Moloch: The Mad

My grandma above the stairs

Was lonely.

My grandma above the stairs

Was once a witch,

Or so they say.

My grandma who had sickles

to slice up Muslims,

Said once there was a riot.

She said they hacked Kolkata

From right to left.

They banged down doors

And cut your throat –

She said with her white hair,

White skin,

And theatrical flair.

I, a wee little child,

Shook my head, frowned,

Cut her down.

Without history or Pakistan,

I spoke with indignant ignorance.

I proclaimed,

Muslims wouldn’t cut Hindus,

If Hindus weren’t cutting Muslims.

The law, the law, the law

Of logic, of balance of blame.

I spoke with a tongue

That belonged to her son.

Do not believe

Only that which benefits.

Be fair, be fair.

Be reasonable.

Be questionable.

Twenty, and still,

My mind remains malleable.

What be wrong and what right?

What be good,

May not be what soothe.

My words confuse and stumble.

They rumble like a child without lines.

Words are not black and white.

Words are subjective.

And they change when I speak them.

I write them. I breathe them.

When I meet a new person

And they talk of their illnesses,

I pause and draw a gasp of breath-

What is this?

Who am I?

Where am I?

A new adventure?

A new thing to learn?

Well, lets open up our minds

Wide as the sun.

A new moloch.

A new muse.

A new horizon.

Something to amuse.

Oh, my little child;

Oh, my burning Sun;

You are moloch.

You have forgotten it

In the folds of your gender-hugging dress.

You have forgotten it

In the wings of your kohl,

And a band of dotted lace.

Remember your awkward sexless

Self in school.

Remember the bullied.

Remember the butt of comedy.

You are moloch.

Remember the anxiety.

Remember starvation.

Remember bones.

Remember hunger.

You are moloch,

Dining alone.

You are moloch,


You are moloch,

The elephant in the kitchen.

You are moloch,

Who melts with the rain.

Moloch, the denying depressed.

Moloch, the cynic.

Moloch, the deep.

Moloch, obsessed with self-killing artists.

Moloch, whose stories end in death.

Moloch, the poet in rain.

Moloch, the pushover.

Moloch, the deaf.

Moloch, the abused.

Moloch, the abuser.

Moloch is your sister,

Your mother, your father.

Moloch, your bruised body,

Your bruised ego.

Moloch, your friends.

Moloch in your lovers.

Moloch always, always in the mirror

The illness in your friend

Is not an adventure.

The illness in your friend

Is your home.

The illness reeks and wafts

Through souls,

To settle on those you call own.

Sanity resides in your face,

In your lover’s bed,

In the crease of your dress.

Sanity resides when you meet new friends.

Moloch, moloch, moloch

Hides under your bed;

In your pen,

In the books

To which your mind bends.

Moloch in your laptop, in your porn.

Moloch in your eagerness

To pierce and tattoo yourself.

Moloch blood spilled and lost

Fail to make a stain.

Moloch in the lies you tell them.

Yet, moloch is calmer.

Moloch sleeps unless summoned.

Moloch is cosy in the dress,

Moistened by the kohl,

Soothed by my body’s bend.

Moloch the cynic bows to hope.

Moloch communicates better,

Moloch connects with strangers.

Yet, at night, when I need it,

Moloch leaps to my lap –

Furry and black.

Moloch, my babe

Purrs as I pet.


3 thoughts on “Moloch: The Mad

  1. What poetry or any form of art for that matter should possess in essence is an expression of emotions. The more real the emotion feels to the reader the more it appeals to people on the other side of poetry. This poem has done that in a great way. You know my poems tend to have a bit more orthodox structure…but a bit of emotion is always lost in maintaining a structure. And i lile it how…the poem starts off in a reminiscent mood…slow..and then goes full throttle. Good job. 😀

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