The accursed clock-click time
The rightful subject of anarchist hatred
The ticking, incessant, constant reminder
Of what isn't there and can never be and probably never was

The sound, not as I remember
A note or two higher, out of tune
A glance that asks
Did the second hand really move backwards?

A moment's rage is all that's required
To shatter the smallest units of time
Supposedly needed to keep us alive

If we swept up the fragments
Sent them off to the lab
They would know
Their processes would tell them, tell everyone
And then we'd all have to live by it or be damned

They'd count seconds that were once hours
Drifting through their fingers
Grains of sand through an hourglass
The sundial that should mark days
Lies broken in the shade
Of so much piss-stained Saturday-night glass

We're never told the truth:
Our days are counted in heartbeats
A finite number, trickling down to zero
The reason athletes age so fast

A man measured in years
A butterfly weeks
A fly, days