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.

Only wearing shoes and socks

Needing nothing more, I rise

Leaving Nothing behind

No mark of a passionate tryst

That may or may not have occurred

Only inside my head

So often described by others as sensitive

I’m thinking so much

My head might detonate

So I’ll retreat to a place

Where slumber moves

And goes nowhere

All at once

How beautifully distracting

In this place of soot and stain

Your sad eyes make me weak

My lack of qualms hold me

Blanketing me in a crowded street

Thick with empty

Wild with laughter

Where we can play pretend, you and me

Games like fortune, camaraderie, and love

I turn a corner

Catching breath

Your and my mask removed

We play house in this feral game called life

Years have passed that dirty sight

Turning into slideshows pictures

Still you’re on my skin

You stick

Thee who touches me will feel you

And I’ll teach them how it feels

To be you on me

For no water could remove your grime

You dirty fuck

that day, in seconds on
the second floor 
of that grimy, scummy club
flesh splattered against
the imaginary walls
so that I could maintain my
anonymity, I saw how
eager the populous was
offering up the fragile
edges of their pages to be
cut or
torn

except him

with his blazed ebony skin
gleaming against the night
he performed the incision
upon himself
to be free
from the torturous braise
of this uneven gray life

he descended upon me
machete eyes mowing a path,
pulpwood lifeless leaflets
like rotten rose petals blanketing
the step in time with a
heartbeat that was no longer mine

he ripped me from the
pages of my loose life
graveled voice announcing
my new name to the world
sandpaper skin belied
satin lips like waves washing
over me, spooning lust
into my belly

splayed across the threshold
of this taboo was truth that had
been hidden from me

there was no difference in
closed eyes and open heart
my affections charged this
breath and we crackled in our
passion slaying preconceptions,
prejudice, my father’s hope that
I was like him in any way and
a line
between what is okay
and what is real

Waves ripple
echoes turmoil
beads of illumination
endeavor to press through
and submerge once more
all in rhythm
this expression
(sorely lacking).

Such crests and troughs
the mercuric slices
come from within
are appeased from without.

nirvanic calm never reaching
but closing in on
(another perfect cymbal).

gelatinous center
still so ready
to…mold?

despite establishment and time
(sink deeper
in boundless wisdom
my dear Cheng!)

straight-laced steel
spun between two planes
then traversing
a way between
fetal
imposition
(in position).

A strive let’s stride
for metered response
become manifest
trees and shore
shining sea
boundaries seen
always then
apparent.

Anilore – “More”