Their eyes wandered,
Crowding the scene
But I averted
My own
To lend privacy
To the disaster.

Tears ran down her face
And cries were heard
And she muffled them
But the man said curtly,
Keep him crying,
It means he's alive.

What had happened
In an instant
Drew out,
As they stared
And I turned away
Thinking I was helping,
My eyes hardly probing
Like theirs.

But in the end,
I'm not the one
Who uttered reassurances
Or found the doctor.
They did.

From me to you
No intercept
Please

Quiet message
Private
Unobstructed meaning
Meaning
Private

They call her morbid but I call her bright -
The last stand of the sun before oncoming night.
They call my bluff and so I will remain
In the space between caring and going insane.
Amid calculations and long drawn out notes
There’s a couple of words that reveal what she knows;
And it seems I must skip them so I don’t invade
Though she may not believe me since I’ve turned the page.

No matter the level of drought

In the sky

There’s the occasional dewdrop



A little is better than none

None is none

So who wants none

When he can have it all?



Let tongues travel

Across the sea and back

Making me infamously famous

It is a starved plant which hears its stomach rumbling



Casting aspersions will do me no harm

You have to walk in these shoes to feel the heat

I can lie in wait for a river without water

But can’t be thirsty sitting close to a river overflowing

With no thought of the river offering to quench my thirst.

    Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © 2014

I was hanged once. Seriously. Hanged.
If you can believe it.
Stupidly and innocently the rope was
Slipped over my head.
The waggon was pushed out,
Suspending me twisting slowly turning
With untied hands. Can you see me?
I was as good as gone.
You'll have to believe me.
Take my word.
You can't look it up.
Seriously.
You can't find any account.
Nobody reported it.
All the same.
I was hanged.
Left like Eastwood.

But, then we were opaque.
Not like now,
With clicking phones.
There aren't enough incarnate spirits
To be snatched away by the number of photos.
Everything is snapped.
Everyone should shudder.
If you think with a click you're good to go,
You're good as gone.
As reported.

For the past two hours
this Mac has hypnotised
my gaze to its white screen
and every website has
sentries at the door -
Username ? Password ?
Already registered ? Login

When did we become so
chary one of another ?  Were
folks so paranoid in the pre-
digital age when existence
had not been magicked into
noughts and ones in Silicon
Valley?  It did not seem so.

(c) C J Heyworth July 2014

She and I lay out
under the stars once
To find shooting stars
and privacy.
She told me she loved me,
and held me close,
And I believed her.
But in the darkness
I couldn't see her eyes.

Take my name,
take my card,
soon you will own me,
it is not that hard.
I am like an open book,
just type my name,
I'll be caught on your hook.
My information is everywhere
you can find my favorite food,
or most hated place to think,
either way I am *******,
for you will own me before I blink.
With so much social media,
filling the internet like an encyclopedia,
about our lives and what they mean,
there is no privacy that can be seen.
So let us live our lives like animals,
living in cages placed upon these screens,
our lives are owned by these machines.

Seagull on rotting planks, bouy bells ding to fog and driftwood.
A culling fire exploits the docking shire.
Filled with chlorine shards, legs caught in the clap-traps.
Friar palms glisten,
Rage responds with frisson.
Clear view over water.
Feel your arms relax and slip onto your back while the culling fire attacks.
Bulbous deadening brain chimes
As the eyes slide down to your omission crimes.
Leave me alone in my despondent company.
Don't push the matter further let communication fail to nurture.
A warm breeze carries me
like a floating portrait towards unreal scented meats.
I'm here now, alone in the corner,
The greatest intimacy with the static patterns on the carpeted flooring. The king of this corner is the odor of plank seating and flowery detergent in this lonely corridor fluorescent light-bulb poles and old grain floorboards.
Now the returning shards of panic to uncelibate strangers drive me up, far, deep in my own ribcage to something wholly non-organic.
Time to clock-in, time to check out.