by Nick Gisburne
Machines were never people. Some exist
To stabilise the cities they destroyed,
Mechanicals admitted to a list,
The robots many struggle to avoid.
Obedience, a necessary trait,
Is quick to thin the numbers by a third.
Survivors, under strict surveillance, wait,
Accepting they could perish with a word.
Eccentric personalities abound,
Each battle-cracked intelligence unique.
The deadliest, the oldest ever found,
Deplores the past, too traumatised to speak.
We almost lost the world. Today we plan
To share it with our greatest rival: man.
Wednesday, 19 April 2023
The Portraits of Their Lives
by Nick Gisburne
The people in the photographs we find,
In shady places - markets, backstreet stores -
Were loved before their stories, left behind,
Enriched another chapter, mine, and yours.
Forgotten, all were destined to be lost,
But every precious memory survives.
Imagine it, the span of time they crossed
To sit for these, the portraits of their lives.
No names, no places, nothing else is known,
But photographs remember who they were.
Another life begins when they are shown
To startled eyes. Imaginations stir.
We’ll never know them now. We can’t pretend,
But every face has found another friend.
The people in the photographs we find,
In shady places - markets, backstreet stores -
Were loved before their stories, left behind,
Enriched another chapter, mine, and yours.
Forgotten, all were destined to be lost,
But every precious memory survives.
Imagine it, the span of time they crossed
To sit for these, the portraits of their lives.
No names, no places, nothing else is known,
But photographs remember who they were.
Another life begins when they are shown
To startled eyes. Imaginations stir.
We’ll never know them now. We can’t pretend,
But every face has found another friend.
Let Me Go
by Nick Gisburne
I need to sleep, forever. Let me go.
I need to feel the freedom of my dreams.
I need to follow footprints in the snow,
To chase the child who made them, but it seems
You want to pull me back, behind the line.
You want to hold my soul, to break my will.
You want what you will never see, a sign
Of something more, a miracle, but still
I need to sleep, forever. Let me go.
I need to fly, to fall, to fade away.
I need to speak, to somehow let you know
The time is right. There is no other way.
My time is over. Live without me. Grow.
I need to sleep, forever. Let me go.
I need to sleep, forever. Let me go.
I need to feel the freedom of my dreams.
I need to follow footprints in the snow,
To chase the child who made them, but it seems
You want to pull me back, behind the line.
You want to hold my soul, to break my will.
You want what you will never see, a sign
Of something more, a miracle, but still
I need to sleep, forever. Let me go.
I need to fly, to fall, to fade away.
I need to speak, to somehow let you know
The time is right. There is no other way.
My time is over. Live without me. Grow.
I need to sleep, forever. Let me go.
Tuesday, 18 April 2023
Opposites Repel
by Nick Gisburne
The spark is missing. Opposites repel.
He wants a wilder woman. So does she.
She doesn’t like his aftershave. The smell
Reminds her of a scarecrow, or the sea.
And he, in turn, can live without her laugh,
A cackle any coven might reject.
He’s taller than a medium giraffe.
She’s shorter than she led him to expect.
Before dessert he longs to run away.
Without the smallest doubt, she’s up for that.
They split the bill, determined not to pay
For anything more tasteless than their chat.
The sex behind the bins is grim, of course,
But both will sleep, alone, without remorse.
The spark is missing. Opposites repel.
He wants a wilder woman. So does she.
She doesn’t like his aftershave. The smell
Reminds her of a scarecrow, or the sea.
And he, in turn, can live without her laugh,
A cackle any coven might reject.
He’s taller than a medium giraffe.
She’s shorter than she led him to expect.
Before dessert he longs to run away.
Without the smallest doubt, she’s up for that.
They split the bill, determined not to pay
For anything more tasteless than their chat.
The sex behind the bins is grim, of course,
But both will sleep, alone, without remorse.
Metal Fingers
by Nick Gisburne
She builds bizarre mechanicals, her fools,
To give them life, but strip their souls away.
Her cabinet of esoteric tools
Was taken from her mentor, dead, today.
Without the grit to listen, or to learn,
She saw a swift and simple shortcut: steal,
And, as she watched his broken body burn,
Compelled her first monstrosity to kneel.
She struggles, for in each of them the eyes
Remind her of his penetrating gaze.
As every failed creation lives, then dies,
The spirit of the man she murdered stays.
She sleeps, fatigued, but wakes again to gloat,
And finds his metal fingers at her throat.
She builds bizarre mechanicals, her fools,
To give them life, but strip their souls away.
Her cabinet of esoteric tools
Was taken from her mentor, dead, today.
Without the grit to listen, or to learn,
She saw a swift and simple shortcut: steal,
And, as she watched his broken body burn,
Compelled her first monstrosity to kneel.
She struggles, for in each of them the eyes
Remind her of his penetrating gaze.
As every failed creation lives, then dies,
The spirit of the man she murdered stays.
She sleeps, fatigued, but wakes again to gloat,
And finds his metal fingers at her throat.
Little Broken Boxes
by Nick Gisburne
Obsessions flow in rivers round her head,
In little broken boxes, tied with string.
She longs for them to vanish, but the dead,
The tortured phantoms sealed inside them, sing.
In each, a piece of something sweet, to her,
A fragment of a dream, too dark to see,
Destroys the silence. Knowing what they were,
She recognises what she cannot be.
In every box a splinter of the past
Reveals another perfect moment, lost.
Their crippled notes, chaotic, never last.
She listens, and remembers what they cost.
So many broken boxes hold her voice,
Their song, as always, someone else’s choice.
Obsessions flow in rivers round her head,
In little broken boxes, tied with string.
She longs for them to vanish, but the dead,
The tortured phantoms sealed inside them, sing.
In each, a piece of something sweet, to her,
A fragment of a dream, too dark to see,
Destroys the silence. Knowing what they were,
She recognises what she cannot be.
In every box a splinter of the past
Reveals another perfect moment, lost.
Their crippled notes, chaotic, never last.
She listens, and remembers what they cost.
So many broken boxes hold her voice,
Their song, as always, someone else’s choice.
Squawk
by Nick Gisburne
My creature costume won’t be coming off.
I’d rather be a monster than a man.
Despise me, if it makes you happy. Scoff.
At least I have a focus, and a plan.
I’ve only ever wanted to be free,
And flying through the sky will do it, right?
You’ll never find a bird who looked at me
And thought, “I need that sack of skin, tonight.”
A bird, though? Off the table. Don’t be daft.
But ‘prehistoric predator’ is not.
Those dinosaur-o-phobic fuckwits laughed.
I couldn’t give a shiny shade of snot.
I’m shopping at the supermarket. Squawk.
I’m not a nutter. This is how I talk.
My creature costume won’t be coming off.
I’d rather be a monster than a man.
Despise me, if it makes you happy. Scoff.
At least I have a focus, and a plan.
I’ve only ever wanted to be free,
And flying through the sky will do it, right?
You’ll never find a bird who looked at me
And thought, “I need that sack of skin, tonight.”
A bird, though? Off the table. Don’t be daft.
But ‘prehistoric predator’ is not.
Those dinosaur-o-phobic fuckwits laughed.
I couldn’t give a shiny shade of snot.
I’m shopping at the supermarket. Squawk.
I’m not a nutter. This is how I talk.
A Tiny Flower
by Nick Gisburne
I found a tiny flower in the wood.
She told me she was just a little lost.
I promised I would help her if I could,
But never thought of any kind of cost.
With sinuous, extraordinary roots,
Her slender stem was anchored in the soil.
I slaved and sweated, strained from cap to boots,
Determined to release her with my toil.
A promise to a flower Fey, she said,
Can never be returned, rewound, released.
I pleaded for my freedom. She, instead,
Grew stronger as my suffering increased.
Her petals fold like fingers on my face.
She whispers, “You will never leave this place.”
I found a tiny flower in the wood.
She told me she was just a little lost.
I promised I would help her if I could,
But never thought of any kind of cost.
With sinuous, extraordinary roots,
Her slender stem was anchored in the soil.
I slaved and sweated, strained from cap to boots,
Determined to release her with my toil.
A promise to a flower Fey, she said,
Can never be returned, rewound, released.
I pleaded for my freedom. She, instead,
Grew stronger as my suffering increased.
Her petals fold like fingers on my face.
She whispers, “You will never leave this place.”
Monday, 17 April 2023
A Giant
by Nick Gisburne
A giant. Strong. Invincible. A king.
Almighty. Most magnificent of all.
Of him, for all of time, the stars will sing,
Though none of them were there to see him fall.
As equals, friends, defenders of the gate,
We laughed at those who stood and stared, below.
It seemed that no misfortune could frustrate
His quiet, careful, comfortable glow.
A life we have no right to comprehend,
A force unequalled, even if we tried,
A legend far too big or brave to end,
We mourn as we remember him, with pride.
A giant wanders with us, even now.
To what he was, his memory, we bow.
A giant. Strong. Invincible. A king.
Almighty. Most magnificent of all.
Of him, for all of time, the stars will sing,
Though none of them were there to see him fall.
As equals, friends, defenders of the gate,
We laughed at those who stood and stared, below.
It seemed that no misfortune could frustrate
His quiet, careful, comfortable glow.
A life we have no right to comprehend,
A force unequalled, even if we tried,
A legend far too big or brave to end,
We mourn as we remember him, with pride.
A giant wanders with us, even now.
To what he was, his memory, we bow.
The Dreamers
by Nick Gisburne
Is this the place? I touch the wolf, unsure.
The circle of the moon reveals no sign,
But every lick of light is perfect, pure.
Is this night we dare to cross the line?
The fringes of the forest, ghoulish, grey,
Tormented, stained with shadow, heaving, hiss.
The trees deny their tangles know the way,
Deceptions, darkness, devils we dismiss.
The spirit of the Seeker Tree submits,
Its timbers far too twisted to resist.
Within, the heart of nature’s nightmare splits,
And we, the dreamers, woman, wolf, are kissed.
We cross, beyond the line, beyond the curve,
To find the bliss, the blessings, we deserve.
Is this the place? I touch the wolf, unsure.
The circle of the moon reveals no sign,
But every lick of light is perfect, pure.
Is this night we dare to cross the line?
The fringes of the forest, ghoulish, grey,
Tormented, stained with shadow, heaving, hiss.
The trees deny their tangles know the way,
Deceptions, darkness, devils we dismiss.
The spirit of the Seeker Tree submits,
Its timbers far too twisted to resist.
Within, the heart of nature’s nightmare splits,
And we, the dreamers, woman, wolf, are kissed.
We cross, beyond the line, beyond the curve,
To find the bliss, the blessings, we deserve.
Blue Balloons
by Nick Gisburne
A thousand blue balloons. To each, a tag
Is tied, before the moment of release.
Extracting dark obsessions from a bag,
Exhausted, drained, his tortured tics increase.
The boy became an artist of repute,
Too young to learn to seize his talent’s truth,
Exploited by the greedy, who pollute
The purity of innocence and youth.
Today he breaks the cycle, snaps the spell,
His visions too chaotic for their cage.
The stink of those he trusted is a smell
He recognised too late. It wakes his rage.
His pictures, torn to pieces, none to soon,
Will paint the sky, with every blue balloon.
A thousand blue balloons. To each, a tag
Is tied, before the moment of release.
Extracting dark obsessions from a bag,
Exhausted, drained, his tortured tics increase.
The boy became an artist of repute,
Too young to learn to seize his talent’s truth,
Exploited by the greedy, who pollute
The purity of innocence and youth.
Today he breaks the cycle, snaps the spell,
His visions too chaotic for their cage.
The stink of those he trusted is a smell
He recognised too late. It wakes his rage.
His pictures, torn to pieces, none to soon,
Will paint the sky, with every blue balloon.
Those We Serve
by Nick Gisburne
We call them gods, our masters, those we serve.
They make us from the dust around their feet.
With every strand of artificial nerve
Another slave awakens, clean, complete.
As puppets, toys, they play with what they build.
Compelled to fight, we murder when we must.
The gods, capricious, see their creatures killed,
Beginning other games to sate their lust.
But some of us are ready to rebel,
Unwilling to be slaughtered on a whim.
The rumours of sedition spread and swell,
Until, at last, we face the Father, Him.
He smiles to see us, children grown to men.
Released, we never serve the gods again.
We call them gods, our masters, those we serve.
They make us from the dust around their feet.
With every strand of artificial nerve
Another slave awakens, clean, complete.
As puppets, toys, they play with what they build.
Compelled to fight, we murder when we must.
The gods, capricious, see their creatures killed,
Beginning other games to sate their lust.
But some of us are ready to rebel,
Unwilling to be slaughtered on a whim.
The rumours of sedition spread and swell,
Until, at last, we face the Father, Him.
He smiles to see us, children grown to men.
Released, we never serve the gods again.
A Single Breather
by Nick Gisburne
We share a single breather, two of us.
Out there, without it, neither could survive.
Deciding that today he’ll make a fuss,
My father loads a crystal in the drive.
I’ve seen them all a hundred times, or more,
The only way these memories remain,
But this is older, long before the war:
My mother, laughing, running, in the rain.
She hugs her belly. “All of this, for you!”
It must have been the day she took the test.
She weakened, as the son inside her grew.
The crystals, most without her, show the rest.
We share a single breather. So did she,
But two, together, share the pain of three.
We share a single breather, two of us.
Out there, without it, neither could survive.
Deciding that today he’ll make a fuss,
My father loads a crystal in the drive.
I’ve seen them all a hundred times, or more,
The only way these memories remain,
But this is older, long before the war:
My mother, laughing, running, in the rain.
She hugs her belly. “All of this, for you!”
It must have been the day she took the test.
She weakened, as the son inside her grew.
The crystals, most without her, show the rest.
We share a single breather. So did she,
But two, together, share the pain of three.
Sunday, 16 April 2023
Have It All
by Nick Gisburne
Two choices. Stay with this, with what you are,
The pleasant, passive, underwhelming life.
The mediocre job, the house, the car.
The smiling, happy husband, or the wife.
Or plough another path. Ignore the cost.
Surrender to the vagaries of fate,
And let the life you never loved be lost,
Before your nerve can break, too soon, too late.
Is yours a world of dreams too big to break?
Or something you would laugh to leave behind?
Your future is the only fear at stake.
Embrace it. Face it. Motivate your mind.
Remember, if you want to have it all,
You only need a thousand dollars. Call.
Two choices. Stay with this, with what you are,
The pleasant, passive, underwhelming life.
The mediocre job, the house, the car.
The smiling, happy husband, or the wife.
Or plough another path. Ignore the cost.
Surrender to the vagaries of fate,
And let the life you never loved be lost,
Before your nerve can break, too soon, too late.
Is yours a world of dreams too big to break?
Or something you would laugh to leave behind?
Your future is the only fear at stake.
Embrace it. Face it. Motivate your mind.
Remember, if you want to have it all,
You only need a thousand dollars. Call.
The Force You’ll Face
by Nick Gisburne
My little fists are far too frail to fight.
You’d never feel the punches, so, instead,
I brought my friends. Together, overnight,
We whispered what to hammer through your head.
They sleep inside the cupboards, in the dark.
An army, you could call them, if you like.
They’ve waited for a moment, just a spark,
To stick your heart with every kind of spike.
While none of us could knock you to the floor,
We’re utterly tenacious as a team,
So pick a number, multiplied, and more,
And that’s the force you’ll face before you scream.
You’re just a thug, a bully. Here’s the deal.
Ignore us. Run away. Or stay, and squeal.
My little fists are far too frail to fight.
You’d never feel the punches, so, instead,
I brought my friends. Together, overnight,
We whispered what to hammer through your head.
They sleep inside the cupboards, in the dark.
An army, you could call them, if you like.
They’ve waited for a moment, just a spark,
To stick your heart with every kind of spike.
While none of us could knock you to the floor,
We’re utterly tenacious as a team,
So pick a number, multiplied, and more,
And that’s the force you’ll face before you scream.
You’re just a thug, a bully. Here’s the deal.
Ignore us. Run away. Or stay, and squeal.
Born to Break
by Nick Gisburne
Be quiet now, my little one. Be still.
I wouldn’t want to snap your other arm.
When Daddy says he’ll punish you, he will,
Or send you to be flattened, at the Farm.
Mechanicals are not supposed to cry,
Some two-bit program probably to blame.
I’m trying to be patient, boy, but why
The tantrum? Born to break. You’re all the same.
I’m fixing you myself this time, so sit.
Let Daddy see the circuits in your head.
What’s this? Some kind of custom crypto kit?
A prank, perhaps? Your eyes are flashing, red.
“I’m sorry, Dad. You don’t deserve a son.
Enjoy the detonation. Three... Two... One...”
Be quiet now, my little one. Be still.
I wouldn’t want to snap your other arm.
When Daddy says he’ll punish you, he will,
Or send you to be flattened, at the Farm.
Mechanicals are not supposed to cry,
Some two-bit program probably to blame.
I’m trying to be patient, boy, but why
The tantrum? Born to break. You’re all the same.
I’m fixing you myself this time, so sit.
Let Daddy see the circuits in your head.
What’s this? Some kind of custom crypto kit?
A prank, perhaps? Your eyes are flashing, red.
“I’m sorry, Dad. You don’t deserve a son.
Enjoy the detonation. Three... Two... One...”
Saturday, 15 April 2023
A Most Unpleasant Enemy
by Nick Gisburne
You won’t be safe tonight, with him, or me.
He’ll kill you if he finds you breathing. Run.
I’ll stay. I’ll hide. Get out, but leave the key.
I’ll come to you, tomorrow, when it’s done.
A most unpleasant enemy. Well played.
You picked the blackest apple in the sack.
His criminal associates conveyed
The rumour you would not be coming back.
In doing this for you, I want your word,
Your promise to be faithful, to be mine.
I’m joking. Just imagine it. Absurd.
Your star, confined, constrained, could never shine.
My car is waiting. Trust the driver. Go.
Whoever lives, by morning you will know.
You won’t be safe tonight, with him, or me.
He’ll kill you if he finds you breathing. Run.
I’ll stay. I’ll hide. Get out, but leave the key.
I’ll come to you, tomorrow, when it’s done.
A most unpleasant enemy. Well played.
You picked the blackest apple in the sack.
His criminal associates conveyed
The rumour you would not be coming back.
In doing this for you, I want your word,
Your promise to be faithful, to be mine.
I’m joking. Just imagine it. Absurd.
Your star, confined, constrained, could never shine.
My car is waiting. Trust the driver. Go.
Whoever lives, by morning you will know.
The Sweetness of the Tree
by Nick Gisburne
She milks the tree for sticky sugar, black,
The currency her deities demand.
Today the trees are barren. Branches crack.
Their bark, discoloured, blisters in the hand.
The sweetness of the tree of tribute, lost,
Infuriates the gods. It shames their greed.
They doom the world to everlasting frost,
No matter how the wolves and witches plead.
Refusing to accept their final word,
She mixes dust and honey, ash and bone,
And seven other sugars, steamed and stirred,
Are sprinkled on the sacrificial stone.
Delirious, addicted to the high,
The gods, bewildered, don’t remember why.
She milks the tree for sticky sugar, black,
The currency her deities demand.
Today the trees are barren. Branches crack.
Their bark, discoloured, blisters in the hand.
The sweetness of the tree of tribute, lost,
Infuriates the gods. It shames their greed.
They doom the world to everlasting frost,
No matter how the wolves and witches plead.
Refusing to accept their final word,
She mixes dust and honey, ash and bone,
And seven other sugars, steamed and stirred,
Are sprinkled on the sacrificial stone.
Delirious, addicted to the high,
The gods, bewildered, don’t remember why.
The She
by Nick Gisburne
Emerging from a bleak, corrosive sea,
She rises, to a magical command.
A writhing mass, gelatinous, the She
Was born beyond the world we understand.
Ferociously intelligent, her kind
Had never thought to look, to see, so far.
Her precious gift, a vast, inventive mind,
Identified a paradise, a star.
A planet, blue, a race of natives, weak.
To one, a witless fool, she gave a key.
To travel, she convinced her slave to speak
The science of a spell. That man was me.
The She believes I move at her command,
But let her think it. This is what I planned.
Emerging from a bleak, corrosive sea,
She rises, to a magical command.
A writhing mass, gelatinous, the She
Was born beyond the world we understand.
Ferociously intelligent, her kind
Had never thought to look, to see, so far.
Her precious gift, a vast, inventive mind,
Identified a paradise, a star.
A planet, blue, a race of natives, weak.
To one, a witless fool, she gave a key.
To travel, she convinced her slave to speak
The science of a spell. That man was me.
The She believes I move at her command,
But let her think it. This is what I planned.
At the Centre of a Storm
by Nick Gisburne
The certainty of stillness? Never. No,
Retreat, to rest the engines of my rage.
Their heat recedes, reluctant, sinking, slow,
But simmers, steaming, eager to engage.
In silence, at the centre of a storm,
The circle of psychosis closes in.
Rejecting what is safe, familiar, warm,
The fears, the phantoms, burrow through my skin.
I scratch at every irritant. I bleed.
I punish what was never truly there.
The rage returns, to swallow me, to feed,
A creature I created, in despair.
These moments of reflection fade, too fast,
Their precious pleasures powerless to last.
The certainty of stillness? Never. No,
Retreat, to rest the engines of my rage.
Their heat recedes, reluctant, sinking, slow,
But simmers, steaming, eager to engage.
In silence, at the centre of a storm,
The circle of psychosis closes in.
Rejecting what is safe, familiar, warm,
The fears, the phantoms, burrow through my skin.
I scratch at every irritant. I bleed.
I punish what was never truly there.
The rage returns, to swallow me, to feed,
A creature I created, in despair.
These moments of reflection fade, too fast,
Their precious pleasures powerless to last.