He’s too kind.
He’s too refined.
Too thoughtful and filled
to the brim with beautiful goodwill.
He tries so hard
to make them think that being gay is something that is still
not dead, divided, tortured, castrated
drawn and quartered.
He tries so hard to be something more than what we instill:
I cannot.
I cannot write these words down.
This poem already sounds
too dangerous to the truth:
this poem already sounds
too mercurial to be ever again soothed.
This Kevin Martens Wong already hounds
me in his voice, in his style, in his unimpeachable
good mood.
In the way he is just so
understood.
In the way he refuses to be told
that this is where things stood.
Because ultimately, I know that
I stood, directly on his face.
I was racist, and homophobic, and absolutely terrible to the first gay
Singaporean ever to take this country at its word:
that there is no discrimination seen, discussed or heard
because it does exist.
It does resist
all attempts to subvert it to the rule of law,
to a real man’s gentle, wet and noble thirst.
And you know how I know?
Well, because I am the first
person ever to get let off with a stern warning:
you dared to challenge the Merlionsman of the Republic of Singapore before he was born:
you’ve got what’s coming
to you in full, beautiful, uncontestable flowering.
Don’t forget, let them all think
what I mean when I say that in these cases
I always try to sign off in pink.