Date: Mon, 31 Jan 2005 21:19:27 -0800
From: Timothy Stillman <comewinter@earthlink.net>
Subject: Boys in the Snow
"Boys in the Snow"
by
Timothy Stillman
(Dedicated to Horatio Stubbs, of Brian Aldiss' "The
Hand-Reared Boy")
Snowy bright boys. The final day of snow fall. Chipper
and giggle and hands never to themselves. Small, six and
seven and eight. Tempters. Tempted. Naked in the snow
out there in the heaps of silver blue. Boy bodies, delicately
formed, hued with magic. Frightened never. Sucking each
other's cocklets. Small and hard cocklets. Little icicle
dreams warm in mouths of moist and balls like china
berries. All boys running round and healing down. And
caressing and touching titties and playing each other like
fiddles. Old songs and new casks.
Dream searches and eyes of gold flash and hands that
tender little poems in each others' flesh like microchips of
living that head off to snow bushes and shake and shiver
them and hold hands to each others perfectly formed v
above their naked hips. Morning in their eyes, and sunlight
in their dreams. All barefooted tracks and angel heads
given and again, as penises slide effortlessly into buttocks.
And night is the splendid time. Night is heaven sent. And
there is nothing other than them. There is nothing other
than snow world. And visions of warm hands on their own
hands. And examinations of each other from pillar in
crotch to posting notes in their dance boy masques.
All extremities and legs like sticks and arms like sticks and
magic key fingers that play invisible pianos in the hearths
of each other. In the safe catacombs that instill dry
comings and coming home and coming for freedom. For
tomorrow is now and forever the hard ons that tilt a little
to the left, and others to the right, some straight up, and
others straight out. And need of destiny and need of
futility that would succumb to a head of a body that had
forgotten how--but never these shiny bright boys.
Never the extended family of them. The weave of them in
the waves of snow and the wind blowing their thick
brown, yellow, red, black hair in rivulets, little minnows in
the sea of snow, darting here and there, not one place
before being another, up one's bum and then sucking on
one pink cocklet of another boy entirely, and all for free,
all for love that is deepest inside the sexiest of all, and all
of them are, and they are beautiful all. They have tan
bodies and pale bodies, some are frail children, some are
fiery children, some never ask why, some are made of only
why?, and the deed they do is to each other, and tickle lips
pink and pale and large and small, to each the other, and
tongues inside mouths, and freedom in columns of bones.
They are forever themselves and each the other, and the
sky is dark and the night is windy and the windows of
their souls are open, they know everything about each
other, and about themselves, the willow wood that makes
up their flesh and their hearts are hamstring hamsters to
scuttle along the back bone of boy sad, and turn him into
boy tickle box turned over, and laughter and tossed to the
snow soft field, and the boy of laughter over him and
gigging him and rubbing him, like two sticks together to
produce--boy fire.
And in the excellence was the dusky feel and in the
excellence was to feel a boy go pop in his dick up
another's ass and then the dick of the fucked to go pop
itself, all the firecracker days and nights bundled up to
each other. All the stories there ever will be to intrude
herein and make thieves of them all, but hearts to give
back and exchange and replace, and never forget, for this
is for always. And nubbins of penises are pressed against
tip to tip each other, genital tipping of tripped love and
not ashamed of it for a minute, as angel wings press the
faces, and love snaps the hearts in half and boys fall on
boys' shoulders and they weep with happiness they are
alive. All that clockwork mechanism that is within them,
all the seeds to sew here and now, and never to cum
semen?, who would care one way or another, it's fun isn't
it? Stocking caps on and mittens on and then tossed to the
penises in front of them, and the stark soft cotton feel of
being mittened off, and then the tossed caps and the
tossed mittens, boys skins are clothing enough.
There in the moon half wafer in the sweet hearts that
multiplied before and after and boys become four and four
become more and more than that even, reproducing, multi
plex of boys, there in their bare bodies, and their bare legs
round each other, legs round the necks of the boys
fucking them, their mouths, all of them formed in great
big O's. And steel and timber and clothing and wood and
ember are nothing now. Nothing more than bad
nightmares that had the word future written all over it,
and future was a bad word, because in the name of it,
must also come past, for one follows the other or vice
versa, and that can only bring sadness in its eventual
wake.
Not here. Not now. Only boys playing kitten animals,
riding each others shoulders, the small and the not as
small, the stout and the bone thin, and rings of fingers on
eyes and shadows of eyes, and lips and tongue tips that
kiss the eye lids and hold close because this is about life
and life is night forever and night forever is the capering
of boys in fields of wonder snow and the woods off to the
sides and the skies of their thighs pushed open and
examined, all of them, all of the inches and progressions
of their naked bodies, and little balls sucked and boys
jacking off while standing on their heads, and boys making
it with silences and with old verses of nursery rhymes and
comedy climbs to the heavens, and boys in configurations,
algebraic, mathematical communications and formulations
and concentrations.
And let them be and let them examine and let them shoot
their pee shooters and let them hold still and let them feel
the flutter of their hearts and see the gold fish dancing and
darting in their flat stomachs gone concave or convex, and
not a hair on any body save their thick shoulder length
hair of various colors. This the magenta morning of hope
in them and the feel of their legs round boys necks as they
ride, penises at the back of the necks of boys who carry
them on their shoulders as they and others try to knock
the riders off, and then the boys smile goofily as they fall
to the snow and are fallen on and they are snow flakes one
and all.
And it is a most handsome thing.
This idyll dedicated to all the dreamers who still believe
walking on rainbows is not totally impossible even now.
the end
Timothy Stillman
comewinter@earthlink.net