Their Eyes are on the Door (The Gay Scene)
Their eyes were on the door of clubs like Casablanca, where they wait to judge.
They clutter together like leaves stuck in a drain, old ways refusing to budge.
Their eyes are always on the door waiting for the appearance of a new face,
For which to satisfy their thirstiness, doing anything for the pleasure of a taste.
Their eyes are always on the door, perpetuating acts that let H.I.V. flourish.
Where young hearts seeking older ones become objectified, no need to nourish.
Older hearts have become poisoned from their arrival on the scene, and past misuse,
Seek to rejuvenate them by dating younger men, and only manage inflict abuse.
Their eyes are always on the door waiting on a new face to appear,
One who is unfamiliar of all the people whose name they could truthfully smear.
They are quick to spit game in an attempt to ascertain this new unknown name,
Becoming spiteful over swallowing their rejection, like an erection without a name.
Their eyes are always on the door for fear of a stranger’s unwelcome assault,
But spread hateful messages and gay bash themselves; banging heads on asphalt.
They fuck raw, “Hell it’s only once, I can risk it”,
And ignore that it only takes once to be a statistic.
Their eyes are always on the door, waiting for the assembly of attractive features,
Pride themselves on facades and reinforce them with photo shopped pictures.
They perpetuate views of themselves and idolize divas that appear to be on top,
Only to reveal who they are behind closed doors with questions of, “Bottom, or top?”
Their eyes are always on the door, lacking much depth the shallow at the party.
As they remain thirsty and unhappy, only finding relief in their bottle of Blue Bacardi.
They are quick to frustrate, intoxicate, and celebrate but not to unify against prop 8.
They lay happily unaware and confused as to their immoral acts, self-defecate.