Date: Mon, 31 Jan 2005 21:19:27 -0800 From: Timothy Stillman 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