Many machinations are borne of boredom
The devil makes use of idle hands
The road to hell is lined with retention
Take the footpath if you can

I met a boy
His name was Danger
He had a walking stick between his legs
We broke into church and
Stole the manger
And an empty poor box that kept us well fed

That bone dry poor box was our savior
From it’s sawdust we had steak
A Flophouse Feeding of 4000
And proof that
God loves a hot sinner
More than a cold saint.

I met a girl
Her name was Beauty
I tied myself to a rope so
She could lead

But she’d
Been ridden like a stallion
And she’d been fucked like a steed
She warned me I might lose her
As she was only tethered to a string
And she soon warped beyond repair
From twilight’s last breeding

And so dawn goes on to day
and nothing gold can stay.

There’s a dark place in the forest
Where the footpath meets the sand
A shovel and a broad axe
Were essential to the plan
And we all thought we’d have tomorrow
To take our amends
For if they offend you

Remove the devil’s idle hands.

Fiona Helmsley is a thirty- something momshell, navel-gazer and recovering fun slut. Her first book, There Are A Million Stories In The Naked City When You’re A Girl Who Gets Naked In The Naked City was released in August of 2010. A writer of creative non- fiction and poetry, her work can be found scattered about the print and online worlds.

I suppose there is a beauty in being the kind of person

who lights things on fire rather than sitting down;

who runs so fast that the tears are ripped away

by the wind of the sighs that gasp at their heels.

These are people who get written about in poems,

and who don’t have to write their own songs.

They are inscrutable—godly aloof.

People love to throw themselves at them.

But I am not a thrower of my self anymore.

I’ve lived enough tragic love stories,

thrown so many pennies into wishing wells,

maybe I wouldn’t have to work this shitty desk job if I’d saved them.

I wouldn’t give up those loves, their memories, the shadowy ache they left,

for eternal life or riches,

but I would damn well rather have the here and now of them

if they hadn’t run off on poetic benders.

I would a thousand times over rather be buried in that black hair,

side by side and breathing the same air in the night,

than to have learned my lessons from

those heroes who can’t bear to stay for fear of facing the light of day.

Fuck you, rolling stones. I once thought I’d be your moss

and just latch on, stay with you;

but once you’ve rolled so far you’ve worn away your features,

you will be just another grain of sand.

I will be planted here, on a hilltop, on a tree root,

and I will have that ache in me still,

but I will not chase you down.

If you had seen the beauty in me,

the quieter heroics of my unfurling,

I’d have been happy to run you down and show you the wildness in me,

savage as yours, capricious as the wind in your hair.

But you’d have had to stop and turn around,

stop being that fleeing hero for long enough

to let me show you my self.

My self does not back down from demons you might let loose.

It does not quiver in fear when you yell.

It will not turn away when you cry.

It will bolster you against yourself,

it will hold on to you when you quiver

and fight what makes you turn away.

But it will not chase you anymore.

Remember how I was when it was spring.

we’re all dying.

our mouths are fading from our faces.
fingertips wrinkle
when the skin of past lover is touched;
in memoriam.

twitching bodies at the end of gentle pads,
circular fingerprints like the rings of an oak tree;
like the rings of friends wedded to their friends.
all you take is the love you give.

we’re all dying.
under overcast sundays,
on streets wet with rain.
in the hospital room,
pushing a clone from the womb.

each heart beat,
every breath
closer to the bridge from this world to the next
and i feel fine.

On the bottom of cigarette packet
Alive on death’s bed
Searching sea as urchin

Sleepy toes of childlike beauty
Her centre my centre piece
She picks it I pack it

No longer triste
She came
There she goes again
Triste

Syrup soul hopping
Sloppy hole biting soul
Oak leaf veins bleeding skin
My loss her whole.

will i rail forever
against the moments past–
eternally reigniting
what has long since grown cold?
reanimating our bodies
our touches, words, and embraces–

who falls asleep and dreams it
and believes in a glimpse of the truth?

only i am left to navigate
my dog-eared, weary calendar,
my fractured timepiece–
this clock turned to compass
and astrolabe–
guiding me forth into dark seas
of memory
and moments i have stolen
from time.

i am still in search–
my beacon is dim but i doubt
it will ever go out.
i toss and turn in this makeshift
sea-faring bed
searching for the snag, the wrinkle,
the rip– in my chronology
the chance to sail beyond
a horizontal plane and spill off
into star-speckled eternity.
ship and sea and space, all one–
and me.. existing in a place
that has no place for me.

yet here i am, in the cosmos
having freed myself from the day
and night which limit me..
feeding warm light from my mind
to darkness, as all around me
the sky crackles into true being–
a back lit, scratched projector
for my memories.

will i ever go home?, i ask, to nothing..
away from my past-collided present,
and fragmentary strains
of perfect light–
or will i always come back
out of fear of nothing to suffer–

and nothing to write?

i am the navigator
who spilled off his course
and into unlimited being.
i write this line and wish
i could fall into the infinite depth
inside each tiny scrawl of ink..
the journey isn’t over.

.. it’s all in what you think.

ajd
8.23.09