The lens is my shepherd, I see nothing
He makes me lie down in eruptions
He leads me beside the loudest of liquor
He refreshes my lips with capsicum pitchers
Even though I walk through the alley of the shadow of bets
I will fear no Tim Sharky
For You’re with me through all malarkey
Your revolver and Your baton
Comfort me with balaclava hats on
You prepare a table before me
In the presence of my enemies
You anoint my head with water: sweet nectar; serenity
My nostrils overflow
Surely Your goodness and love will follow me
For the few days of my life I have left
I will dwell in the cell of the Lens forever, we
March at the parade for the gil mayor
Close to where they made the remains, rejoice at the stage where
They were laid bare, before cavorting at the farewell, snatch keepsakes of hair
Like pages and write eulogies for the ages, truly missed, the unruly kiss
Never felt, but watched by kids, melt into the masses,
Trade myki tickets for bus passes to the abyss, it’s safe to walk the street if we pray
Ought to eat vegetables, wheat and farewell the meat cases
Turn sceptics into carcases, CC’d arse out on Hospital TV
Not even House can diagnose the blues sung by Hugh Laurie

The sweets taste sweeter from a position of privilege
The tweets make creepers into public envisioned with
The leaps that make faith seep into relevance if
Combined with the sleet of concrete asleep with fishes, watched, from a distance, the crackle and hiss of static mixed with crackers and piss, metal blades glisten in five fingering, grasping discount missionaries, watched by the visionaries and commanded with mechanical, electrical voices, the electorate was aborted, fought for by war torn council members, dismembered by the public for an ounce of pills and mescaline, but remembered in celluloid: in time with the weaponry...

Elaborate, the metal room marooned with the plastic tune, haptic controls evolve without programming, a sentient séance of circuitry and rote learning; conditioning, operators did not re-route the yearning for control, discerning good from evil and learning the roles of thieves and Knievels, not evil but they bleed too, lenses flicker like eyes blink, the wise don’t wink; they walk with eyes at their feet; stomped on by shoes, not boots; no need for military rule when the written rule does not compute: biology allows mechanics and magic to rule, not you, stop or I’ll shoot:

Loot the bars; rock guitars smashed out of view and glass those not yet deformed; unrecognise them from algorithms and fawn, over the beat that the guitar is smashed to, rest in Church Street just outside such innovation, devoid of cliché and imitation: this way we remain anonymous, but remember it’s the TV that watches you because you’re on it too; rewrite the script; take The Brady Bunch apart as part of your performance, debauch the whole family and George Forman; grill him too, Meryl Streep sport coverage with news microwaves that flash Cleverly, stand United with Tom Tom drums indicted, remember you’re Tom Thumb, grab a hold of the Concorde and run, while I sit here watching, plotting...dumb