The Roaring Lion

The father is drunk,

He doesn’t drink everyday.

The mother is worried

That she always is.

The son is out late,

He is growing into a man.

He drives the automobile harsh,

He drinks the liquor raw,

He fucks the fanny hard.

Unlike his father he isn’t queer, he thinks.

He doesn’t sob in hiding,

He isn’t afraid to lose a job.

He wants to be independent, to be free.

His father is just another average loser; that’s how he perceived him.

His father had a quivering voice while he always roars.

He was different and strong and tonight he knew it more than all.

The wind was strong and his conscience was dead.

He wasn’t drunk, he was enlightened; he thought.

He raged inside his den, which was his father’s temple.

Not as his home he treated it but as a random motel room.

His mother asked him for dinner and tonight he wanted the meal to be served naked.

His mother’s slap was strong but not as strong as his intention.

They have to know, they have to accept that he is a roaring lion.

That he has seized manhood and shall do his will.

His friends believe in him. They feed him with fear and pride; then why would his parents not accept his might?

He stormed through the small door by the corner of the kitchen and locked it right away.

He used to watch her everyday, while she watches the television, sweeping the floor.

She is 16 and she laughs a lot.

He is 21 but he wants to see her moan.

The mother sat on the kitchen floor with her hair undone.

The mother witnessed every sound in silence; every moan of his pleasure, every shriek of her pain, every cry of her help.

He copulated her all he desired, he wasn’t kind, he killed his lust.

Once he ejaculated, he felt at peace for a moment and then so disgusted the next.

He needed to shower or perhaps puke.

He unlocked the door and ignored the continuous shrill annoying cry.

He pulled up his jeans over his underwear as he saw his mother standing in the dark.

He wasn’t afraid but he didn’t move.

His mother looked at him in the eye and spit on his face in disgust.

He was more hurt than angry.

He pushed her and walked away.

As he reached the door; he felt a tremendous blow over his back.

He fell on the ground with pain and distress; there he saw his father standing tall with a cricket bat on his hand.

One blow after another, all he felt was pain.

His father didn’t seem to be weak and queer anymore.

Blow after blow as seconds turned into minutes and the clock went timeless.

Yet, he thought as always it shall end.



But, those blows didn’t end unlike his conscience.

The white Italian marble bought 7000 rupees a piece looked magnificent with all the blood of the one for whom it was bought, thought the father as he stopped to smoke a cigarette.

His hands were soaked in blood; he was a civil engineer.

He wanted to be a doctor when he was young though; now he knows he would have enjoyed the profession.

He appreciated himself on how well he had taken care of his son’s health by examining the blood, it was really red, it looked full of life.

He continued beating the body with the bloody bat after smoking half of the cigarette again.

He put an end to the roaring lion breed by a couple of timid doves.