For the past two hours
this Mac has hypnotised
my gaze to its white screen
and every website has
sentries at the door -
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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.

Home should be the only place

you don’t have to worry about

an ordinary ****** taking place.

****, home or hell if you believe in it.

We’re supposed to believe we’re in

the hands of saints,

with how carelessly we’re handled.

Home should be like hell,

yet better.