Simon Jay
knows all our little ways –
he’s felt them rise
within himself in waves
then sink to the unspeakable:
those dark and leaking lovely
places you’d as soon forgo,
though don’t forgo,
but say you do
(can’t wait to come back to).
Simon Jay, though,
never doesn’t ferret through
the slew without insidiously
laying down the traces of his
DNA the whole way in and to
and out from all those
untoward graces
you believe you’re better than:
the fettered man,
the dense lump of a Trump,
undone by fun and bumped
into The Moment – where
you hear you should be living –
sieving you ungivingly,
intending surely to foment
so much of everything
that Simon Jay can say,
first thinks he won’t
(“no, don’t!”), then does.
Oh, by the way, the buzz
is that he’s not not gay:
Yay Simon Jay!
.
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