You taught me to count and I counted the days, and the days mounted up and still I counted the days and I got old and tired and lost count of the days.
I can start again,
I can number the drops of rain that fall
I can count them all,
you
taught me that.
But
you never taught me about time
about how it is wasted in fruitless endeavour
on the dumb and the clever in equal quantity,
a pity really.

It's a disorder to order the order of things
and much easier to see what disorder brings,
chaos or not?

A plot against Kings and those who hold dominion,
those who drag us down and pinion our arms
to tag us with lasers and pull out our eyes.
A plot against the lies that restrain us
are you with me?
chaos or not?

Still counting,
being obsessive possesses me,
a demon ******* me
a succubi for an eye?
or is the sleep that builds up the bridges I see,
ready for me?
I have numbered the pages and each new leaf I've burned,
counted,
lost count and returned to count once again,
all drops of rain in the end.

Time and the beads of its abacus feeds on me,
I will count the beads one
by one and one day
fruitless or not
I will have got the
number right.

Between Brighton and Hove and New Cross gate, when all is still and time can wait.

Kaboom.
Kaboom
Kaboom.
I
thought it was a magic spell to break the link 'twixt time and Hell but
just three words that make no sense but still,
kaboom,
I tried again but still
the same.

The beads fall into line and like a Rubik's cube, time falls into place,
if I see the face of my creator
if I dance with Marilyn on the moon
if once again
all is all too soon but
if I mention,
mention time after time, then
perhaps I'll be allowed to stand a little longer in the line that gets much shorter and time will wait to see the words which freely flow from me,
if not,
I'll be seeing you all on the other side.