Date: Wed, 17 Feb 2010 13:52:28 -0800 (PST)
From: Tim Stillman <novemberhourglass@yahoo.com>
Subject: g/m young friends "The Hands That Held The Book"

		       The Hands That Held The Book

				    By

			     Timothy Stillman


(in loving memory of my friend, Thomas Burnett Swann)

They still had them, the unicorns with the yellow horns. They were not
white, those horns, for to believe in pure white is a lie. This story is
not a lie. And their horns were yellow. It was whispering mid spring and
the grass was full, and they were satyrs of young, naked with hairy legs of
fur. These satyrs would not grow old, neither with unicorns of the yellow
horns. But the boy who loved him, had gone away. They tried to play, the
boys satyrs riding unicorns, and the Summers bright yellow. Up ahead and
the sun bright yellow now.

The hills were springy, the winds were warm, just right for naked boys in
meadows green and yellow flowers everywhere, a patch of words over to the
right where passions grew at a Meadow Lake to see your body proud and true
and see who held it just for you. Turn your head just a little to the right
see lips forming to kiss yours, Warren serene of love and penises hard and
straight. Fill a hand warm on your warm flesh and the Sun smile down and
true and unicorns ran and the boys shouted. They were free. They were free.

It was good to breeze the same air and to kneel on the ground before one
another and hold tightly in the ceiling of the world is his eyes are brown
or blue and the furry legs. And hooves too as bodies, held in the mission
taken over by pointy ears and flaxen hair and mouths that held to dainty
shoulders brown budded these children were. The bodies were for sexuality,
the hearts for poetry thus entwined and service quality and sensuality came
together and size of spring butterflies mood and hearts and flowing into
the sky all the purple majesty of penises ready to come. The first time
ever in winter, and spurted in warm gush may be, are on the common me. And
we shall forever be boys will we.

If anyone in mind, which is a good thing, for boys who are rival unicorn
who paw and prance and snicker too watching children saying. I love
you. Wearing garlands in their hair. Proud and sleek and strong and fair
running to the skies to the clouds above hope and hard and healthy. This is
love. Where lover gives a lover and jealousy there no need be. For every
hard on his unicorn horn and sadness sets me free. I looked at them. I
watched them gambol with each other. And I watched them fuck through the
legs further across the boys' shoulders and see pledge and dwelled and
plowed with much courage and diligent was he. We ran those days of distant
hills, we sparked our hooves on stones, unicorns flew and butterflies too
as big as the day was born. Pink link stiff cock-boy to- boy and then
became the starter's game and remembered his name. Once more.

Yesterday, there was a witch in a tree carried a snake for company. She
knew other dreams, of someone else's schemes, and she knew the name of that
boy. He was assistant she once thought, nothing more, and a tad
overdone. And that, but he believed, and he dwelled here is another
paradise of all the dreams he could ever wish for. Some go their own way,
most do not struggle to stay. He never saw how fortunate a boy who was. But
Timothy held now, carefully instead of breathing, afraid they would
see. Couldn't he tell them he learned his lesson now way, the boy he had
loved was less than they, heard in a picture just as they come, really were
and always shall be?

There is a hand in all this promising land, and he said, please Sir come
sit with me. Which he told stories little boys love to hear. As a voice
desert island, the child and found a boy sized topography strange indeed.
Boy stroke his hair.  Boy kiss his tummy. Boy, nuzzled his penis,
affectionately. The knowledge of warm, and the knowledge of spring in the
story book that meant in any of a boy fair one in the sky, a strong and
free Whippoorwill, bodies of soft bodies and freedom in love with climbed
over a boy showed in June by so hard. So he felt the season inside, a
charter them instead, then alone grew alone could lie. He said, the boys
name and beckoned me, this satyrs' cadence stunningly clear. You, who
remember everything, caught not at him, really did not you see that he came
from here. He climbed honest wind not to find them again long eared donkey
years. He touched first line was more to do, and he pulled some more
year-by-year and you send him away and away and went away.. And he stumbled
and fell the Swann brought them to hear us again.  And newness of dreams,
you never more appear.

 I wanted to be on my way into them and then just say. We know you are, who
you had loved so you said you were then. He wanted to place it he wrote
about fairyland spun gold out of did you not hear my poetry? I tried so
hard to get you to hear, not on the pass my love with the snow, not
secretly and books with quill pens or computers electric that fence with
words that broke your heart and above all else broke mind too. I came from
them to you, from yellowed pages to pages in the other books, paperbacks
new about one time true and if you could use and look at and see it through
and find every boy is a boy for you. All this first and then they rejected
no one else ever again. Our hands touched only books held by the other,
never hand in hand; please believe, for you as for me, it's lonely being
just one. Before he knew it, the boys sexually on him Everything about the
boy he remembered the books to Friday nights for love the home silent room
where. The voice came from him. It always had don't mourn me don't mourn me
any longer. Please The boys are him for silently secretly adore him.

I forgot everything back there. I was a fool you see in the caption of the
book. I wrote. He loved made his name may my claim to nothing needing
glasses again. But the voice said no and penises were hard, the boys one
and again and unicorns watched the door entered as I came home. Never to
leave again.