Gods&Radicals—A Site of Beautiful Resistance.

Balor Reborn

“Our cities, once bright jewels on the plain, are swept away in shards of shattered glass and buckled girder. In the rending shriek I hear the one-eyed king of giants speak.”

Photo by Bruno Van Der Kraan on Unsplash.

Photo by Bruno Van Der Kraan on Unsplash.

Surrealist Prophecies #9

The ninth in a sequence of surrealist prophecies written using the divinatory technique of automatic writing (with subsequent revision). The theme of the sequence is the collapse of our global civilization due to uncontrollable climate change, leading to a mass rejection of both faith and reason and the re-enchantment of our world among the ruins of our failed creations. Some of the poems in the sequence are set before the Fall and portray the spiritual and emotional dilemma of our current crisis. Some describe the Fall itself, and the strange changes in thought and perception that will be needed if any are to survive a world in which humanity has been radically de-centered. Some describe the world to come, a world newly alive with gods and spirits yet free of all dogma or fixed belief – a world of beauty and strange magic.


The ninth prophecy portrays the rise of the waters, and the washing-away of the great cities. The giants of Irish mythology – the Fomorians, or “undersea people” – are in the rushing of the flood, confident that no gods will oppose them. 

Balor Reborn

A dim and distant roaring,

Then a crack

Like branches snapping

Then an awe-struck hiss

Of indrawn breath

Without a chance to scream.


As thick as melted chocolate,

Foaming mud

With rocks and chunks of concrete

Crushes walls,

Cracks windows open,

Carries cars away

And levels all our works

But leaves the wrecks

And skeletons of structure

Here and there.

The air is filling up with hungry birds.


The rushing waters of the sunless sea

Have broken past the borders

And have born

The bloated bodies of the newly dead

Like bobbing corks

Along the roaring stream

With mattresses

And bottles,

Plastic bags,

And cardboard boxes.


Waters of the deep,

In lightless caverns

And the great abyss

You made your home.


Oh, giants of the deep,

You sleep no longer.

Stronger than the chains

The gods once forged

To keep you from the sun

With mighty cries you’ve come.

And in the rain

As waters rise

Your eyes will shine again.


Our cities,

Once bright jewels on the plain

Are swept away

In shards of shattered glass

And buckled girder.

In the rending shriek

I hear the one-eyed king of giants



“My name is Balor.

In another age

I marched against the gods

In pride and rage

And fell, defeated

By a flying stone.

I died that day,

But I was never gone.

Since long before

Your people walked the earth

I’ve known that I would know

A second birth

In rising oceans

And in fiery sun.

My eye is open,

And your time is done.

No skillful god shall come

To cast a stone.

My name is Balor.

I shall rule alone.”

Christopher Scott Thompson

Christopher Scott Thompson is an anarchist, martial arts instructor, devotee of Brighid and Macha, and a wandering exile roaming the earth. Photo by Tam Zech.