LO KWA MEI-EN
Issue No. 10 • November 2013
I want a face like paradise caught
on film rewound
and I want
to look a heaven that
can unthinking kill
for sport or
rage. How else do I get
what you want?
This room
is
just a room where I’m
what you want
a little
of. Deep petting of my name
for an unwound
silking of the
scenery makes
me tame and ill-eyed,
but then again, this
room is a promise of wide-eyed
sorts—so
I know what I mean
and I see what want
wants with me. So, inaction. This thing even turned
on? My
ultra violent burns: to turn me on I turn
on you, a tooth clicked
into
action, which you eye
from under
me,
lax prey, praying man,
I mean Jesus,
where
do I get off? Saying like I can sing? I was Jesus
-sure and Judas-strange on the tables of hell
turned.
I was warning you
like
a hot sure thing
and the angle
of my
mouth, ion sharp, was cut off.
And the angel
cut me off. And my lines in
sand
cut off. I cried Jesus.
I cried
not. For me to start over with
a stepping stone
for a heart is not
for
you to stand on a stepping stone
ever—but
then
this room is a promise with
its angle
intact. So I angel, full of wander as a primal Jesus.
I fall on purpose, holy and other. O the only Christ
-like girl I was is gone so good. O god I am no stone
fox fuck: hotly high off a fake moon and I can't turn
back. If I can’t
turn
back
with a heart half
returned
I want to
be a heaven that enters swords and jesus
I want a face that enters you like
a knife: keen-eyed
can’t
cut it. Any camera knows
it—a
dark room keyed
shut for a hushed shot
knows it and all my upturned
scars know better.
Beat,
I know the cost, but
I want—
the last name
of fire contained is backfire, all wanton
and
beasts in the room a body makes or makes
eyes
across—and the last thing
I wanted,
this. All your kill
come
home to roar. All my lions come
round to kill.
This
room a scene that puts a name
to what they want.
What end?
Lo, I am lions. A cage is what they wound.