The State Of Things Poem by Tony Walton

They come for you-
in old fashioned hats,
from where you don't know,
to fu ck you hard against every wall
you've built up.

They know how to pick all your locks,
break through your firewall,
blocking all exits.

Out of mirrors in small rooms with
flickering televisions they stare into your
flatness outlined in twisted sheets.

You give them food and wine,
trying to appease them.
You smoke with them, but they never mellow.
They're like gods of a certain kind and
know all your devices.

Imagine what they've cost you in
Priests, lovers, advisers?

They'll come for you and
they never stop coming
until you die, or
they die in you.
But, maybe there's
something else wrong,
besides

them.