by Nick Gisburne
The butcher breaks a ration pack of meat
To satisfy a thousand starving souls,
But other sources, smuggled from the street,
Are found to feed the tower he controls.
No animals survived the Great Malaise;
The labs alone supply his block with beef,
But, in these tense, intolerable times,
The truth cannot compete with blind belief.
With backdoor-bartered sacks of something raw,
Irregular but copious supplies,
The butcher’s grinder fattens every floor.
They live, but somewhere, somehow, someone dies.
They know. They must, but none complain or care.
The butcher feeds them all, with meat to spare.
Monday, 11 July 2022
Strangers From the Sky
by Nick Gisburne
My five-year-old designs a cure for ‘that’.
When pressed for proof, the proof is what we give.
But now they want to ‘have a little chat’,
And swiftly seal the street in which we live.
More science is efficiently applied,
A mist she made to medicate the mind,
And, while they sleep, we leave our home, to hide,
Protected, saved, by others of our kind.
We seem to be the cause of some concern.
The media, fixated, find ‘a threat’.
Enormous opportunities to learn
Are precious, yes? But no, not here, not yet.
The world we try to help would rather die
Than take the hand of strangers from the sky.
My five-year-old designs a cure for ‘that’.
When pressed for proof, the proof is what we give.
But now they want to ‘have a little chat’,
And swiftly seal the street in which we live.
More science is efficiently applied,
A mist she made to medicate the mind,
And, while they sleep, we leave our home, to hide,
Protected, saved, by others of our kind.
We seem to be the cause of some concern.
The media, fixated, find ‘a threat’.
Enormous opportunities to learn
Are precious, yes? But no, not here, not yet.
The world we try to help would rather die
Than take the hand of strangers from the sky.
Curious Remains
by Nick Gisburne
She picks apart the curious remains,
The bones of crooked skeletons, the skin.
Most precious are their perfect metal brains,
And all the silent secrets locked within.
But force and gentle coaxing fail alike,
Resisting any science, trick, or tool,
Until she sees a strange electric spike.
The brains, inert, as one, contract, and cool.
Beyond the pain her freezing flesh can bear,
Transfixed, she sees them split along a seam,
And, swimming in a fog of frigid air,
Unspeakable perversions choke her scream.
“I said this planet wasn’t worth the cost.
Excuse me, miss. We’re tourists, and we’re lost.”
She picks apart the curious remains,
The bones of crooked skeletons, the skin.
Most precious are their perfect metal brains,
And all the silent secrets locked within.
But force and gentle coaxing fail alike,
Resisting any science, trick, or tool,
Until she sees a strange electric spike.
The brains, inert, as one, contract, and cool.
Beyond the pain her freezing flesh can bear,
Transfixed, she sees them split along a seam,
And, swimming in a fog of frigid air,
Unspeakable perversions choke her scream.
“I said this planet wasn’t worth the cost.
Excuse me, miss. We’re tourists, and we’re lost.”
Sunday, 10 July 2022
Look After Them
by Nick Gisburne
“Look after them,” she begs. “They’re not all bad.”
She leaves you with a box of silver keys.
A witch, you once imagined, maybe mad,
But now you simply wonder, “What are these?”
An empty house, with no one coming back.
Within, perhaps, the answers that you seek.
Another key, ungainly, bigger, black.
No harm to see inside, to pry, to peek.
Her living room is clean, old fashioned, quaint,
The kitchen cluttered, filled with copper pans,
And, from the cellar, whimpers, whining, faint,
Beyond the hum of old electric fans.
Her pets. Malnourished. Sick. Or dead, a few.
In dirty cages, copies, clones, of you.
“Look after them,” she begs. “They’re not all bad.”
She leaves you with a box of silver keys.
A witch, you once imagined, maybe mad,
But now you simply wonder, “What are these?”
An empty house, with no one coming back.
Within, perhaps, the answers that you seek.
Another key, ungainly, bigger, black.
No harm to see inside, to pry, to peek.
Her living room is clean, old fashioned, quaint,
The kitchen cluttered, filled with copper pans,
And, from the cellar, whimpers, whining, faint,
Beyond the hum of old electric fans.
Her pets. Malnourished. Sick. Or dead, a few.
In dirty cages, copies, clones, of you.
A Way to Kill My Wife
by Nick Gisburne
“Propose a plan, a way to kill my wife,
And quickly blame another for the crime.
The swift and simple ending of a life
Demands the perfect cover, every time.”
The puzzle, at the interview, unique,
Is just the quaint conundrum I enjoy.
Impressed by what I tell him, in a week
I find myself at work, in his employ.
The fantasy, the fiction, falls apart.
Arrested, I am questioned and accused.
The stabbing of a woman, through the heart.
My prints upon the knife the killer used.
No plan is ever perfect. Nor is he.
His counterfeit confession? That was me.
“Propose a plan, a way to kill my wife,
And quickly blame another for the crime.
The swift and simple ending of a life
Demands the perfect cover, every time.”
The puzzle, at the interview, unique,
Is just the quaint conundrum I enjoy.
Impressed by what I tell him, in a week
I find myself at work, in his employ.
The fantasy, the fiction, falls apart.
Arrested, I am questioned and accused.
The stabbing of a woman, through the heart.
My prints upon the knife the killer used.
No plan is ever perfect. Nor is he.
His counterfeit confession? That was me.
The Resurrection Rack
by Nick Gisburne
Corrected by the officer in black,
Her bloody fingers take the test again.
Admission to the Resurrection Rack
Demands she must submit, to serve such men.
A second-rate machine could beat her best,
But this is not a measurement of skill.
The ruthless persecution of the test
Performs a purpose: break a woman’s will.
Already dying, swollen with the pox,
Today will be her finish if she fails.
Before the pain, before this brutal box,
They promised life, reborn, if she prevails.
The Rack is one more level of their lies.
The test is endless. Everybody dies.
Corrected by the officer in black,
Her bloody fingers take the test again.
Admission to the Resurrection Rack
Demands she must submit, to serve such men.
A second-rate machine could beat her best,
But this is not a measurement of skill.
The ruthless persecution of the test
Performs a purpose: break a woman’s will.
Already dying, swollen with the pox,
Today will be her finish if she fails.
Before the pain, before this brutal box,
They promised life, reborn, if she prevails.
The Rack is one more level of their lies.
The test is endless. Everybody dies.
Saturday, 9 July 2022
A Piece of All of You
by Nick Gisburne
I bought a piece of all of you today.
The medium through which you speak is mine,
So, if there’s something you would like to say,
Behold the contract. Study it, and sign.
A thousand pages no one ever reads,
A jambalaya, laced with legal traps,
Bestows the freedom every speaker needs,
Until I taint the recipe, perhaps.
Protected, every letter, every word,
The chance to say exactly what you mean,
But, if the truth becomes a little blurred,
I can, of course, correct it, sight unseen.
Say anything. Say why, say when, say what,
Until I disconnect you. Free. Or not.
I bought a piece of all of you today.
The medium through which you speak is mine,
So, if there’s something you would like to say,
Behold the contract. Study it, and sign.
A thousand pages no one ever reads,
A jambalaya, laced with legal traps,
Bestows the freedom every speaker needs,
Until I taint the recipe, perhaps.
Protected, every letter, every word,
The chance to say exactly what you mean,
But, if the truth becomes a little blurred,
I can, of course, correct it, sight unseen.
Say anything. Say why, say when, say what,
Until I disconnect you. Free. Or not.
More Than Talk
by Nick Gisburne
They tell her she will never walk again,
Defeat the bleak appraisal of her fate,
But every word, the stroke of every pen,
Is crushed beneath the courage they create.
Determined to be free of what they said,
She lifts a middle finger to the lie.
Offended by their apathy, instead,
She finds another morning to defy.
Tenacious, more than many, more than most,
Dismissing every argument to stop,
When others fall before the winning post,
She crawls a mile beyond the point they drop.
They may be right. They say she’ll never walk.
But life is more than trauma, more than talk.
They tell her she will never walk again,
Defeat the bleak appraisal of her fate,
But every word, the stroke of every pen,
Is crushed beneath the courage they create.
Determined to be free of what they said,
She lifts a middle finger to the lie.
Offended by their apathy, instead,
She finds another morning to defy.
Tenacious, more than many, more than most,
Dismissing every argument to stop,
When others fall before the winning post,
She crawls a mile beyond the point they drop.
They may be right. They say she’ll never walk.
But life is more than trauma, more than talk.
The Secrets
by Nick Gisburne
I suffer for the secrets I must keep,
The misery I struggle to contain.
They threaten me, remind me, as I sleep,
A careless word would cripple me with pain.
The secrets, undiscovered, soil my soul,
A tarnish on the silver, on the shine.
The life I cannot live, the spark they stole,
Corrupted, cold, will never now be mine.
A hostage to the horror, to the hell,
The knowledge there is nothing I can do,
I speak because the curse I cannot sell
At last, my friend, today belongs to you.
Forgive me for the burden I must give,
The secrets too depraved to let me live.
I suffer for the secrets I must keep,
The misery I struggle to contain.
They threaten me, remind me, as I sleep,
A careless word would cripple me with pain.
The secrets, undiscovered, soil my soul,
A tarnish on the silver, on the shine.
The life I cannot live, the spark they stole,
Corrupted, cold, will never now be mine.
A hostage to the horror, to the hell,
The knowledge there is nothing I can do,
I speak because the curse I cannot sell
At last, my friend, today belongs to you.
Forgive me for the burden I must give,
The secrets too depraved to let me live.
A Thousand Contradictions
by Nick Gisburne
The features in the photo don’t belong.
A crooked, yet profoundly handsome face.
The tangled hair, the nose a little long.
A figure of unquestionable grace.
The emptiness of cold, uncaring eyes
Belies that mellow, mesmerising smile.
Delusional, but infinitely wise.
A face I want to love, and yet revile.
A paradox, a mystery, unsolved,
A thousand contradictions made the man.
Around his distant star my world revolved,
A disregarded pebble in his plan.
The father I would never want to be,
But every part of him is part of me.
The features in the photo don’t belong.
A crooked, yet profoundly handsome face.
The tangled hair, the nose a little long.
A figure of unquestionable grace.
The emptiness of cold, uncaring eyes
Belies that mellow, mesmerising smile.
Delusional, but infinitely wise.
A face I want to love, and yet revile.
A paradox, a mystery, unsolved,
A thousand contradictions made the man.
Around his distant star my world revolved,
A disregarded pebble in his plan.
The father I would never want to be,
But every part of him is part of me.
Friday, 8 July 2022
Machinery and Man
by Nick Gisburne
Inheriting unfathomable wealth,
He covets what his money cannot reach:
Eternal life, in precious, perfect health,
A barrier no medicine can breach.
But cities last for centuries, and more.
Replaced, renewed, they endlessly endure.
Why not a man, with metal at his core?
Seduced, he sees the future, and the cure.
The assets of an empire build his dreams,
Impossible complexities resolved,
A body of astonishing extremes,
Machinery and man, combined, evolved.
With only steel and circuits in his head,
The law declares him damned, inhuman, dead.
Inheriting unfathomable wealth,
He covets what his money cannot reach:
Eternal life, in precious, perfect health,
A barrier no medicine can breach.
But cities last for centuries, and more.
Replaced, renewed, they endlessly endure.
Why not a man, with metal at his core?
Seduced, he sees the future, and the cure.
The assets of an empire build his dreams,
Impossible complexities resolved,
A body of astonishing extremes,
Machinery and man, combined, evolved.
With only steel and circuits in his head,
The law declares him damned, inhuman, dead.
Thursday, 7 July 2022
Demon
by Nick Gisburne
If I can smell you, Demon, so will they.
You stink of stale cigars and blistered skin.
That underlying odour of decay
Needs pulling out, or pushing further in.
Your colour? Always loved it. Blood and black,
A timeless, classic combination. Fine.
But all that pagan magic on your back?
No spells. I mean it. I will snap your spine.
The claws can stay, the horns will have to go.
I’m thinking what to about your tail.
I know it took you seven years to grow,
But sitting on a stump is not a fail.
It’s Christmas, so relax, they’re just my folks.
They’re Mormons, though. No booze. No Jesus jokes.
If I can smell you, Demon, so will they.
You stink of stale cigars and blistered skin.
That underlying odour of decay
Needs pulling out, or pushing further in.
Your colour? Always loved it. Blood and black,
A timeless, classic combination. Fine.
But all that pagan magic on your back?
No spells. I mean it. I will snap your spine.
The claws can stay, the horns will have to go.
I’m thinking what to about your tail.
I know it took you seven years to grow,
But sitting on a stump is not a fail.
It’s Christmas, so relax, they’re just my folks.
They’re Mormons, though. No booze. No Jesus jokes.
Proud of Every Piece
by Nick Gisburne
She kills, but always keeps their living hearts,
In bleak machines, in cabinets of glass.
Their eyes survive, with other, precious parts,
Preserved in pretty cages, bronze and brass.
A throat, a voice, a neck, from chin to chest,
When fitted to the bellows in a box,
Repeats the final pleading of the guest,
Rekindled with a stream of sparks and shocks.
The favoured few, undead, undamaged, whole,
Are whipped and worked, automatons, her slaves,
And sometimes, from the darkness of her soul,
She drags a dream, demanding what she craves.
Curator, killer, proud of every piece,
An artist, filled with rage she must release.
She kills, but always keeps their living hearts,
In bleak machines, in cabinets of glass.
Their eyes survive, with other, precious parts,
Preserved in pretty cages, bronze and brass.
A throat, a voice, a neck, from chin to chest,
When fitted to the bellows in a box,
Repeats the final pleading of the guest,
Rekindled with a stream of sparks and shocks.
The favoured few, undead, undamaged, whole,
Are whipped and worked, automatons, her slaves,
And sometimes, from the darkness of her soul,
She drags a dream, demanding what she craves.
Curator, killer, proud of every piece,
An artist, filled with rage she must release.
The Sisters of Secretia
by Nick Gisburne
The Sisters of Secretia tend the Nest,
Euphoric in the strands of seeping silk.
Their bodies, born to burn, to bleed, are blessed
To purify the poisons of its milk.
Infected fibres, tendrils of decay,
Enfold the fevered flesh of those who serve.
A feculent miasma, cold and grey,
Exposes and enlightens every nerve.
The Nest selects a sacrifice, a slave.
Her Sisters hum a hymn of grief and grace.
Voracious for the fertile flesh they crave,
Appalling swarms of sickness flood her face.
The Nest, replete, releases its reward,
A filthy milk, to feed a starving horde.
The Sisters of Secretia tend the Nest,
Euphoric in the strands of seeping silk.
Their bodies, born to burn, to bleed, are blessed
To purify the poisons of its milk.
Infected fibres, tendrils of decay,
Enfold the fevered flesh of those who serve.
A feculent miasma, cold and grey,
Exposes and enlightens every nerve.
The Nest selects a sacrifice, a slave.
Her Sisters hum a hymn of grief and grace.
Voracious for the fertile flesh they crave,
Appalling swarms of sickness flood her face.
The Nest, replete, releases its reward,
A filthy milk, to feed a starving horde.
Wednesday, 6 July 2022
Finally Revealed
by Nick Gisburne
How devious, how dangerous, you are,
An avalanche of swagger and contempt.
Deceptions, tangled, twisted, shield your star
With lies, a hive of treacherous intent.
Corruption is concealed, mistakes ignored,
Denials part and parcel of the game,
And any broken pieces on the board
Are swept aside, while others take the blame.
The forgery is finally revealed.
Your former friends betray the beast beneath,
Too stubborn, even now, exposed, to yield,
A tyrant, without weapons, without teeth.
Surrender. Now. Accept the fate we planned.
We do not ask or offer. We demand.
How devious, how dangerous, you are,
An avalanche of swagger and contempt.
Deceptions, tangled, twisted, shield your star
With lies, a hive of treacherous intent.
Corruption is concealed, mistakes ignored,
Denials part and parcel of the game,
And any broken pieces on the board
Are swept aside, while others take the blame.
The forgery is finally revealed.
Your former friends betray the beast beneath,
Too stubborn, even now, exposed, to yield,
A tyrant, without weapons, without teeth.
Surrender. Now. Accept the fate we planned.
We do not ask or offer. We demand.
Tuesday, 5 July 2022
Flip the Feed
by Nick Gisburne
The tower shafts, impossible to climb,
Are swamped with greasy sewage from above,
But, as the curfew cannons mark the time,
She activates a treasured traction glove.
A copper locket holds her father’s face,
A hologram she captured as a kid.
The glove he gave her saved him, twice, in space.
The government who failed him never did.
She hauls herself to decadence, to greed,
The opulent abundance of the Ring.
On high, among the pipes, she flips the feed,
A simple but extraordinary thing.
A message to the mighty where they sit,
A thousand tons of toxic human shit.
The tower shafts, impossible to climb,
Are swamped with greasy sewage from above,
But, as the curfew cannons mark the time,
She activates a treasured traction glove.
A copper locket holds her father’s face,
A hologram she captured as a kid.
The glove he gave her saved him, twice, in space.
The government who failed him never did.
She hauls herself to decadence, to greed,
The opulent abundance of the Ring.
On high, among the pipes, she flips the feed,
A simple but extraordinary thing.
A message to the mighty where they sit,
A thousand tons of toxic human shit.
She Is
by Nick Gisburne
A ghost, a nightmare, always near, she is.
Reminders of forgotten fear, she is.
The pain of every tortured nerve, she is.
Whatever damage you deserve, she is.
A broken promise, never whole, she is.
When love is not inside your soul, she is.
Suspicion, scratching at your sight, she is.
The wickedness you failed to fight, she is.
The anguish of a crippled heart, she is.
A chain your weakness pulled apart, she is.
The woman only you could hurt, she is.
Abandoned in the dust, the dirt, she is.
They speak of her in whispers: “She was his.”
And in your dreams, your misery, she is.
A ghost, a nightmare, always near, she is.
Reminders of forgotten fear, she is.
The pain of every tortured nerve, she is.
Whatever damage you deserve, she is.
A broken promise, never whole, she is.
When love is not inside your soul, she is.
Suspicion, scratching at your sight, she is.
The wickedness you failed to fight, she is.
The anguish of a crippled heart, she is.
A chain your weakness pulled apart, she is.
The woman only you could hurt, she is.
Abandoned in the dust, the dirt, she is.
They speak of her in whispers: “She was his.”
And in your dreams, your misery, she is.
Hair
by Nick Gisburne
Her body pinned, constricted at the neck,
He shaves the insurrection from her skull,
A warning to the watchers on the deck:
Identity is nothing for a Null.
Seditious twists, forbidden beads and braids,
In symmetries too subtle to be seen,
Are shorn and scraped with blunt, unpolished blades,
A crimson smear where meaning might have been.
Injustice done, he throws her to the floor,
And waits for her to thank him. She does not.
A ripple from the Nulls; their pleas implore
Their sister to be servile or be shot.
She mourns for it. The hair was all she had.
Defiant, she will die, and she is glad.
Her body pinned, constricted at the neck,
He shaves the insurrection from her skull,
A warning to the watchers on the deck:
Identity is nothing for a Null.
Seditious twists, forbidden beads and braids,
In symmetries too subtle to be seen,
Are shorn and scraped with blunt, unpolished blades,
A crimson smear where meaning might have been.
Injustice done, he throws her to the floor,
And waits for her to thank him. She does not.
A ripple from the Nulls; their pleas implore
Their sister to be servile or be shot.
She mourns for it. The hair was all she had.
Defiant, she will die, and she is glad.
Monday, 4 July 2022
The Smallest Step
by Nick Gisburne
Not brave. Not that. Determined is the word,
To battle all the bullshit of the day.
Disabled? No, I’m over that. You heard.
I’m punished by the worries in my way.
I’ll race you, and I’ll beat you, fair and square.
The only way to stop me is a step.
I’m rolling like the road was never there,
And suddenly I’m not. A problem? Yep.
Look hard. Look harder. Tell me what you see.
A wonderland for walkers, not for wheels.
Imagine you were sitting here, with me.
You see it? I do. This is how it feels.
The smallest step is bigger than you know,
But take them all away, and watch me go.
Not brave. Not that. Determined is the word,
To battle all the bullshit of the day.
Disabled? No, I’m over that. You heard.
I’m punished by the worries in my way.
I’ll race you, and I’ll beat you, fair and square.
The only way to stop me is a step.
I’m rolling like the road was never there,
And suddenly I’m not. A problem? Yep.
Look hard. Look harder. Tell me what you see.
A wonderland for walkers, not for wheels.
Imagine you were sitting here, with me.
You see it? I do. This is how it feels.
The smallest step is bigger than you know,
But take them all away, and watch me go.
Somewhere Not So Hot
by Nick Gisburne
The halls of Hell are locked to sinners, sealed.
The gates which guard Eternity are not.
The damned, their crimes successfully appealed,
Are psyched to shower somewhere not so hot.
Indecent demons sizzle on the ice,
Their passion pokers shrinking, shrivelled, cold,
While minor monsters check the small print, twice,
Before they start to steal Jehovah’s gold.
The occupying angels are upset,
Their whiteness stained by heathen shades of red,
But Jesus warns, “You ain’t seen nothing yet,
Until you’ve had the Devil in your bed.”
The beard, the boss, the magic man upstairs,
Is done with it, and simply sighs, “Who cares?”
The halls of Hell are locked to sinners, sealed.
The gates which guard Eternity are not.
The damned, their crimes successfully appealed,
Are psyched to shower somewhere not so hot.
Indecent demons sizzle on the ice,
Their passion pokers shrinking, shrivelled, cold,
While minor monsters check the small print, twice,
Before they start to steal Jehovah’s gold.
The occupying angels are upset,
Their whiteness stained by heathen shades of red,
But Jesus warns, “You ain’t seen nothing yet,
Until you’ve had the Devil in your bed.”
The beard, the boss, the magic man upstairs,
Is done with it, and simply sighs, “Who cares?”