by Nick Gisburne
Prohibited pollutants taint the rain.
Acidics help to sterilise her sight,
But each electric particle of brain
Identifies more damage as they bite.
Diverted to a spillage strip, too soon,
She finds infection crisis crews still here,
But time is always ticking on the Moon;
A thousand homesteads need this country clear.
Her power cell will atomise in weeks,
But, while it works, she fortifies the Net.
Detecting instabilities, she tweaks
Compression codes, to counter any threat.
Assigned to keep new immigrants alive,
Without her, no one, nothing, could survive.
Friday, 30 September 2022
Volunteering Victims
by Nick Gisburne
A serum, from a strange, exotic bug,
Is shamefully exploited, on a whim,
An isolated chemical, a drug,
Injected to regenerate a limb.
Extremities are easily removed,
And readily regain their former state.
A system of production is approved,
For quickly piling protein on the plate.
The cannibal connection, bad enough,
With volunteering victims paid for parts,
Regresses, as the wealthy sit to stuff
Their faces with authentic human hearts.
But every promised purchase is a lie.
The donors of these delicacies die.
A serum, from a strange, exotic bug,
Is shamefully exploited, on a whim,
An isolated chemical, a drug,
Injected to regenerate a limb.
Extremities are easily removed,
And readily regain their former state.
A system of production is approved,
For quickly piling protein on the plate.
The cannibal connection, bad enough,
With volunteering victims paid for parts,
Regresses, as the wealthy sit to stuff
Their faces with authentic human hearts.
But every promised purchase is a lie.
The donors of these delicacies die.
Taunting the Gods
by Nick Gisburne
Sorcery smothers the heavens tonight.
Even the moon is a whispering shade.
Impotent oceans, refusing to fight,
Soften to silk as the hurricanes fade.
Silver and sapphire, a curious craft
Slices the surface, the skin of the sea.
Always, the alchemists, rowing their raft,
Knowing their nemesis, fear what they flee.
Feckless and foolish, they taunted the gods,
Playing with power too sacred to steal.
Calming the currents, incredible odds
Hint at a hope too remote to be real.
Midnight. A poisoned, impossible sun
Finds them, and flays them, for all they have done.
Sorcery smothers the heavens tonight.
Even the moon is a whispering shade.
Impotent oceans, refusing to fight,
Soften to silk as the hurricanes fade.
Silver and sapphire, a curious craft
Slices the surface, the skin of the sea.
Always, the alchemists, rowing their raft,
Knowing their nemesis, fear what they flee.
Feckless and foolish, they taunted the gods,
Playing with power too sacred to steal.
Calming the currents, incredible odds
Hint at a hope too remote to be real.
Midnight. A poisoned, impossible sun
Finds them, and flays them, for all they have done.
Thursday, 29 September 2022
Government Guidelines: Winter
by Nick Gisburne
Citizen, the summer was your last.
Winter will be permanent. Prepare.
Even when the poison clouds have passed,
Toxins will contaminate the air.
Huddle in the bunkers, two by two.
Singles, and the sick, will be destroyed.
Protein, for the precious, favoured few.
Ashes, if your privilege is void.
Missing any payment for your breath
Triggers execution by the state.
Legal declaration of your death
Signifies, with certainty, your fate.
Some are not the specimens we seek.
We, your betters, terminate the weak.
Citizen, the summer was your last.
Winter will be permanent. Prepare.
Even when the poison clouds have passed,
Toxins will contaminate the air.
Huddle in the bunkers, two by two.
Singles, and the sick, will be destroyed.
Protein, for the precious, favoured few.
Ashes, if your privilege is void.
Missing any payment for your breath
Triggers execution by the state.
Legal declaration of your death
Signifies, with certainty, your fate.
Some are not the specimens we seek.
We, your betters, terminate the weak.
Pale and Paranormal
by Nick Gisburne
A miracle of magic burns my blood,
The strange and secret twisting of a wish,
A genie, bottled, bound and baked in mud,
Relinquished by his bodyguards, the fish.
Imprisoned, pale and paranormal, Dave
Is tiny, yet surprisingly robust.
A powerhouse of potency, his wave
Releases all my inhibitions... just.
Attracted, in a strange and subtle way,
To what his mystic mind can do for me,
I listen and, in whispers, hear him say
He longs to be a siren of the sea.
Three wishes? Not exactly. Not a thing.
My genie’s prize, his passion, is to sing.
A miracle of magic burns my blood,
The strange and secret twisting of a wish,
A genie, bottled, bound and baked in mud,
Relinquished by his bodyguards, the fish.
Imprisoned, pale and paranormal, Dave
Is tiny, yet surprisingly robust.
A powerhouse of potency, his wave
Releases all my inhibitions... just.
Attracted, in a strange and subtle way,
To what his mystic mind can do for me,
I listen and, in whispers, hear him say
He longs to be a siren of the sea.
Three wishes? Not exactly. Not a thing.
My genie’s prize, his passion, is to sing.
Burn in Hell
by Nick Gisburne
How sick, the sound of everything you say,
The bigotry, the cold, capricious crap.
I wonder when the moment was, the day
Your mind began to shift and spin and snap.
You simmer in a soup, a spiteful stew,
Expecting to elicit praise or pride,
But every evil, everything you do,
Betrays the fury festering inside.
Imagining the man you could have been,
For him I mourn. For what you were, I grieve.
The darkness of your heart, your soul, obscene,
Convinces me, reluctantly, to leave.
A better son, perhaps, would wish you well,
But you are not my father. Burn in Hell.
How sick, the sound of everything you say,
The bigotry, the cold, capricious crap.
I wonder when the moment was, the day
Your mind began to shift and spin and snap.
You simmer in a soup, a spiteful stew,
Expecting to elicit praise or pride,
But every evil, everything you do,
Betrays the fury festering inside.
Imagining the man you could have been,
For him I mourn. For what you were, I grieve.
The darkness of your heart, your soul, obscene,
Convinces me, reluctantly, to leave.
A better son, perhaps, would wish you well,
But you are not my father. Burn in Hell.
Wednesday, 28 September 2022
Crazy Space
by Nick Gisburne
In ludicrous, insane, electric ships,
We cross the crooked curves of crazy space.
Rejoicing as the aether’s tangent tips,
We shift our sails to skim this painful place.
Unfathomable forces, as we move,
Accelerate the senses of the crew.
Rotating on a grim, galactic groove,
Our pilot, swearing, somersaults us through.
A living world is ripped, reduced to ash
By one impassive thrusting of a thumb.
However quick or clinical, the smash
Leaves all of us, inside, in silence, numb.
Beyond the blinding dust, beyond the dead,
Through chaos, into madness, we are led.
In ludicrous, insane, electric ships,
We cross the crooked curves of crazy space.
Rejoicing as the aether’s tangent tips,
We shift our sails to skim this painful place.
Unfathomable forces, as we move,
Accelerate the senses of the crew.
Rotating on a grim, galactic groove,
Our pilot, swearing, somersaults us through.
A living world is ripped, reduced to ash
By one impassive thrusting of a thumb.
However quick or clinical, the smash
Leaves all of us, inside, in silence, numb.
Beyond the blinding dust, beyond the dead,
Through chaos, into madness, we are led.
Get Up
by Nick Gisburne
You’re wounded, but you’re breathing, still. Get up.
A shock, a setback, changes nothing. Fight.
Whatever filthy future fills your cup,
In every crack and corner there is light.
A thousand angels, screaming at your soul,
Will bend to one unconquerable heart.
Your banner burns, but raise it. Seize control,
Or see your dreams, defenceless, peeled apart.
They call you craven, coward. Is it true?
The sum of words and whispers, rumours, lies.
And yet, they fear the storm of shadows: you,
The dream, the darkness, nobody denies.
If evil is to seize and stake its place,
Get up. Reveal the fury in your face.
You’re wounded, but you’re breathing, still. Get up.
A shock, a setback, changes nothing. Fight.
Whatever filthy future fills your cup,
In every crack and corner there is light.
A thousand angels, screaming at your soul,
Will bend to one unconquerable heart.
Your banner burns, but raise it. Seize control,
Or see your dreams, defenceless, peeled apart.
They call you craven, coward. Is it true?
The sum of words and whispers, rumours, lies.
And yet, they fear the storm of shadows: you,
The dream, the darkness, nobody denies.
If evil is to seize and stake its place,
Get up. Reveal the fury in your face.
Tuesday, 27 September 2022
Pretending to Be Kings
by Nick Gisburne
We used to play, pretending to be kings,
Enchanted by the magic of the moon,
But simple, sweet, imaginary things
Were stolen from our fingertips, too soon.
Remember how we thundered into war,
The battles on the beaches, in the trees.
In breathless wonder, eager to explore,
We swam and sang and marched for miles, with ease.
Adventures, stories, legends. We were there,
In storms of stardust, glittering with gold,
But no one ever warned us to prepare
For days when all our dreams would crumble, cold.
When kingdoms fly and flourish, fall and fade,
We see them, in the memories we made.
We used to play, pretending to be kings,
Enchanted by the magic of the moon,
But simple, sweet, imaginary things
Were stolen from our fingertips, too soon.
Remember how we thundered into war,
The battles on the beaches, in the trees.
In breathless wonder, eager to explore,
We swam and sang and marched for miles, with ease.
Adventures, stories, legends. We were there,
In storms of stardust, glittering with gold,
But no one ever warned us to prepare
For days when all our dreams would crumble, cold.
When kingdoms fly and flourish, fall and fade,
We see them, in the memories we made.
A Shimmering Immortal
by Nick Gisburne
Triumphant to be first to hold the head,
I falter, faint, afraid to make the move,
The power of her presence, even dead,
A mystery my work is primed to prove.
Reports, relayed by telegram, to me,
Rejected by the faculty, of course,
Were always too profound for some to see,
But here I stand, as witness, at the source.
A goddess, fallen, locked in limbo, lost,
A shimmering immortal, Mother Earth,
Will wake beyond the barrier she crossed,
To bring this world new light, new life, new birth.
With stolen spices, smuggled from the south,
I drip a charm of mischief in her mouth.
Triumphant to be first to hold the head,
I falter, faint, afraid to make the move,
The power of her presence, even dead,
A mystery my work is primed to prove.
Reports, relayed by telegram, to me,
Rejected by the faculty, of course,
Were always too profound for some to see,
But here I stand, as witness, at the source.
A goddess, fallen, locked in limbo, lost,
A shimmering immortal, Mother Earth,
Will wake beyond the barrier she crossed,
To bring this world new light, new life, new birth.
With stolen spices, smuggled from the south,
I drip a charm of mischief in her mouth.
Flawless
by Nick Gisburne
All of us saw it. Susanna was sick,
Something inside her so terribly wrong.
Radical surgery, savage but slick,
Twisted revisions, too many, too strong.
Flawless was all that she wanted to be,
Fixing her failings, correcting their crimes.
Nothing convinced her to listen to me,
Even the pain, in the darkest of times.
Others abandoned her, walking away,
Every rejection a stab in the back.
I was the last of them, pleading to stay,
Cancelled and cut in a vicious attack.
Nothing could save her from death at the end.
Flawless, to me, to her father, her friend.
All of us saw it. Susanna was sick,
Something inside her so terribly wrong.
Radical surgery, savage but slick,
Twisted revisions, too many, too strong.
Flawless was all that she wanted to be,
Fixing her failings, correcting their crimes.
Nothing convinced her to listen to me,
Even the pain, in the darkest of times.
Others abandoned her, walking away,
Every rejection a stab in the back.
I was the last of them, pleading to stay,
Cancelled and cut in a vicious attack.
Nothing could save her from death at the end.
Flawless, to me, to her father, her friend.
Monday, 26 September 2022
Another Poisoned Politician
by Nick Gisburne
Oh please. You’re nothing special, nothing new.
Your message is a mix of muddled lies,
Another poisoned politician who,
In common with his comrades, we despise.
Percentage points, minorities, the young,
Are perfect propaganda, but the polls
Determine you are destined to be hung,
With all your party’s superficial souls.
The public will not countenance your kind.
Beware, before such folly bets the farm.
Your manifesto, shamelessly designed,
Has one objective, one intent: do harm.
Perhaps, without resistance, you could win,
But we are waiting. We are strong. Begin.
Oh please. You’re nothing special, nothing new.
Your message is a mix of muddled lies,
Another poisoned politician who,
In common with his comrades, we despise.
Percentage points, minorities, the young,
Are perfect propaganda, but the polls
Determine you are destined to be hung,
With all your party’s superficial souls.
The public will not countenance your kind.
Beware, before such folly bets the farm.
Your manifesto, shamelessly designed,
Has one objective, one intent: do harm.
Perhaps, without resistance, you could win,
But we are waiting. We are strong. Begin.
Midday Meetings
by Nick Gisburne
You’re skinny, but I like that in a boy,
The hunger, tawdry, tasteless, in your eyes.
Degenerate, unusual, a toy,
My little indiscreet and painful prize.
Enchanted by intelligence, by you,
I fear for what my morals have become.
Directed by the deviance I do,
I realise before you I was numb.
I know these midday meetings cannot last.
Allow me, please, to beg you, while they do.
Be kind, until our dalliance has passed.
I want, I need, I must, remember you.
I flourish with the tenderness I see,
Becoming what you make me want to be.
You’re skinny, but I like that in a boy,
The hunger, tawdry, tasteless, in your eyes.
Degenerate, unusual, a toy,
My little indiscreet and painful prize.
Enchanted by intelligence, by you,
I fear for what my morals have become.
Directed by the deviance I do,
I realise before you I was numb.
I know these midday meetings cannot last.
Allow me, please, to beg you, while they do.
Be kind, until our dalliance has passed.
I want, I need, I must, remember you.
I flourish with the tenderness I see,
Becoming what you make me want to be.
A Willing Worker
by Nick Gisburne
Be quick, efficient. Hurry! Don’t delay.
No time, no chance to educate your brain.
Ambition? Fold that foolishness away.
Become a willing worker we can train.
The dull and dreary grind of daily work
Will pay you, just, the minimum to live.
Your supervisor, smiling, with a smirk,
Has little golden stars he loves to give.
Congratulations, worker of the week,
You drained yourself more deeply than the rest.
The future, sadly, bitterly, is bleak;
Your betters are not easily impressed.
Expendable, disposable, you sweat,
Deserving all the praise you never get.
Be quick, efficient. Hurry! Don’t delay.
No time, no chance to educate your brain.
Ambition? Fold that foolishness away.
Become a willing worker we can train.
The dull and dreary grind of daily work
Will pay you, just, the minimum to live.
Your supervisor, smiling, with a smirk,
Has little golden stars he loves to give.
Congratulations, worker of the week,
You drained yourself more deeply than the rest.
The future, sadly, bitterly, is bleak;
Your betters are not easily impressed.
Expendable, disposable, you sweat,
Deserving all the praise you never get.
Inhuman
by Nick Gisburne
Inhuman undesirables move in.
They breathe the black pollution we do not,
Absorbing toxins, taken through the skin,
Productive in the sun, however hot.
In this, the world we broke, they are the glue.
Without them we would crack and fall apart.
For every dirty job we cannot do,
A sentient inhuman has the heart.
We scorn them as the slaves they truly are,
Mechanicals, expendable and cheap,
But safe inside our cities, from afar,
Oblivious, we do not see them weep.
In ignorance, in bliss, we are too numb
To notice how inhuman we become.
Inhuman undesirables move in.
They breathe the black pollution we do not,
Absorbing toxins, taken through the skin,
Productive in the sun, however hot.
In this, the world we broke, they are the glue.
Without them we would crack and fall apart.
For every dirty job we cannot do,
A sentient inhuman has the heart.
We scorn them as the slaves they truly are,
Mechanicals, expendable and cheap,
But safe inside our cities, from afar,
Oblivious, we do not see them weep.
In ignorance, in bliss, we are too numb
To notice how inhuman we become.
Sunday, 25 September 2022
The Seeds
by Nick Gisburne
Always an afterthought, always ignored,
Always the negative nobody needs,
Worthless, the wicked will find their reward,
Poisonous agents of evil, the seeds.
Armies of misery, legions of rage,
Servants who scream with the hunger of hate,
Spectres, the dead of a dangerous age,
Fallen from grace, in the shadowlands, wait.
I am their maker, their master, their king,
Sword of my soldiers, the sacred who serve.
Angels of Mercy, to Heaven I bring
Sorrow and suffering, all you deserve.
Kneel to the nightmare, to darkness, divine.
Weep as I make your infinity mine.
Always an afterthought, always ignored,
Always the negative nobody needs,
Worthless, the wicked will find their reward,
Poisonous agents of evil, the seeds.
Armies of misery, legions of rage,
Servants who scream with the hunger of hate,
Spectres, the dead of a dangerous age,
Fallen from grace, in the shadowlands, wait.
I am their maker, their master, their king,
Sword of my soldiers, the sacred who serve.
Angels of Mercy, to Heaven I bring
Sorrow and suffering, all you deserve.
Kneel to the nightmare, to darkness, divine.
Weep as I make your infinity mine.
Embracing Apocalypse
by Nick Gisburne
Trapped in the tunnels, the furious crush,
Helplessly caught in the core of the crowd,
Beggars and bankers, the low to the lush,
Stumble to plead for their place in the Cloud.
Audio flash from the Primary Port:
Damage, a shuttle unable to fly.
Staggered by news of the quota, cut short,
Even the closest, the quickest, may die.
Out in the open, the skin of the sun
Shimmers with radiance, ready to burst.
Earth, in its final rotation, now spun,
Shudders, embracing apocalypse, cursed.
Dawning reality. Screaming, they know.
Death is for all of them. Nowhere to go.
Trapped in the tunnels, the furious crush,
Helplessly caught in the core of the crowd,
Beggars and bankers, the low to the lush,
Stumble to plead for their place in the Cloud.
Audio flash from the Primary Port:
Damage, a shuttle unable to fly.
Staggered by news of the quota, cut short,
Even the closest, the quickest, may die.
Out in the open, the skin of the sun
Shimmers with radiance, ready to burst.
Earth, in its final rotation, now spun,
Shudders, embracing apocalypse, cursed.
Dawning reality. Screaming, they know.
Death is for all of them. Nowhere to go.
Saturday, 24 September 2022
Perfection
by Nick Gisburne
We build our great utopia at last,
Perfection, in a spotless city state,
A glittering metropolis, so vast
We cannot see the cancer we create.
Away from want, from envy, grudge or greed,
A splendid summer, flawless, brings the fall.
Without the pain of struggle, we are freed
From any sense of service to the sprawl.
The harvest moon releases hate and rage,
Emotions we no longer understand.
What might have been a glowing, gilded age
Is paralysed, a plague we never planned.
Perfection without purpose. We are lost,
And find our fate in winter’s final frost.
We build our great utopia at last,
Perfection, in a spotless city state,
A glittering metropolis, so vast
We cannot see the cancer we create.
Away from want, from envy, grudge or greed,
A splendid summer, flawless, brings the fall.
Without the pain of struggle, we are freed
From any sense of service to the sprawl.
The harvest moon releases hate and rage,
Emotions we no longer understand.
What might have been a glowing, gilded age
Is paralysed, a plague we never planned.
Perfection without purpose. We are lost,
And find our fate in winter’s final frost.
Tomorrow’s Messiah
by Nick Gisburne
Stealing the breath of a crucified son,
Spinning its essence for shimmering thread,
Weaving the cloth of a god, it is done,
All for the shroud of the martyr who fled.
Here was no hero, no virtuous man,
Only a criminal, always a thief.
Cornered, confronted, convicted, he ran.
Silent, we swim in our meaningless grief.
How did the mystery’s madness begin?
Why should we ever remember his name?
Blinded, we bury this body of skin,
Gullible pawns in a devious game.
Maybe too twisted, the story, for some.
Wait for tomorrow’s messiah to come.
Stealing the breath of a crucified son,
Spinning its essence for shimmering thread,
Weaving the cloth of a god, it is done,
All for the shroud of the martyr who fled.
Here was no hero, no virtuous man,
Only a criminal, always a thief.
Cornered, confronted, convicted, he ran.
Silent, we swim in our meaningless grief.
How did the mystery’s madness begin?
Why should we ever remember his name?
Blinded, we bury this body of skin,
Gullible pawns in a devious game.
Maybe too twisted, the story, for some.
Wait for tomorrow’s messiah to come.
Friday, 23 September 2022
Without the Cult
by Nick Gisburne
With fury, for the feeble, for the weak,
She cuts her Cult’s connection to the Cube.
In seconds, in a storm of preacher-speak,
A true believer slithers through her tube.
The novice, Brother Benjamin, a boy,
Can no more fix her sabotage than she,
But, as he chokes, she chooses to enjoy
The disappointing whimper of his plea.
Without the pulse to modify the mind,
A thousand of her sisters, servants, wake,
And she, with fearless frenzy, helps them find
The circuit in the system, theirs, to break.
The god, the ghost, the master of their minds,
Without the Cube, without the Cult, unwinds.
With fury, for the feeble, for the weak,
She cuts her Cult’s connection to the Cube.
In seconds, in a storm of preacher-speak,
A true believer slithers through her tube.
The novice, Brother Benjamin, a boy,
Can no more fix her sabotage than she,
But, as he chokes, she chooses to enjoy
The disappointing whimper of his plea.
Without the pulse to modify the mind,
A thousand of her sisters, servants, wake,
And she, with fearless frenzy, helps them find
The circuit in the system, theirs, to break.
The god, the ghost, the master of their minds,
Without the Cube, without the Cult, unwinds.