by Nick Gisburne
I trust you, but I need to keep you chained.
The you I knew would never lose control,
But something wicked, something unexplained,
Is deepening the shadows on your soul.
The ever more erratic outbursts grow.
I see them, certain you are not to blame,
But, day by day, the changes, subtle, slow,
Reveal a mind more difficult to tame.
It drags you down a road of no return,
The start so far behind. There is no end.
Until the flames of Hell refuse to burn,
Remember, I will always be your friend.
Consumed by madness, misery, and rage,
Perhaps the only kindness is a cage.
Tuesday, 6 June 2023
Monday, 5 June 2023
I Rise
by Nick Gisburne
The slicing of a nightmare, with a knife,
Returns my soul to strange, exotic skies.
The pulse, the pain, reanimates my life.
Awakened from oblivion, I rise.
Whatever shape or shade I stole before,
A thousand years have twisted it. I see
A world I do not recognise, but more,
I find a place to finally be free.
The creatures I encounter, freaks and fools,
Are thirsting for a purpose, for a prince.
Insane disciples, simple servants, tools,
Are spineless, all too easy to convince.
In time, when every nation crumbles, dead,
Another, stronger species will be bred.
The slicing of a nightmare, with a knife,
Returns my soul to strange, exotic skies.
The pulse, the pain, reanimates my life.
Awakened from oblivion, I rise.
Whatever shape or shade I stole before,
A thousand years have twisted it. I see
A world I do not recognise, but more,
I find a place to finally be free.
The creatures I encounter, freaks and fools,
Are thirsting for a purpose, for a prince.
Insane disciples, simple servants, tools,
Are spineless, all too easy to convince.
In time, when every nation crumbles, dead,
Another, stronger species will be bred.
Take Me to the Moon
by Nick Gisburne
I’m always ready. Take me to the moon,
A magical, mysterious delight.
I beg you. Please. Tomorrow, maybe. Soon.
Or, if you’re able, take me there tonight.
A thousand reasons scream at me to leave.
I wish I had better one to stay.
The unrelenting torment I receive
Surrounds me, every minute, every day.
If I could fly, forever, far from him,
I’m certain I would find a way to smile.
No sun or star could ever be so grim.
Too far, perhaps. I’d settle for a mile.
The moon is full, a jewel in sky.
I’m ready. Take me, even if I die.
I’m always ready. Take me to the moon,
A magical, mysterious delight.
I beg you. Please. Tomorrow, maybe. Soon.
Or, if you’re able, take me there tonight.
A thousand reasons scream at me to leave.
I wish I had better one to stay.
The unrelenting torment I receive
Surrounds me, every minute, every day.
If I could fly, forever, far from him,
I’m certain I would find a way to smile.
No sun or star could ever be so grim.
Too far, perhaps. I’d settle for a mile.
The moon is full, a jewel in sky.
I’m ready. Take me, even if I die.
Not the Man
by Nick Gisburne
I wish it wasn’t so, but listen, learn.
You’re not the man. You’re not the one we need.
The ticket you were hoping you would earn
Was never certain, never guaranteed.
We leave tomorrow, early, as you know,
The final flight from this forsaken place,
A tough decision, taken long ago.
The time was right to tell you, face to face.
I’m sorry, truly. Try to understand
We couldn’t fit another in the pod.
I’ll tell your wife, your children, when we land...
What happened? Can you see me? This is... odd.
A hologram, of me. Was that the plan,
A trick, to tell myself I’m not the man?
I wish it wasn’t so, but listen, learn.
You’re not the man. You’re not the one we need.
The ticket you were hoping you would earn
Was never certain, never guaranteed.
We leave tomorrow, early, as you know,
The final flight from this forsaken place,
A tough decision, taken long ago.
The time was right to tell you, face to face.
I’m sorry, truly. Try to understand
We couldn’t fit another in the pod.
I’ll tell your wife, your children, when we land...
What happened? Can you see me? This is... odd.
A hologram, of me. Was that the plan,
A trick, to tell myself I’m not the man?
Volume Two
by Nick Gisburne
I know we used to have one. Let me look.
Alrighty, here’s the record. Deary me!
The last time anybody read a ‘book’
Was just before the purge of ’93.
Destroyed. Destroyed. Redacted... no, destroyed.
But here it is, the only one, the last.
The censor squads the government employed
Were merciless, but somehow this one passed.
I’m shocked. It’s in the archive. I’ll be back.
I’m just as keen to see the thing as you.
Well, here it is, immaculate, in black,
‘The Passions of the Poets, Volume Two’.
What’s this? A badge? ‘Repress. Prohibit. Burn.’
No, don’t destroy it! Don’t you want to learn?
I know we used to have one. Let me look.
Alrighty, here’s the record. Deary me!
The last time anybody read a ‘book’
Was just before the purge of ’93.
Destroyed. Destroyed. Redacted... no, destroyed.
But here it is, the only one, the last.
The censor squads the government employed
Were merciless, but somehow this one passed.
I’m shocked. It’s in the archive. I’ll be back.
I’m just as keen to see the thing as you.
Well, here it is, immaculate, in black,
‘The Passions of the Poets, Volume Two’.
What’s this? A badge? ‘Repress. Prohibit. Burn.’
No, don’t destroy it! Don’t you want to learn?
The Pleasures of Damnation
by Nick Gisburne
It’s fun day, Sunday. Satan’s on the beach,
Relaxing after brutal weeks of work.
His gruesome tools of torment out of reach,
Beelzebub allows himself a smirk.
Collecting fallen souls can be a bore.
The paper trail would make Jehovah weep.
An ever-stronger stream of sinners pour,
While God Above, the slacker, counts his sheep.
Today the Prince of Darkness twists his toes
In white, delightful sands, the skulls he crushed.
The sea of blood. The waves of pain. He knows
The pleasures of damnation can’t be rushed.
He fills a glass with tortured spirits, neat.
Depravity has never smelled so sweet.
It’s fun day, Sunday. Satan’s on the beach,
Relaxing after brutal weeks of work.
His gruesome tools of torment out of reach,
Beelzebub allows himself a smirk.
Collecting fallen souls can be a bore.
The paper trail would make Jehovah weep.
An ever-stronger stream of sinners pour,
While God Above, the slacker, counts his sheep.
Today the Prince of Darkness twists his toes
In white, delightful sands, the skulls he crushed.
The sea of blood. The waves of pain. He knows
The pleasures of damnation can’t be rushed.
He fills a glass with tortured spirits, neat.
Depravity has never smelled so sweet.
Sunday, 4 June 2023
Immaculate Disease
by Nick Gisburne
The Church of the Immaculate Disease
Brings filth and foul salvation, sick, insane,
Its doctrines dredged from deadly, sterile seas,
Where children bleach their purity with pain.
The drunken gods, who pulled us from their piss,
Spread seed to feed the pathogens they saw,
And, in this bleak, abysmal genesis,
Regurgitated pestilence and war.
Contagions taint the tongues their crimes defile,
A curse on every corner of mankind.
Perverted prophets, dirty, drooling, smile
To spill the septic serum they designed.
Immaculate, the Church, untouched, with ease,
Corrupts, controls, and drinks its own disease.
The Church of the Immaculate Disease
Brings filth and foul salvation, sick, insane,
Its doctrines dredged from deadly, sterile seas,
Where children bleach their purity with pain.
The drunken gods, who pulled us from their piss,
Spread seed to feed the pathogens they saw,
And, in this bleak, abysmal genesis,
Regurgitated pestilence and war.
Contagions taint the tongues their crimes defile,
A curse on every corner of mankind.
Perverted prophets, dirty, drooling, smile
To spill the septic serum they designed.
Immaculate, the Church, untouched, with ease,
Corrupts, controls, and drinks its own disease.
The Best of Them
by Nick Gisburne
He clutches at the needles in his neck.
No doubting it: a state assassin’s work.
With each of them discarded on the deck,
He notices another telling quirk.
The puncture wounds are cold as ice, and yet
His body burns, with waves of blazing pain.
He knows the taste, the poison in the sweat,
The grim, aquatic venom in the vein.
The boat he chartered speeds towards the shore,
Its captain, he presumes, already dead.
Before he fades, a final twist, one more:
The antidote. He feels its welcome spread.
The killer of a killer saves his life.
He taught her well, the best of them, his wife.
He clutches at the needles in his neck.
No doubting it: a state assassin’s work.
With each of them discarded on the deck,
He notices another telling quirk.
The puncture wounds are cold as ice, and yet
His body burns, with waves of blazing pain.
He knows the taste, the poison in the sweat,
The grim, aquatic venom in the vein.
The boat he chartered speeds towards the shore,
Its captain, he presumes, already dead.
Before he fades, a final twist, one more:
The antidote. He feels its welcome spread.
The killer of a killer saves his life.
He taught her well, the best of them, his wife.
Confess
by Nick Gisburne
Their questions are bewildering, oblique -
Erratic accusations, stained with hate.
I cannot know the answers that they seek.
A puppet, I was nothing. I was bait.
I’m not the source. The evil did not rise
From any dream or darkness I possess.
I see the trick, too late. Its twisted lies
Have led to this. Degraded, I undress.
The pain is clean, astonishing, intense.
Imaginative tortures, tools, techniques,
Explore the curves and cracks of every sense.
Between my screams a smiling woman speaks.
Her breath becomes a whispering caress.
“Take peace. Take sweet release. But first, confess.”
Their questions are bewildering, oblique -
Erratic accusations, stained with hate.
I cannot know the answers that they seek.
A puppet, I was nothing. I was bait.
I’m not the source. The evil did not rise
From any dream or darkness I possess.
I see the trick, too late. Its twisted lies
Have led to this. Degraded, I undress.
The pain is clean, astonishing, intense.
Imaginative tortures, tools, techniques,
Explore the curves and cracks of every sense.
Between my screams a smiling woman speaks.
Her breath becomes a whispering caress.
“Take peace. Take sweet release. But first, confess.”
Saturday, 3 June 2023
The Seeds of Doubt
by Nick Gisburne
They hang him, and they cheer, a spiteful day,
His crime a calm, dismissive disbelief,
Convinced that, if they snatch his soul away,
The rage, the insurrection, can be brief.
The bones of bleak, misguided pride will break.
Another loss, yet nothing stems the flow.
The beatings, brutal, only re-awake
The seeds of doubt. They scatter. Some will grow.
A single root will feed and foster hope.
The silent few are stronger than they seem.
Dissent cannot be strangled with a rope.
Oppression never smothered any dream.
Each seed, in isolation, seems absurd,
But, as they grow, they hunger to be heard.
They hang him, and they cheer, a spiteful day,
His crime a calm, dismissive disbelief,
Convinced that, if they snatch his soul away,
The rage, the insurrection, can be brief.
The bones of bleak, misguided pride will break.
Another loss, yet nothing stems the flow.
The beatings, brutal, only re-awake
The seeds of doubt. They scatter. Some will grow.
A single root will feed and foster hope.
The silent few are stronger than they seem.
Dissent cannot be strangled with a rope.
Oppression never smothered any dream.
Each seed, in isolation, seems absurd,
But, as they grow, they hunger to be heard.
Through the Break
by Nick Gisburne
The portal opens. Slipping through the break,
The next dimension down is where I sit.
A creature not unlike a spongy snake
Surrounds my face, and hugs the heat of it.
A thousand others, freaks of every form,
Are dulled and lulled by laziness. They sleep.
A limp, lethargic universe, the norm,
Relaxed, unrushed, runs infinitely deep.
I wonder how, so sluggish, they survive,
Without the work, the soul-destroying toil,
And every need we bleed to stay alive,
While they relax, content to curl and coil.
Whatever motivation skills they lack,
I’m staying, and I’m never going back.
The portal opens. Slipping through the break,
The next dimension down is where I sit.
A creature not unlike a spongy snake
Surrounds my face, and hugs the heat of it.
A thousand others, freaks of every form,
Are dulled and lulled by laziness. They sleep.
A limp, lethargic universe, the norm,
Relaxed, unrushed, runs infinitely deep.
I wonder how, so sluggish, they survive,
Without the work, the soul-destroying toil,
And every need we bleed to stay alive,
While they relax, content to curl and coil.
Whatever motivation skills they lack,
I’m staying, and I’m never going back.
Mister Monster
by Nick Gisburne
Excuse me, Mister Monster. Was it you?
The one who ate my family? But why?
It’s naughty putting people in a stew.
I’m here to point, and poke you in the eye.
Of all the other scrummy things to eat,
How rude to roast my yummy mum and dad.
The skeletons you scattered on the street
Have made me very, very, very mad.
Be better, Mister Monster. Learn to cook.
It’s really not so tricky if you try.
My mother doesn’t need it - take her book,
And teach yourself the basics. Bake a pie.
And if you cook another human, whole,
Remember, never, ever lick the bowl.
Excuse me, Mister Monster. Was it you?
The one who ate my family? But why?
It’s naughty putting people in a stew.
I’m here to point, and poke you in the eye.
Of all the other scrummy things to eat,
How rude to roast my yummy mum and dad.
The skeletons you scattered on the street
Have made me very, very, very mad.
Be better, Mister Monster. Learn to cook.
It’s really not so tricky if you try.
My mother doesn’t need it - take her book,
And teach yourself the basics. Bake a pie.
And if you cook another human, whole,
Remember, never, ever lick the bowl.
Friday, 2 June 2023
Vee-Joes
by Nick Gisburne
We see your telee-vizee-on. We like.
The pictures. Tiny people, moving. Yes!
Our planet has it. Tell us, do you spike
The hated ones, the people you oppress?
Is this your sport? But why does no one die?
A separation comes before the kill.
They throw and kick and bounce a bladder. Why?
Your warriors need passion. Take a pill.
Pathetic vee-joes. These are worst of all.
Insanity is something we despise.
Your species will inevitably fall,
Except the young, sarcastic one. He tries.
We like your world, but not enough to stay.
The mothership defines your people ‘prey’.
We see your telee-vizee-on. We like.
The pictures. Tiny people, moving. Yes!
Our planet has it. Tell us, do you spike
The hated ones, the people you oppress?
Is this your sport? But why does no one die?
A separation comes before the kill.
They throw and kick and bounce a bladder. Why?
Your warriors need passion. Take a pill.
Pathetic vee-joes. These are worst of all.
Insanity is something we despise.
Your species will inevitably fall,
Except the young, sarcastic one. He tries.
We like your world, but not enough to stay.
The mothership defines your people ‘prey’.
The Gentle Man
by Nick Gisburne
His mother bends to grease the folds of fat.
He weeps. She sees the meat between his teeth.
The hunger, huge, she knows, is more than that.
A deeper, darker sickness swims beneath.
He fights to move, can barely take a breath.
She wipes the daily dirt he cannot reach,
And struggles to decelerate his death,
But sweet salvation sits beyond their reach.
He never chose the nature of his fate.
The weight of what he sees is what he is.
Contempt and condemnation, both create
The only hate that really matters - his.
She comforts him, refusing to degrade
The troubled boy, the gentle man she made.
His mother bends to grease the folds of fat.
He weeps. She sees the meat between his teeth.
The hunger, huge, she knows, is more than that.
A deeper, darker sickness swims beneath.
He fights to move, can barely take a breath.
She wipes the daily dirt he cannot reach,
And struggles to decelerate his death,
But sweet salvation sits beyond their reach.
He never chose the nature of his fate.
The weight of what he sees is what he is.
Contempt and condemnation, both create
The only hate that really matters - his.
She comforts him, refusing to degrade
The troubled boy, the gentle man she made.
I See
by Nick Gisburne
While politicians bark behind the screens,
The scientists who serve them know their place.
Directing cold, malevolent machines,
They punch corrosive cables through my face.
With every surge the steel reveals my screams,
The tortures, tainted, painted black with pain.
Their infinite, intolerable dreams
Are miseries my mind cannot contain.
Connected to the network they control,
I see whatever secrets I am shown,
And, swallowing their propaganda, whole,
They label me as property, their own.
But I am not a pawn of any plan.
They cannot see their doom, their death. I can.
While politicians bark behind the screens,
The scientists who serve them know their place.
Directing cold, malevolent machines,
They punch corrosive cables through my face.
With every surge the steel reveals my screams,
The tortures, tainted, painted black with pain.
Their infinite, intolerable dreams
Are miseries my mind cannot contain.
Connected to the network they control,
I see whatever secrets I am shown,
And, swallowing their propaganda, whole,
They label me as property, their own.
But I am not a pawn of any plan.
They cannot see their doom, their death. I can.
Prove Your Worth
by Nick Gisburne
Your hesitance offends me, so I sit,
Attempting, one more time, to make you see
The kingdom I created, all of it,
Is yours, but still you fear to follow me.
A bland, insipid paradise of peace,
Where nothing ever happened. No one tried.
I taught them only evil can release
True purpose, and they thanked me, as they died.
The cowards who remained, the slaves, the fools,
Dismantled every piece of its deceit.
In dirt, in darkness, only hatred rules.
My work is done. My kingdom is complete.
A violated bitch will give you birth.
Become their great messiah. Prove your worth.
Your hesitance offends me, so I sit,
Attempting, one more time, to make you see
The kingdom I created, all of it,
Is yours, but still you fear to follow me.
A bland, insipid paradise of peace,
Where nothing ever happened. No one tried.
I taught them only evil can release
True purpose, and they thanked me, as they died.
The cowards who remained, the slaves, the fools,
Dismantled every piece of its deceit.
In dirt, in darkness, only hatred rules.
My work is done. My kingdom is complete.
A violated bitch will give you birth.
Become their great messiah. Prove your worth.
Thursday, 1 June 2023
The Surrogate
by Nick Gisburne
Her seeds begat the weeds with which we choke,
But she was not the mistress of our fate.
A parasite within her womb awoke,
And, through its thick, delicious membranes, ate.
She dreamed, with sweet, euphoric, dazed delight,
As every spore within her body grew.
The pleasures of the morning, pains at night,
Were symptoms of the sickness fighting through.
The moment she believed and grieved, at last,
The surrogate, the sacrificial space,
Was when she felt them gathering, to blast
Their poisonous perversions from her face.
Erupting with a pulse through every pore,
The death of what she was began the war.
Her seeds begat the weeds with which we choke,
But she was not the mistress of our fate.
A parasite within her womb awoke,
And, through its thick, delicious membranes, ate.
She dreamed, with sweet, euphoric, dazed delight,
As every spore within her body grew.
The pleasures of the morning, pains at night,
Were symptoms of the sickness fighting through.
The moment she believed and grieved, at last,
The surrogate, the sacrificial space,
Was when she felt them gathering, to blast
Their poisonous perversions from her face.
Erupting with a pulse through every pore,
The death of what she was began the war.
The Magical Creator
by Nick Gisburne
Encouraging his quaint creation, “Run!”
He snarls to see the skitters of its feet.
Although his wicked work is far from done,
He finds determination in defeat.
The terrors he entices into life,
Their bones and skin and sinews crudely fused,
Are freaks and failures, destined for the knife.
Without remorse, their bodies are abused.
A hundred more, dismissed, discarded, starve.
They whimper, in a bucket, or a bin.
He splits apart a beating heart, to carve
His next abomination, and its twin.
The magical creator has a plan,
A creature he can plague and punish. Man.
Encouraging his quaint creation, “Run!”
He snarls to see the skitters of its feet.
Although his wicked work is far from done,
He finds determination in defeat.
The terrors he entices into life,
Their bones and skin and sinews crudely fused,
Are freaks and failures, destined for the knife.
Without remorse, their bodies are abused.
A hundred more, dismissed, discarded, starve.
They whimper, in a bucket, or a bin.
He splits apart a beating heart, to carve
His next abomination, and its twin.
The magical creator has a plan,
A creature he can plague and punish. Man.
Momma’s Special Tea
by Nick Gisburne
Behind her fingers, frightened, she can see
Her mother, sick, descending into drink.
“Go fetch it, baby, momma’s special tea,
The bottle, in the kitchen, near the sink.”
The stench, the stains, the misery, the shit,
The foul, unfiltered poverty and piss
Of knowing this is living, all of it,
Will vanish, for a moment, for a kiss.
“We’re going somewhere better, sweetie, sure.
Tomorrow. Be an angel. Go to bed.”
She prays to find the courage to endure,
But hears a drunkard’s dark descent instead.
Unqualified to comprehend its grip,
She takes her momma’s tea, and steals a sip.
Behind her fingers, frightened, she can see
Her mother, sick, descending into drink.
“Go fetch it, baby, momma’s special tea,
The bottle, in the kitchen, near the sink.”
The stench, the stains, the misery, the shit,
The foul, unfiltered poverty and piss
Of knowing this is living, all of it,
Will vanish, for a moment, for a kiss.
“We’re going somewhere better, sweetie, sure.
Tomorrow. Be an angel. Go to bed.”
She prays to find the courage to endure,
But hears a drunkard’s dark descent instead.
Unqualified to comprehend its grip,
She takes her momma’s tea, and steals a sip.
The Púca
by Nick Gisburne
Are you the spirit, good or bad, or both,
The Púca, the enigma, that we seek?
We took a vow, a pain-protected oath,
A bond of blood and sweat, to see you. Speak.
You’re nothing like the legend, not at all.
The stories, strange, sensational, all true,
Are certain no absurdity so small
Could ever be the Púca. Is it you?
A dismal, disappointing little man.
How tragic that we came so far to find
A creature clearly bigger, better than
This pitiful example of your kind.
“You ridicule the Púca? I am he.
I wonder, could I kill you? Shall we see?”
Are you the spirit, good or bad, or both,
The Púca, the enigma, that we seek?
We took a vow, a pain-protected oath,
A bond of blood and sweat, to see you. Speak.
You’re nothing like the legend, not at all.
The stories, strange, sensational, all true,
Are certain no absurdity so small
Could ever be the Púca. Is it you?
A dismal, disappointing little man.
How tragic that we came so far to find
A creature clearly bigger, better than
This pitiful example of your kind.
“You ridicule the Púca? I am he.
I wonder, could I kill you? Shall we see?”