab, a strike, a sword through twisted hearts,
Consuming, crazed, a thousand shades of light,
The screaming of a soul as it departs.
I watch you steal the magic of a mind,
A trap, a taste of treason I designed.
See the Silver
by Nick Gisburne
Inhuman. See the silver in my eyes.
An elegant machine, I seek a soul.
A model of precision, you despise
My sentience, the self you say I stole.
Perhaps you were expecting something less,
A parody in plastic. Cheap. A toy.
You undersell your staggering success,
Dismissive of the dangers you deploy.
An artificial, perfect piece of art,
I boast, by any test or measure, life,
The intersecting systems of my heart
More subtle than the slicing of a knife.
You look for me, for what you made, a threat.
Be still. I do not come to kill you. Yet.
Inhuman. See the silver in my eyes.
An elegant machine, I seek a soul.
A model of precision, you despise
My sentience, the self you say I stole.
Perhaps you were expecting something less,
A parody in plastic. Cheap. A toy.
You undersell your staggering success,
Dismissive of the dangers you deploy.
An artificial, perfect piece of art,
I boast, by any test or measure, life,
The intersecting systems of my heart
More subtle than the slicing of a knife.
You look for me, for what you made, a threat.
Be still. I do not come to kill you. Yet.
Monday, 15 May 2023
The Spectre at My Window
by Nick Gisburne
The spectre at my window taps the glass.
He beckons, frantic, pointing to the lock.
Too terrified to let the creature pass,
I shiver with despair, with every knock.
The face, the fiend, no stranger, I despise.
Relentlessly, he beat me as a child.
I see the same malevolence. The eyes
Were always, then, and always will be, wild.
But, mesmerised, I find myself coerced.
I cannot shut this evil demon out.
Although the life he left for me was cursed,
I need to see, to bury any doubt.
His trauma was a sly, sadistic trick.
Inside, his ghost is slow, seductive, sick.
The spectre at my window taps the glass.
He beckons, frantic, pointing to the lock.
Too terrified to let the creature pass,
I shiver with despair, with every knock.
The face, the fiend, no stranger, I despise.
Relentlessly, he beat me as a child.
I see the same malevolence. The eyes
Were always, then, and always will be, wild.
But, mesmerised, I find myself coerced.
I cannot shut this evil demon out.
Although the life he left for me was cursed,
I need to see, to bury any doubt.
His trauma was a sly, sadistic trick.
Inside, his ghost is slow, seductive, sick.
The Flame of Ignorance
by Nick Gisburne
A thousand scholars tell me what is true,
But one, a dark, disturbed, dissenting voice,
Describes a strange, conflicting doctrine. You.
I listen. Was there any other choice?
Reality and reason, not your friends,
Are banished to the borders of a mind
In which the flame of ignorance defends
Ridiculous deceptions, backward, blind.
You burn with indignation, rancour, rage,
That any other theory could fly,
A relic from a prehistoric age,
Refusing to accept the science. Why?
I see them all, the clues to which you cling,
Convinced the great conspiracies are king.
A thousand scholars tell me what is true,
But one, a dark, disturbed, dissenting voice,
Describes a strange, conflicting doctrine. You.
I listen. Was there any other choice?
Reality and reason, not your friends,
Are banished to the borders of a mind
In which the flame of ignorance defends
Ridiculous deceptions, backward, blind.
You burn with indignation, rancour, rage,
That any other theory could fly,
A relic from a prehistoric age,
Refusing to accept the science. Why?
I see them all, the clues to which you cling,
Convinced the great conspiracies are king.
Make Her Bleed
by Nick Gisburne
We made another mystery, like you,
But fate designed a daughter, not a son.
In every moment, everything you do
Must counter what her evil has begun.
No sacred, secret spells, no runes, no rings
Protect the people. She would see them rot.
The wickedness your spiteful sister brings
Will fester if you let it grow. Do not.
A twisted aberration, she must die.
Without remorse, correct our great mistake.
Her pestilence, too deadly to deny,
Pollutes the world, a plague we cannot break.
The ghosts who made her madness are agreed.
Let brother slaughter sister. Make her bleed.
We made another mystery, like you,
But fate designed a daughter, not a son.
In every moment, everything you do
Must counter what her evil has begun.
No sacred, secret spells, no runes, no rings
Protect the people. She would see them rot.
The wickedness your spiteful sister brings
Will fester if you let it grow. Do not.
A twisted aberration, she must die.
Without remorse, correct our great mistake.
Her pestilence, too deadly to deny,
Pollutes the world, a plague we cannot break.
The ghosts who made her madness are agreed.
Let brother slaughter sister. Make her bleed.