nemesis chick

In early times the representations of Nemesis resembled Aphrodite, who herself sometimes bears the epithet Nemesis. Later, as the maiden goddess of proportion and the avenger of crime, she has as attributes a measuring rod (tally stick), a bridle, scales, a sword and a scourge, and rides in a chariot drawn by griffins.
— Wikipedia entry


her sharp disastrous flesh outlined
in the thin black and white polaroid
the only fragment of her nakedness left me
suffused with the threadbare noise of our
carnal whining well it was that and certainly
not more not the winsome lyric piece
I thought I needed not the dangerous
edgy sadistic sex of catholic desire
though it was that sometimes and
sometimes even more there was
always that intimation of an ending
and not the heart one, never the heart
one, no. the end was violent, the waters
running to the sea the memory of
another life time perhaps in ireland
viking me raping Sligo maiden her or was she
always playing me that way? this century
and another? You'd think the slipping
dates, tacky with her juice, would
leave a noise within this room? You'd
think there was somebody else at
the end of time, whistling that sad
bullshit tune. I hunger for the ripping
sound of flesh tearing at the warrior's
need but all along I always knew she
made it so made it all so clear she
lived this life as a provocation daring
me to force the moment knowing
how this destruction is a communicable
disease the cells infected the thoughts
shading their character into anger
a dark angel a savage bird his beak
hard hungry for her blood why did she
want this? why did she capture
this mythic sailor son and
make him the naked me of now and
then and suddenly that last small
rainstorm a memory at this point fell
upon her flat naked breasts just when
we left it for good desire another
bad song in the constant performance
this thin existence has become
will there ever be an escape? I thought
I had a plan this time, an inkling of
the thorny anemone grown within
this shallow chest. there had to be
a physical effect of this garnet coupling
like a bloody crazy argument
in an irish catholic family, ending
in a kind of relief. Would
that seraphim come to be this time?
Not a chance. She entertained my
cock purely to effect the possibility
it might work she always knew
she wouldn't take the bait no matter
how I carved the words into her
cunt, no matter how thick and hard
the blade. She escaped, her tears
the lubricant of her freedom. & I
am still the bird in the cage, alone
on a thorny palm, plastic in my plan

Perhaps this is an explication of the secret charge of personal crime that lurks in any heart, rejected and abandoned. In any case, it is a fairly sexual piece, deliberately so. Something about aging focuses the details in a sharpening of effect. In me, at least. I can see how the displacment of memory can also cause that fuzziness we associate with a nostalgic past. So, this is the document presented to the self, asking the essential question, is the self all there is? Jolly fun, no?

This woman was a libra. The symbol for libra are those scales that the maiden justice holds. The same scale that Ma'at used to weigh your heart against the feather of truth. That scale that brings all things into that final balance, returned to a valent state.