They are hidden everywhere
the damning skeletons in the closets,
those dangerous liaisons waiting
patiently to explode into the world
like smart bombs the secrets,
target the ones that push their luck.
And controlling it all
in the land of the surreal
called the mass media conglomerates
are those melting timepieces,
warped digital displays
of the twenty-four hour news cycle
with their finger on the button.
I used to keep the person who tossed the prompt with the poem that came from it, for some reason I stopped, now I wish I had not. It would be nice to tip the hat or blame folks for what they stirred out of the glop I use for a mind.
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