Gabriel walks the streets,
an Angel of the Lord dressed in the skin of man,
but police are too afraid of his black skin,
or when he appears as a Native American,
speaking loudly at Standing Rock,
holding up a sign at a Black Matters Protest.
Gabriel attends the protests and the meetings,
a man of god with the fiery strength of his,
trying to make a difference in this suffering world,
knowing that all man are created equal
and yet they beg to differ arguing over each other.
Gabriel is a woman protesting for feminism,
here, there, everywhere that Gabriel can speak,
but no one listens to this Angel of God,
shouting at Gabriel, “Not all Men”
and Gabriel screams back, “You have missed the point!”
Gabriel is a Buddhist nun who strives for peace,
wanting to bring humanity compassion and hope,
speaking regularly to the cameras like the Dalai Lama.
All Gabriel wants to do is bring humanity back to the fold,
to knowing that it is one with the cosmos,
but Gabriel’s message is drowned out in the bitter hate
and the anger and the skewing of media,
and humans lie and lie to each other,
breaking each other’s heart as they ignore
the suffering of enviornment, animal, and fellow man.
Gabriel appears as Prophet among the men,
but no one listens, they just turn their ears away
saying, God doesn’t exist and why should they love their enemy
who has tried to oppress them and
didn’t God do the same kind of shit that isn’t progressive?
Just look at the Bible they say
and they spew forth hate for each other,
never wanting to listen or feel.
—  Modern Gabriel
poetry request for anon
ciel knight

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. 

modern prophets redo

why does everyone keep writing about modern prophets being overwhelmed by this burden of foresight, hands shaking, eyes bloodshot, always sucking on a cigarette? Like, damn, chill, what about them casual prophets who have foresight for like mediocre shit and they love their power? Prophets who look at people as they walk down the street and say things like “be careful boarding the Red line today, the platform is slippery” and “hey man, I think the title of assistant manager will suit you well.” 

What about the prophets who have come to terms with their soul-crushing knowledge and instead use their powers to create small waves of local change, convincing people to establish crisis centers and join movements that try to head off the large danger looming in the distance. Prophets who know that the future is always fluctuating, prophets that believe in the butterfly effect. 

How about prophets who don’t see all the doom in the world, but rather only receive good omens, portents of fairer times. Prophets who convince children to follow their dreams and passions because they know that in the future they could be the greatest poet or painter or engineer of their time, prophets who tell people that yes, making one difficult decision is tough now, but the rewards are bountiful at the end of the tunnel. 

I don’t want my prophets miserable, I want my prophets to be comfortable with what they do, I want my prophets excited to give people little hints about the future, prophets who are energized by creating successful grassroots movements that turn out to change the course of events. 

I will hurt you, he says. His arms are hanging heavy at his side. I will destroy you, he says. His fingers brush your cheek. I will burn you, he says. The match he holds is broken. I will, I will, he says. His sweet breath at your neck. Please do, you say. His hands dig a hole into you, and he buries himself deep in your lungs, honeyed and addictive like your dying breath.
—  1am; you thought you couldn’t make any more bad choices (l.d)
What then,
if you heard the Word of God,
what then?
Would you preach on the
street corners of proud New York,
between the stalls of the
farmers market?
Would you rage upon the internet,
saying, “Hark! This is the Word of God!”
Or would you quietly consign
yourself to drugs and institutions?
Would you drown His Words out,
blasting metal to electronic,
to sirens and city lights,
the sounds of the New Age,
the Modern World?
What then would you do,
Modern Prophet,
would you speak or be silent?
—  What Then Modern Prophet? - ck
half gods accept wine and water but true gods need blood

They would teach you how to love God, but never to survive Him. And as Jesus stood upon the hill with his arms wide open, consuming and devouring the universe beyond, brother brother, you shout out of the window and into the mottled street below: your words are gone and forgotten and lost, a Testament of Mary. A man continues walking, shoes new and squeaky on the pavement, his dog wags a shaky tail, the lamp post flickers with divine ignorance. People are kissing in the moonlight below, lost in their religions, and you want to scream at them, to shout, to save, but your mouth overflows, dripping with hymns.

[[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)

character aesthetic  — the modern prophet

kids with tangled hair and dark circles under their eyes, breathing in chaos and exhaling despair, with knowledge to bring empires to their knees and kings to their doom. they suffer from late-night migraines on deserted street corners, illuminated only by neon signs and flickering streetlights, decrypting divine omens with hollow eyes. they share beds with empty bodies, tangling veiny fingers in ripped sheets before disappearing into the night. they are loved by something far greater than human. they will conquer all.

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

you tell me you are holy.
i spend the next week
crafting prayers to the heavens -

let him go. give him freedom.

how am i to compete with
a sky full of gods for your attention?
you tell me they love you.
your words are hollow.

you have made him so lonely.

i hear your voice crack when you speak
of them, as though you miss them,
as though you hate them. you tell me
you have a purpose. a mission. i pray -

let it be to love me.

you have me believing in the holy,
the divine, the blessed.

you gave him a curse.

i touch you and you’re fire,
painful and bright and oh so tempting.
i tell you i will overturn heaven for you
as your flames lick my neck. the burns
sound like your laughter.

i will make him more holy than you have ever dreamed.

—  i will kill the gods for your heart // s.t.
The factory might have given us the millionfold productivity increases that yielded the Industrial Revolution, but it achieved those gains by chaining us to machines, deskilling the artisan and turning him into a cog in the factory, stripped of judgment and dignity and disconnected from the rhythms of his spirit and the world around him.

M o d e r n   D a y    P r o p h e t s    o f    t h e    C i t y

Prophet [prof-it]: a person who speaks for God or a deity, or by divine inspiration.
They roam their cities, their homes. Screaming about what will be. But maybe it’s the prophet’s burden to see the future, to warn about it, but have no one listen to them. They seem to be the only ones noticing the clouds rolling over the morning sky whispering about violence to come. Maybe they are the only ones who see humankind’s rage and not darkness when they close their eyes. And the hardest part may be that they see their own end. See it take one step closer at them every time they blink. See it lurking in the shadows. Because who would want to have to listen to the truth when lies seem to be so much less painful.

Father, Father
you can not
wish holiness
onto me

Father, Father
i am not clay
you can not
mold me a

Father, Father,
do not curse
me your martyr

Father, Father
your nails are
dust on my
hands and feet

Father, Father
i do not pray
at the altar

Father, Father
i am the altar

Father, Father,
look at me

Father, Father
i am alive

Father, Father
as you are

—  Father, Father
watch me bleed

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.