Gaia once ruled here, using her aesthetic hand to paint mesmerizing forests into existence, inhabited by wood nymphs, fierce creatures, and ethereal songbirds who ushered in the morning with their sweet songs, but Industry usurped Gaia; slaughtering her using his strongmen, and brought in the age of nihilism, making his seers say, ‘God is dead, and meaning lies in a casket, six feet under.’
Then nihilism evolved into dadaistic postmodernism, and now, everything seems absurd like a man holding his decapitated head on a platter and somehow still breathing, like a marionette making the puppeteer dance, like a bald Samson crushing Philistines without a jaw-bone, like the scrolls of Revelation opened, only to bring humanity peace and prosperity, like Van Gogh stitching his ear back together under a starry night, like Sartre accepting the Nobel Prize, like atonal, avant-garde jazz giving you a soothing melody, like cigarette ash floating up, defying the laws of gravity.
I see you Industry, and I hate what you’ve done,
the gnarled oak lies broken facing the askew brownstone,
the smog wounds eyes with flick-knives of causticity,
the roads gleam with rage under the Sun,
bones break, and men lie with chopped off cocks
because of your bedfellow Banality and his brother Brutality.
cyanide & Chernobyl, sexting & piss stained matted grass, whoredom & boredom & Sodom, Netflix & chill in apartments with frill, gaudy facades & showy plastic roses, grimy sidewalks & spittle, skyscrapers & suicide, iPads & non-existent attention spans, guns & children robbed of innocence, stony hills & supermarkets, nightlife & decaying fruit, violence & no prayers, iron & rust, bark & ash, physical, emotional & spiritual death.
© Nitin Lalit Murali (2018)
For Real Toads’