There Lies No Love

After Faggots by Larry Kramer

There in the black-lit walls of the nightclub—

below the assaulting strobe lights—

around the jockstraps, the crop tops, the leather,

bellows the stale smell of used nitrites.

The pittering of pills shuffling in a handful—

blanketed with powdered sugar-snow—

through pupils palpably plump it's viewed:

life waning and waxing with each line of blow.

Through the filled bathroom’s door—

the air tinted with body odor, cum, and piss—

amid the glory holes cut into stalls’ walls,

passion presses against any sturdy sense of bliss.

Within each bent-over, beat-down man—

around the feeble fire in each sweaty stud—

across hungry nerves feasting on friction,

passion pumps through a blighted blood.

On the floor with faggots flailing—

a community to which one can feel a part of—

while there may lie acceptance,

there lies no love.