Gay Short Film 031 After - videolike.de  

Gay Short Film 031 After

Wir vermuten, dass dieses Video anstößige Inhalte zeigt? Helfen Sie uns und melden Sie das Video Gay Short Film 031 After.

Based on the poem "After School, Street Football, Eighth Grade" by DENNIS COOPER
Their jeans sparkled, cut off
way above the knee, and my
friends and I would watch them
from my porch, books of poems
lost in our laps, eyes wide as
tropical fish behind our glasses.

Their football flashed from hand
to hand, tennis shoes gripped
the asphalt, sweat's spotlight on
their strong backs. We would
dream of hugging them, and crouch
later in weird rooms, and come.

Once their ball fell our way
so two of them came over, hands
on their hips, asking us to
throw it to them, which Arthur did,
badly, and they chased it back.
One turned to yell, “Thanks”

and we dreamed of his long
teeth in our necks. We
wanted them to wander over,
place deep wet underarms to
our lips, and then their white
asses, then those loud mouths.

One day one guy was very tired,
didn't move fast enough,
so a car hit him and he sprawled
fifty feet away, sexy, but he was
dead, blood like lipstick, then
those great boys stood together

on the sidewalk and we joined them,
mixing in like one big friendship
to the cops, who asked if we were,
and those boys were too sad to counter.
We'd known his name, Tim, and how
he'd turned to thank us nicely

but now he was under a sheet
anonymous as God, the big boys crying,
spitting words, and we stunned
like intellectuals get, our high
voices soft as the tinkling of a
chandelier on a ceiling too high to see.

Quelle: Youtube: zum Video.



Quelle: YouTube

Gay Short Film 031  After

Suchbegriffe für Gay Short Film 031 After

Based on the poem "After School, Street Football, Eighth Grade" by DENNIS COOPERTheir jeans sparkled, cut offway above the knee, and myfriends and I would watch themfrom my porch, books of poemslost in our laps, eyes wide astropical fish behind our glasses.Their football flashed from handto hand, tennis shoes grippedthe asphalt, sweat's spotlight ontheir strong backs. We woulddream of hugging them, and crouchlater in weird rooms, and come.Once their ball fell our wayso two of them came over, handson their hips, asking us tothrow it to them, which Arthur did,badly, and they chased it back.One turned to yell, “Thanks”and we dreamed of his longteeth in our necks. Wewanted them to wander over,place deep wet underarms toour lips, and then their whiteasses, then those loud mouths.One day one guy was very tired,didn't move fast enough,so a car hit him and he sprawledfifty feet away, sexy, but he wasdead, blood like lipstick, thenthose great boys stood togetheron the sidewalk and we joined them,mixing in like one big friendshipto the cops, who asked if we were,and those boys were too sad to counter.We'd known his name, Tim, and howhe'd turned to thank us nicelybut now he was under a sheetanonymous as God, the big boys crying,spitting words, and we stunnedlike intellectuals get, our highvoices soft as the tinkling of achandelier on a ceiling too high to see.