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
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
action, which you eye
from under me, lax prey, praying man, I mean Jesus,
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
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
cut off. I cried Jesus.
I cried not. For me to start over with a stepping stone
for a heart is not
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
with a heart half
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
this. All your kill
come home to roar. All my lions come round to kill.
room a scene that puts a name
to what they want.
What end? Lo, I am lions. A cage is what they wound.