Gods&Radicals—A Site of Beautiful Resistance.

Many Gods, No Masters

We’re done with ruling and with those who rule, with what they built and all their useless tools.

Image by Yener Ozturk

Image by Yener Ozturk

Surrealist Prophecies #11

The eleventh 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 eleventh prophecy returns to the theme of the first and the warning of the fifth. The world as we know it has fallen and transformed, and the opportunity exists to make something new and better among the ruins. Gods and monsters haunt the city, but there will be no masters in this world. The title is another reference to an Alley Valkyrie design.

Many Gods, No Masters

Now monsters pull their bodies,

Dripping wet,

Through manholes

From the depths

While others rise

With open eyes

From drops of blood and sweat.

They drip down faces,

Splatter on the street,

Then rise, congealed

To lick the walls like meat.

And here among the broken bricks they’ll breed.

Now reason finally sleeps.

Now faith retreats.

For those who cling to either,

This is hell.

The ocean rises

And the cities swell

With mold and water

Stinking in the heat.

And giants walk on wet and ancient feet.

The broken bones of all our art and pride

Lie rotting in the tide.

All eyes now bleed.

Without a church to specify a creed

Each drop becomes a seed.

A heaving bulk

With sodden hulking grace

Lifts up its face

Its tentacles unfurled

And shrieks its challenge

To the brave new world.

A red splash blooms.

In sagging walls

Of dripping, black-stained rooms

Blood flowers bloom,

And candles flicker bright.

So yes, we’ll pray tonight,

We few who live.

Yet none will beg for life.

And none will give

A penny or a thought

For what we lost.

That ocean has been crossed.

Though gods have come,

These gods do not forgive.

Nor do they judge.

They neither save nor damn.

They bear no grudge.

Each one declares “I AM”

And nothing more.

And we must do the same.

Our gods are flickers in the spreading flame

The roaring of the water

And the light

That plays along these ruined walls

At night.

Our gods are real.

They live in every drop of blood and every spark of wood or steel.

Our dead are dust -

Unless we give them life with every act, in each of us.

Our dead are seeds -

These flowers never bloom with faith

But deeds.

This world is not the world it always seemed.

It’s time to make the world of which we’ve dreamed.

No god shall rule,

No king,

No man shall rule,

No giant either.

There are many gods,

Too many now to count,

Yet none shall rule.

We’re done with ruling

And with those who rule,

With what they built

And all their useless tools.

This city has become the land of fools.

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.