The Royal Realm

Entrenched salmon tainted walls oozed in disgust. Along with a rug eroded from the decades it lay upon the pale antique flooring withered by the sun’s beams. Framing the window  two lofty Georgian armchairs sheltered by titanic backs of Piqué fabric, austere stitch work illustrated exotic blossoms fledgling on a spring day. Perched high above the great mantel the architect peered out from the desolate salmon walls at the rooms malnourished appearance. Cobwebs tortured the very elegance of a georgian piano and fastened the clang of the old grandfather clock. The room was shell of self-indulgence; two immense velvet curtains washed of their  cerise beauty banished the channels of crimson majesty streaming through the clouds, as the sun swallowed the bay upon its setting. The chamber was taken by the nights ebony not a creature stirred, and the only sound was that of the clocks gentle tock as it approached the hour.

Basil Williamson sat with his legs elongated in the centre of the room, his back bent double like an old beggar hounding for food; it was in this state that the gargoyle like wrinkles sculpting his face and the community of freckles suffocating his body like a series a of limpets smothering a boulder conveyed the seasoned figure. Fatigued handles settled upon the pelvis hid his shame. A scent of self indulgence sifted through a stale sweaty aerosphere. The home’s architect peered in disgust perturbed by the sight that her creativity had fallen victim too. Williamson sat naked on the rug, his two checks clenched in reverence for the acts he indulged in. Droplets of sweat slithered across the skin like rainwater caressing the windows during a winter’s hostility. A weighted cranium weakened by the pleasure hung low before tossing itself back with a gentle thrust of the hips. The penis slid through the clammy hands as the seasoned flesh rocked to and fro. The moon’s glare shimmered against the auburn locks, while Williamson moaned in admiration of the ensuing delight. 

His mother detested self-admiration, a religious woman she stringently followed Christian ethos. She explained to her son “masturbation is sin, a sin the devil has concocted to tease you with Basil” sternly she dictated to him, until the day she died he lived in fear of the devil gripping his soul.

An hour passed, now kneeling he clenched his dehydrated lip with his fang while bouncing against his ankles stimulating already excited nerves. A chimney breathing heavily from the exterior gusts whispered against the auditory canal and frazzled the skin. A pulse began to quicken, pupils dilated, blood rushed as the heart bet harder and throbbing sensations emulated from the shaft; Williamson’s teeth bit deeper into the frazzling meat. Smacking his hand against the softened flesh his nails tugged on his native follicles. Thrusting his body forward he shot his wonderment across the antique flooring where it was deposited below his mother’s sneering eyes. Rising to his feet he ignited the forest of branches in the fire’s embrace before withering like fatigued daffodils into the comforts of the Georgian armchairs.

Written by 

James Upton 

“A heart broken severed and snapped
Thump Thump its fearful plague
A heart of stone broken in two
Pupils dashed by dripping dew
Emotion crushed and blood boiled, threads of love spilt in two.
Attraction lost and sorrow born.

Plague Plague sorrowful plague burning deep and dividing life. Black brown bruised by lead a heavy heart curses thee. Threads burned snapped and dead snow white and I await a saviour’s kiss. Murdered Murdered bludgered and breathless Dickinson and I hear our funeral!

Misery suffering and sadness too
You F-u-c-k’d me
But, I still fancy you!”

Written by James Upton