Dave Smith / Sequential Prophet 6 analog polyphonic synthesizer (Pre-order)

Pre-order your Sequential Prophet 6 today, and ensure you are one of the first to get it! 

Vintage with a Modern Twist

The Prophet-6 is Dave Smith’s tribute to the poly synth that started it all—the Sequential Prophet-5. But it’s not simply a reissue of a classic. Rather, as Dave puts it, “It’s the result of our effort to build the most awesome-sounding, modern analog poly synth possible.” The Prophet-6 takes the best qualities of the original Prophet-5—true voltage-controlled oscillators, filters, and amplifiers—and adds enhancements such as studio-quality effects, a polyphonic step sequencer, an arpeggiator, and more. The result is pure, unadulterated analog tone with the stability and reliability of a state-of-the-art modern synth.

Classic Tone, Classic Vibe

Central to the warm, punchy sound of the Prophet-6 are its two newly-designed, discrete voltage-controlled oscillators (plus sub-oscillator) per voice. Continuously variable waveshapes provide the tonal palette with triangle, sawtooth, and variable-width pulse waves. There are two discrete filters per voice—a four-pole, resonant, low-pass inspired by the original Prophet-5 filter, and a two-pole, resonant, high-pass filter. Voltage-controlled amplifiers complete the all-analog signal path.

Dual Effects

The dual effects section provides studio-quality reverbs, delays (standard and BBD), chorus and phase shifter. While the effects themselves are digital, with 24-bit, 48 kHz resolution, a true bypass maintains a full analog signal path. There’s also an independent stereo distortion effect, which is 100% analog.

Poly Mod and Poly Step Sequencing

Also present from its classic predecessor is a Poly Mod section, with enhancements. True to the original, modulation sources are filter envelope and oscillator 2 (both with bi-polar control). Destinations include oscillator 1 frequency, oscillator 1 shape, oscillator 1 pulse width, low-pass filter cutoff, and high-pass filter cutoff. Another welcome reprise is Unison mode, which features configurable voice count (1-6 voices) and key modes. The polyphonic step sequencer allows up to 64 steps and up to 6 notes per step. You can create sequences polyphonically, with rests, and sync to an external MIDI clock. The full-featured arpeggiator can be synced to external MIDI clock as well.

Easy to Program

The knob-per-function front panel offers instant access to virtually all Prophet-6 functions. Included are 500 permanent factory programs in 10 banks of 100 programs. In addition to these, you can create and save up to 500 user programs of your own. Toggling off the Preset button enables live panel mode, in which the sound of the Prophet-6 switches to the current settings of its knobs and switches. In this state, what you see is what you hear.

Easy to Play

All of this awe-inspiring sound is packed into a four octave, semi-weighted keyboard with velocity and channel aftertouch that’s an ideal combination portability and power for the project studio or the gigging musician.

rejected modern prophets

kids who’ve taken a vow of silence, eyes bloodshot and throat straining with the weight of prophecy, shunned even by the burdened. charcoal-dirtied fingers and sheets and sheets of doom, destruction, deliverance. their blood collecting under the unbroken skin of their cheeks, results of fist fights with unbelievers, attempts at accommodating omens on their skin like divine Rorschach inkblots for those who look long enough. 

kids with hand-ravaged hair and ancient tear stains wrapping their arms around themselves, whispering, whispering, whispering. hodu l’Adonai. their hymns on the wall aren’t vandalism, not blasphemy though written in blood, they’d like to tell you. but unlike the prophets of long ago, their gratitude has failed them, and so they remain silent. 

1. the psalms are long and our voices soft, yet when i crack the windows open at the long dark sky all i can hear is the world, and it is singing. it is praying. the LORD is listening and we are singing unto HIM and isn’t creation beautiful?

2. i am so very tired of Romans.

3. you’re right. it is lovely. the night is stars are pure and the air is clean and i found GABRIEL in my back garden weeding the gold from the silver and he sang ISAIAH to me until my soul returned. i invited him in for a drink but he could not stay. we cried together. i don’t know why. he was so quiet when he LEFT.

4. are you HERE yet?

5. GABRIEL returned today and he was FUCKING coked out. his eyes were eyes and his mouth was a mouth and he opened up his yawning ribs for me and cried “COME. COME ALL YOU WHO ARE THIRSTY. COME TO THE WATERS.”

6. i want to rewrite the world, MICHAEL. i want to cross out HIS name in the books, i want to tamp down the salt and the ash, i want to start fires until all swords are truly flaming and no eyes are truly burnt. we were promised milk and honey, but the lands are flowing with RED and FORGETTING and my mouth is dry of love.

7. we are never alone when we walk with GOD.

8. then why make us lonely?

—  [ texts between the modern prophets ] a.g.

on the rooftops, swallowed by the city and the smoke
we dangle our legs and split
a glass bottle of something brown that burns
in my throat
you ask me if i love the stars and i say
maybe, once

we were born children of a gilded age
gods with mortal hearts and paper skin
you stroke my fevered cheeks and i
croon hymnals into the creases
of your bonfire blackened palms
we lie awake and try and find
the words to paint the ache
that blooms beneath our skin
(sleep does not come easy to the damned)

when the sun goes down
we light candles and wait in vain
for the sky to steal our voices
(if they come, swear up and down you’re holy)
you ask me if i love the stars and i say

—  of all the dark and wild places (modern prophets, pt. 1) // (e.c)

i. this is what divine feels like, your skin beneath my fingertips, and god, i could destroy you, i think, but you wouldn’t let me, you’re the strong one, you keep it all back, you keep my mind from spilling out

ii. so this is divinity, this is what i’ve been yearning for, and all it comes down to is taking your hand as we walk down the street and feeling grounded, centered, present, for the first time in years

iii. this is what divine tastes like, your lips on my lips, my lips on your hands, on your fingers - is this worship? is this love? is this obsession? don’t tell me until it’s over, i don’t want to know, please

iv. divine, divine, divine, you say i’ve been muttering the words in my sleep, don’t you know i’m always dreaming of you?

v. i could never think of you as an angel but i’ve never met anyone who’s come so fucking close

—  idealisation // s.t.

emiliaclark-deactivated20150217 asked:

Maddieee so i am absolutely in love with the whole modern gods series, and i was wondering if you have any poem recs? Thanks love!

Yes! I definitely do, oh gosh! All poetry about modern deities are here; all poetry about modern biblical characters / angels / prophets are here; all edits are about modern deities are here; and these are some of the poems I love. 

Greek Modern Gods: 

Biblical Modern Angels / Prophets 

back alley angels, concrete kings
we recycle prayers like plastic bottles
and wish the wings would wither off our backs
remind me that we’re holy as we bind our wrists
with garbage bags and swear
to never speak the blasphemy
that bristles on our lips.

darling, we are modern martyrs
purging promises with dime store bourbon and
pawn shop cigarettes
hoping that in the ruin of our bodies we will find
something purer than the piety
that wrecks our hearts and stains our hands.  

at night, we drink ourselves to pieces and
i can feel a baseline beating in my bones
they ask me if i miss the taste of ichor and i tell them
not if i pump my lungs so full of starlight
that my tears turn into rivers and
run silver in my veins.

—  they call us holy and they leave us hollow (modern prophets, pt. 2) // (e.c)

you leave burns on my skin
with your holy fire.
you ask if i’m okay,
ask if i need to stop,
but you should know the only words
from my mouth will be
thank you, god, thank you,
because you’re so close
to making me pure that
i can taste it, honey.

burn me up.
i want the only thing left of me
to be my soul.
reduce my body to ashes,
hold my soul in your hands,
can you see it? can you see that
you’re not here
to save me, honey, i know

but you’re the holiest thing
i’ve ever known,
and getting taken
apart by you is the sweetest
penance i could have hoped for
after signing myself up
as a sinner

—  ABSOLVE ME // s.t
[[1:40 am]]
We are drug store prophets,
cut from steel and broken glass.
They said our scars would be our salvation.
I don’t believe them. My salvation is
a melted down handful of
Brand X aspirin, a cup of holy water,
21 pills in liquid form.
It runs hot like the neon prophecies
burnt into our souls.
[[2:04 am]]
I just want to escape the endless choir
of back alley hymns, of concrete prayers.
I can’t do this anymore.
Can’t stand the chalk stained sheets
and charcoal dipped fingers.
I can hear them in my head telling me
to tear open my ribs and throw
out my heart, to leave
the floorboards wine-dark and red.
[[2:40 am]]
i am sorry
—  i touched the divine and it buried me or ezekiel sends late night texts (c.w)

we cannot close our eyes
to the too-bright sunlight,
for the visions underneath our lids
are hardly any better.

prophecies stamped onto our hearts,
forged out of scar tissue 
and empty prayers,
these are our most prized possessions.

move on, they tell us,
your time is over now.
nobody is concerned with the future,
not anymore.

but godly fingerprints linger on our skin
like impressions left in plush carpeting—
how does one forget
the touch of a divine?

—  the useless seers (modern prophets) [requested by sxppho] // j.d.k.
make me the girl with the red red tongue
and the blush like a fire in her cheeks
touch my wrists and I’ll burn the ichor from your blood
tear the halo from your head
offer me your bones and leave your worship at my doorstep
i am no saintly apparition, no temple for your traitor lips
kiss me and you’ll crumble
—  they’ve made a martyr out of me (modern prophets, pt. 3) // (e.c)
know my face even in a crowd, have a hand ready to point. remember me. even if you would have to blaspheme the holy temple with india ink and wine stains, have the syllables of my name on your body, like a bruise, like blood collecting under, like something you feel to be there. see me in shadows, against your eyelids. force me into your prophecies, make me inescapable.

don’t ask me to promise not to leave, because i would never, but i couldn’t stay. i am cruel, and selfish, and i love you. but i have never known love to be selfless, and so go ahead, have my hands pierced through your own palms. know that i would go before you sleep (my hair heady with your scent) (sackcloth and ashes at the ready) (walking away, all the while looking back).

when i bleed, and i will, when you run and find my knees on asphalt and the thorns of the roses they threw at you: don’t venerate me, my blood isn’t wine, isn’t holy. and don’t lay a hand to heal. i will not be a stripe on your back.
—  the conditions set by a non-believer; or, on loving a modern messiah pt. 1 || bsc


what are they made of: your blood, your prayers, your stars. your anger. flesh cut and arms scarred . but they are happy. their tired hands beg for more. they do not want to be remembered by the mortals who think of achilles and sekhmet and what could of have been. they need, crave, yearn the touch. and when they are accepted. rivers become white. vines turn dark. spring and winter are one. the leaves become vultures and the wind rejects them. because they are no longer of this earth.


a corner in goiania. a (unholy) cigarette bud lands in the blood soaked marble of tibet. a cathedral in istanbul, eyes ignore those who stare at things others cannot see. a bar in alexandria, a chuckle, a library burning, a dusty motel room, a willing volunteer, in pattern with the first sun ray, they are gone. back to the bronx - you will never catch them bragging.


knees brace the cold hard salt, eyes turn closed, hands (black inked and red stained) come together, and words of prophets as deadly smoke fill the whole city. some reject. some deny. some fall. silent vows brace them, the hand of god betrays them, others watch them hushed. and they are left to wander this earth. their knees fall to the earth but not in prayer. in debt.  


black charcoal marks driven into white sheets; knuckles scarred clutching the air. the walls match their backs, scratched, broken, twisted. how does one live abandoned. to be touched by the only lord. bloodshot eyes, confessionals wrecked and a poor sparrow. (desperate. hooked. pathetic.) see what happens to the precious son. anger turns back to prayers and cold hands - amen amen amen.

—  [excerpt from 12 STEPS FOR THE DIVINE & DAMNED & DEAD] | r
Apollo worshiped in his modern temple. The acrid cigarette smoke bellowing in the air, akin to the incense of old. His priestesses, his bright-eyed prophets, dancing slow minuets in the dark, and whispering visions into the ears of business men.
—  Apollo’s New Temple [a.m.b]