modern-prophets

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.

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.
[[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)

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
darkness?
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
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.

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.

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. 

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.

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.
one.
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.

two.
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).

three.
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

Father, Father
you can not
wish holiness
onto me

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

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
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]