"cistern" poems
Save me.
Save me from the
place inside of me that Loathes my
existence.
help, it is pulling me
down.
Dragging me deeper into to this
dark
cold place
full of everything i hate. like
you, and me.
i hate You more than anything on the face of this planet, well
except for me.
i hate me hate me more than a mother hates the murderer of Her
own Child.
this Calamitous pit inside me
like a Rabbit's hole i can
Never escape, no matter how i
scratch at the sides until my
fingers
bleed.
there is a lot of blood
in this place.
It's the poison inside of me, the reason
why i breathe in short, wispy breaths. It's got to be
the answer. i've got to get the poison
out.
i dig and dig.
dig, dig, dig, dig
and not once do i cry
of pain.
i dig and dig. deeper
and deeper.
the Hot Malicious wine of my pain flows all around me and the world turns grey as my head begins to spin. i hear You. i know how much You hate me.
LEAVE ME ALONE GOD ******
the only colour i see now is the deep red of a rose as i clench my hands tighter around the thorns and then
Drip.
Drip.
The sound of my own breath
shocks me. i lay at the bottom of the bottomless cistern inside of my soul.
the air in my lungs hissing, as i lay there broken. Vulnerable.
in a pool of my own sorrow, thick and dark. You have left me
to die.
You were the only one i let into this place
You pushed me down. You killed me
please Someone help before the rasp in my chest completely fades.
Nov 12, 2012
Nov 12, 2012 at 10:04 PM UTC
I am wrapped in her algid arms.
I am lost in her evocative glare.
I stand, environed by the Keres,
Those dilapidated demons.
Azrael, my craven shadow, clings
To me as a vulture stalks its prey.
Thanatos does each step possess
Forward into this acidulous air.
Fissured masks release languid screams
That fall upon pallid faces that have
Long since wilted in her Stygian womb.
Enervated laughs drone in mangy ears.
I stand on the periphery of this
Asphyxiating cistern. I ambulate
Across this sable field that shall
Become the executioner’s blade.
Jul 5, 2014
Jul 5, 2014 at 7:47 PM UTC
My hero bares his nerves along my wrist
That rules from wrist to shoulder,
Unpacks the head that, like a sleepy ghost,
Leans on my mortal ruler,
The proud spine spurning turn and twist.
And these poor nerves so wired to the skull
Ache on the lovelorn paper
I hug to love with my unruly scrawl
That utters all love hunger
And tells the page the empty ill.
My hero bares my side and sees his heart
Tread; like a naked Venus,
The beach of flesh, and wind her bloodred plait;
Stripping my **** of promise,
He promises a secret heat.
He holds the wire from this box of nerves
Praising the mortal error
Of birth and death, the two sad knaves of thieves,
And the hunger's emperor;
He pulls that chain, the cistern moves.
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Green sea-tarnished copper
And sea-tarnished gold
Of cupolas.
Sea-runnelled streets
Channelled by salt air
That wears the white stone.
The sunlight-filled cistern
Of a dry-dock. Square shadows.
Sun-slatted smoke above meticulous stooping of cranes.
Water pressed up by ships' prows
Going, coming.
City dust turned
Back by the sea-wind's
Wall.
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There lies a desert void of life
There lies a desert void of water and void of food
There lies a desert void of all good things
In this desert lies death
In this desert lies air more dry than dead bones
And in this desert lies pain more than can be imagined
For I wander throughout said desert
Seemingly with my lonesome
With no one to turn
And with nowhere to go
So I sit on a rock and wait
Then a promise of water comes to me from Above
But when the driest of days come over the horizon
And the hottest of times comes to my face
I almost give up, leaving the promise
And then I feel like I have moved on from that promise
But I cannot leave what came from Above
Oh me of little faith!
So I wander seemingly alone in this desert
For days upon days, weeks upon weeks
For months upon months, even years upon years
Longing for even a drop of water to satisfy my thirsty soul
But here in the dry desert the water is unfound
For all of the water has evaporated into the dry desert air
But on the horizon I see what I’ve longed for
I see what looks to be a spring
Bringing water to the dry desert ground
To satisfy the thirst of this dead dry country
And as I approach this great gorge of water
I am killed with the realization that no water lies here
For I have been tricked
By the images in my head
And the physical needs of my body
I have been deceived
The green and lush never truly existed in this dead dry desert
Only this mysterious mirage in my misunderstood mind
So still I search across these dry dead lands
For the water that might bring life back to my tired soul
But time and time again
The mirages ****** my hope for satisfaction
But soon enough I know I will find the promise
And reach the flowing waters to satisfy my soul
One day, I find myself a well
A well that may be full of water
Water that may wet my thirsty tongue
But when I look into that deep well
I see a crack in its basic foundation
And no clean water lies in this broken cistern
So I drop my bucket into that deep broken well
Hoping for a mere drink of water
But in the bucket comes muddied, dirtied water
And when I pour that water into my thirsty mouth
My thirst is not satisfied, it is only magnified
And I am more thirsty than I have been ever before
So I take another drink
But this broken cistern holds water that cannot satisfy
Water that may merely increase my thirst
That will only bring forth the day of my death
For my mouth is as dry as this desert sand
And I will die here in this dry desert of death
I am like dead dry bones in the valley of death
With no flesh or breath to give me life
But then when I find the water that gives life
Flesh will come about my bones
And He will breathe breath into my lungs
Then for the first time, I will have true life
I wander on never finding the water I require
But then I stand and look heavenward
And I hear my weary voice cry out “My bones are dried up!
All hope is lost, and I am cut off!”
So I stand in the dry dying desert
Alone with nothing and no one to hope in
Then His glorious voice responds; “I will raise you from your graves
I will put My Spirit in you, for I am the Lord your God
I am with you to the end of the ages
For My Son, your God reigns with me
And our Name is Immanuel
For I am with you."
And I fall to my knees
For there lies a cistern unbroken
I look deep into this well and see a promise unforsaken
For the well is filled with sweet satisfying water
And I drink never to thirst again
For He is the Living Water, and I am satisfied in Him
Nov 5, 2015
Nov 5, 2015 at 1:41 PM UTC
~
*the peculiar sound of morning
during the long, boarded-up winter,
resonating through a cistern
set apart by thin waves
of decaying reservoir
a hint of canticle
in the unfounded wind,
impossible to ignore,
a series of collapsing oppositions
like interior and exterior,
self and other, the momentum
conveys the sublimity of being,
immersed in an unfathomable vastness,
of being part of an indivisible whole
a repeated glitch in the system,
our forever changing
constellation of feelings
and backward configurations,
slipping into a stream,
where the water precedes us,
and it will outlast us
we don't so much carry life
as allow ourselves to be carried
along by it, swept up in its current
for a little while*
~
Oct 4, 2023
Oct 4, 2023 at 2:39 PM UTC
No place for roleplay in this
illumined shrine of sanctified
skin and porcelain
where the most literal of lovers
whelm in the stainless steel
hot spring's silver stream
where the smoke screen of clothing
clashes with the steam cloud
rising like ironic bread
in Eden's kitchen
where a woman turns around
wrings and whips her satin
slope of hair around a shoulder
leaving to her man ideas
and a bar of soap that slithers
effortlessly in his palm
like a melted deck of cards
where a bubbled corner
is embedded in the small of her back
elevated from the tailbone
to the neck and lowered like the zipper
of the dress he parted not so long ago
where a jolt of urgency
accelerates an exercise in
the ski of soap around the junction
of the hips and outer buttocks
and a segue silently approved
by her arms hoisted to attend
to hair thought to be already
washed and conditioned
where the soap is shared by
both hands on the scaling of
her sudded sternum
presaging an unseen demand
from the beacons of progression
swelling in the wet heat
where a hand of soap and
hand of slide verifies the demand
of hands on her beaded *******
where he answers her swell
with his stiffness in the final feel
of mystery before a soft shift of
arms approximates a plea
for a frontal rinse
where hands return to ******
crowned chest sparking the advent
of eye contact all the while
where his ****** intensifies
in proportion to the eyes closed
in anticipation of their saturated mouths'
magnetic duet
where saliva and the cooling water mix
on their cameos of tongues slipping
through their lips in the midst of the mist
and where their towels hang in
a forgotten heap while he takes her
dripping body in his arms and
carries her to where the roleplay
will have to wait after all
May 6, 2014
May 6, 2014 at 12:35 PM UTC
The threefold terror of love; a fallen flare
Through the hollow of an ear;
Wings beating about the room;
The terror of all terrors that I bore
The Heavens in my womb.
Had I not found content among the shows
Every common woman knows,
Chimney corner, garden walk,
Or rocky cistern where we tread the clothes
And gather all the talk?
What is this flesh I purchased with my pains,
This fallen star my milk sustains,
This love that makes my heart's blood stop
Or strikes a Sudden chill into my bones
And bids my hair stand up?
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A discordant gain
moves through the hall
echoes off every wall
and reverberates again
through my chest cavity.
my ribcage thrums
obstinate, hopeful
it is a clear fullness
it is the water that I carry.
The cistern is broken
but
it has been sealed in gold
that reflects the light of
things that have been, are, or will be
and it is the lightning fracture
that appeals to Him now
more than the gold itself.
I know your
heavy lead-heart, lead-limbed
sorrow.
I know the iron nails
your mind would drive
up into your own veins.
You crucify yourself not every three days
but every day
every night
every hour.
It is the lightning-fracture
that reminds you of this place
moreso than the gold ever could.
The high, dissonant clattering
in the world
drives into your dryness.
I will give you water
but to hold it, you must seal
your cracks, yourself.
Nov 2, 2015
Nov 2, 2015 at 12:28 PM UTC
Shy cup of Latte 🍵
Shy cup of Latte, savor of mine
Sat with ease as unto a regal saucer--
Upon my heart's amber throne
Hearth to a grandeur sublime
That trembles the first bright gleamer,
Of the early morning sun.
Portions enchanting proceed--
From your pearl purple scepter
Bade on high,
Onto lofty summits of lovesome regard,
To reign my walls for ages untold,
As Empress to a citadel ever yours
Violet petals doth my path carpet
Gracing my careful fervor stroll--
Onwards,
Upward
To the edge of your sweet repose,
By the smooth rims, encircling
Your gently steaming streams of splendid love
In a bid to peck a sip so healing--
Kiss your froth in heartly devotion
As unto a ring queenly royal,
Of she whom upon my love delights,
Let mine soul be merry in this stead,
With its essence to joy in this blessing
Ringing spurts of gratitude--
and whispers of promise
I sound in chime to myself
"I, then --
Be an endless song
To which I ever call for her hand in dance."
She, then --
Be my heaven-vested cistern
My shy cup of latte
A fountain cup so sweet
It never ceases to pour.
Nov 22, 2020
Nov 22, 2020 at 5:06 PM UTC
And my nerves
Are like useless hands
At the edge of an
Argument.
My foot had a fight
With a brown brogue
And lost,
And it pays for its defeat
With nakedness.
I carry a jaundiced bag
On my hip,
Like an oversized yellow blister,
And I empty it
With a tremored hand
Against the cistern.
Half of my face
Went numb and
I dumbly
Stared into the bathroom mirror,
Astounded that I
Could still smile.
My most meaningful relationship
Is with laxatives!
I romanticise my gut,
Where the flora lives,
Because you have to
Love your body,
Somehow -
Don’t you?
Sep 2, 2013
Sep 2, 2013 at 9:21 AM UTC
together now
let us sing
the song of inanity
the song of no meaning
it is the song of the no-light
the song of the ludicrous
the ludicrous become meaning
meaning become ludicrous
This become that
That become this
*ding! ding! ding! ding!
ping! ping! ping! ping!*
everything has penetrated its opposite
and the world become beastly
no beginning, no end
no origins
let us sing now
the world topsy-turvy
the brain in a soup,
the mind’s one word: baa-baa-baa
you sing one line
the other another
and then all together
the song of bad breath and yawns
*ding! ding! ding! ding!
ping! ping! ping! ping!*
we see King Lear walking
naked in the plains
and we have the Imposter
with his heavy **** on the Throne
which is a Toilet with automated cistern
let us sing then
not then, but now
together now
let us sing
the song of inanity
the song of no meaning
it is the song of the no-light
the song of the ludicrous
the ludicrous become meaning
*ding! ding! ding! ding!
ping! ping! ping! ping!*
Sep 4, 2012
Sep 4, 2012 at 9:41 AM UTC
At the barren heart of midnight,
When the shadow shuts and opens
As the loud flames pulse and flutter,
I can hear a cistern leaking.
Dripping, dropping, in a rhythm,
Rough, unequal, half-melodious,
Like the measures aped from nature
In the infancy of music;
Like the buzzing of an insect,
Still, irrational, persistent . . .
I must listen, listen, listen
In a passion of attention;
Till it taps upon my heartstrings,
And my very life goes dripping,
Dropping, dripping, drip-drip-dropping,
In the drip-drop of the cistern.
1.3k
I have a serious issue
to discuss with all of you
I hope you'll give me
a minute to inform you
there is a lot of leaking
happening at my abode
the cistern on the toilet
had another dripping episode
so did the outside tap
near the main road
for the last week or so
the leaking has got me down
and all I ever do
is wear an elongated frown
I called the plumber
to check my leaks
and he said he couldn't
do the job
for another six weeks
the wastage of water
has me well stressed
and I'd like the leaking
to be smartly addressed
there is a suspicious noise
emanating from the kitchen sink
you guessed it
it's another leak
now I've been pushed
well over the brink
Nov 12, 2013
Nov 12, 2013 at 4:59 PM UTC
The poison stings as it hurls and flings its sharp jagged wings
against my throat.
I am not hesitant as I press the firm lips of the bottle against mine for a long cold kiss,
knowing it only gets easier after the first pull,
knowing that it will probably all be gone before tomorrow.
They call me weak.
They say I'm addicted, I've lost control, that I'm a wreck.
I'm a wreck, and they watch me weep, week after week,
until my reputation reeks of this recreation
and they call it weakness.
But to me, this liquid is strength,
The rush radiates in me a threatening power,
engulfing every ounce of my fragility.
Is it weak to seek out strength?
The liquid burns as it froths and churns and settles into the cistern
that is my chest.
This liquid fire scorches through my body,
leaving me to stagger, and lean,
and eventually capsize, like a tiny ship
swallowed up by a ravenous sea.
But as my body breaks down into bits
that scatter across your living room floor,
my mind has managed to put itself back together.
No longer afraid to admit to myself
that I felt like I belonged here somehow,
No longer afraid to spit the words out,
To stop holding it hidden inside and just let you know.
Here. I hand you my heart on a silver platter.
It's so easy to do right now.
Alcohol is my cover, it is my security blanket,
it lets me say what I need to say without taking responsibility,
it lets me reveal myself without the risk of rejection.
Because, "Hey, I was drunk. I didn't mean it."
And let's be honest,
You probably thought, "She's not herself right now."
That those weren't my words, or my thoughts, or my feelings.
You probably thought it was 'just the ***** talking,'
and honestly, that's probably what I was hoping for.
So yeah, call me weak.
It's true, it's easy to see.
But as for protecting myself from you,
until you've proven you're not deserving
of my being wary, cautious, conserving,
don't you dare ******* judge me.
Feb 23, 2011
Feb 23, 2011 at 6:24 PM UTC
You stood
in the playground
of St Jude’s school
which was really
the basement
of a bombed out house
which had been gutted
and the basement tarmaced
and the walls
were still there
where kids climbed up
and around
the thin ledge
when Janice
put her hands
over your eyes
and said
guess who?
and you put
your hands
into the pockets
of your short trousers
and said
Miss Murphy
or Miss Ashdown?
no
Janice said
it’s me
and she removed
her hands
from over your eyes
and you turned around
and looked at her
and she had
her red beret on
and a pink scarf
around her neck
to keep out
the cold
you must
have known
it was me
she said
who else
would put their hands
over your eyes?
her eyes were bright
and you thought
you could see yourself
in them
as if they were small mirrors
Jupp might do
or maybe Carmody
you said smiling
she didn’t smile back
but pulled her lips
tight in a line
then she took your hand
and pulled you
along the path
that led
to the school toilets
and pushed you
inside a cubicle
and shut the door
behind you both
and said
don’t you love me?
there was a large spider
hanging from
the cistern chain
close to
her red beret
and it hung there
suspended
swaying back
and forth
and you said
of course I do
right down
to your white socks
but there’s a spider
above your head
and she looked up
and screamed
and a voice
outside the door
asked
are you all right
in there?
Janice’s eyes widened
and she watched
as the spider
moved up the chain
and she said
yes it’s all right
Miss Murphy
just a small spider
and you stood there
next to Janice
wondering what
Miss Murphy
would say
if she saw you
and Janice
in the lavatory
together
and the voice said
ok as long
as you
are all right
and the footsteps
moved away
and Janice took
your hand in hers
and you sensed
how cold it was
slightly blue
and it was just
9 year old Janice
and the big spider
and 9 year old you.
Oct 10, 2012
Oct 10, 2012 at 3:09 PM UTC
An old man's head:
a bucket full of lies.
A vortex swirls there like
confetti at the ticker tape
parade of a traitor.
Fragments adhere and disperse
becoming ephemeral poems
that mean nothing for a moment.
Whoever and whomever become
a jaded lump of whatever.
That empty head contains
multitudes of nothing that
never quite achieve something.
Poems made of offal.
Thoughts never finished.
Whenever he is, he has been,
he will be. Vortex like
water in a flushed toilet,
disappearing into ****
Unspoken words sounding loud
in a cistern of silence
where nobody pretends to listen.
~mce
Nov 12, 2015
Nov 12, 2015 at 7:01 PM UTC
I've seen more than enough love songs
That say the the same thing in different ways
Too many hearts don't reflect the meaning of their names.
Her name means "promise". All I see is pain.
Rejection
Hate
Distaste
Disdain
Why are sad stories so difficult to tell?
The oceans in my skull have filled enough wells.
I'm thirsty for love, not sirens and liquid salt.
This cistern of sadness will not parch the thoughts that won't depart.
I'm sitting on a sleet covered street bench
And I only wish the city was as dark as the sky,
But oscillations of red and blue clarify
The night and who it belongs to.
Christmas colors aren't these
There's no green,
The same absence as the trees.
Hearts as cold as this arctic breeze.
Feb 17, 2014
Feb 17, 2014 at 1:18 AM UTC
Some call it weakness.
But to me, it is all strength,
The rush motivates in me
A threatening power engulfing
Every ounce of fragility.
Like dancing on shards of broken glass,
Like prancing across hot coals and flames,
A simple game of who can outlast,
Yet dangerous, this playing with fire and pain.
The poison stings
As it hurls and flings
Its sharp jagged wings
Against my throat.
Some call it weakness.
But to me, it is pure energy,
Pouring into every pore on my body,
Filling my orifices, filling my cavities,
Exciting every nerve ending.
Lightening shoots from my eyes
As I glance indifferently at the world around,
It's always like this at first, everything disappears
I'm just waiting to be filled with the thunder and storm clouds.
The liquid burns
As it froths and churns
And settles into the cistern
That is my chest.
Some call it weakness.
But to me, it's a release,
With my judgment altered I forget not to care,
Suddenly I possess all these liberated emotions
That nobody knew were there.
Maniacal laughter as I'm screaming inside,
Filled to the brim with this fluid fervor,
Everything is honey, finally feeling something,
Participating in living life, not just an observer.
The spirit flows
And the feeling grows
And it only goes to show
That sometimes those
Who seem predisposed
To glow...
Are froze.
Dec 6, 2010
Dec 6, 2010 at 11:50 AM UTC
In our back yard stood a brick Netty.
Paper on a nail and it is not confetti.
With a concrete roof and concrete floor,
To keep it private a big wooden door.
Cold and damp the outside loo,
Shared by the flat upstairs to.
This was our toilet on a cold winter day,
A paraffin lamp to light our way.
Cast iron cistern placed up high,
Iron chain you pulled with a sigh.
Pipes lagged with old carpet or sack,
In severe winters they freeze and crack.
Sometimes while sitting in the dim light,
A silver trail would catch you eye,
It was the sign of a snail passing bye.
Follow this line along the wall,
There you find one not always small.
Pick it up from where it lay,
Drop in to the *** and flush away.
Winter fades into spring,
Warmer day’s new problems bring.
Dad.
He would sit reading the paper,
While having a smoke.
We waited outside it was no joke.
Then out he came smiling,
As he passed our way.
Leaving his paper on the floor,
We go in and close the door.
The smell of smoke made us wail,
While tearing up the paper,
To put on the nail.
Sep 8, 2011
Sep 8, 2011 at 12:44 PM UTC
I’m falling
Falling
Falling
Down the abyss of dementia.
Caressed by darkness.
Entranced by silence’s lullaby.
Sing me the song of melancholy.
Play me the tune of self-loathing.
I want to dance to the beat of regret,
An eternal replay of past mistakes.
Leave me be! My tongue yearns to lick
The wounds that adorn my decaying body.
Let me swim in my beloved salty
Lake of tears,
A cistern polluted by haunting memories.
I’m surrounded by multitudes, yet
I’m utterly alone.
Alone.
Or am I?
What is that you say?
The key to my chains has been in my pocket
All along?!
You’re telling me the pain will mollify
Once I remove my hand from the fire?!
Ingenious.
What a brilliant proposition.
I’m the captain of my own ship, and it will
Sail to wherever my heart lies.
Oct 23, 2015
Oct 23, 2015 at 3:49 PM UTC
~
she’s a heart that is breaking,
craquelure in life's painting;
a field full of fissures,
a clouded water cistern;
the age-darkened oils,
on a canvas fading,
where sadness and aching,
in blankets of grieving lie.
she’s discovered from whence
come her friends;
those who tell her it’s
time to bring to an end,
like it’s a cake in the oven
or one’s therapy session...
any longer and they
cannot understand why.
she is grateful for those who
give space for bereavement;
who know grief doesn’t flow
on a timer or season.
but is more like a river
that spills to the sea;
though it often flows free,
there are days it runs dry.
she has learned in her heart
there's no faucet for tears,
there’s no way to escape
her soul that’s been pierced;
from her skin to her marrow,
a-ccumulus sorrow, wears
an inescapable furrow; brings
a seasonal rain to her eye.
her only transgression
this lifelong expression,
as she yearns for the essence
of what she has lost;
to her this unbearable cost.
’tis a debt without gift,
greater pain can’t exist;
yet will bear 'til her final goodbye.
this then a grace,
like an eternal embrace;
as a sky cover parting,
an internal departing,
momentary pathway to heaven;
there may be no cure for craquelure,
no end to her pain he can find,
yet he can gift her his peace of mind.
~
*post script.
cra·que·lure
kraˈklo͝or,ˈkrakˌlo͝or/
noun- a network of fine cracks
in the paint or varnish of a painting.
this is part of a small collection of poems i have written for my wife each anniversary of her loss. for the coming anniversary i began a meditation and reflection on pain and our aversion to it. we have become a world uncomfortable with pain to which we have no answer; pain that a pill or a therapy session cannot fix. unable to know how to stop it, we fall prey to trying to either ignore it or stifle it. yet pain is the beginning of compassion, a vital human emotion that is our answer to suffering.*
Feb 22, 2017
Feb 22, 2017 at 9:59 AM UTC
Dark is the Well to the bottom of my heart
Deeper than Joseph's cistern in Dothan
Should you try to fetch a water for a drink?
Where moss and mosquitos give life and live.
Shepherds and Herders pass by and spit
Said "its a curse and empty abyss"
Yet mosquitos live and form there families
And other lifeforms here they sleep.
For them its "The Well of Life"
Though its stinks and useless for your needs
Your spit and curses can be there food
Forming new life and birth.
Foul and useless this Well maybe
But someday a Living Water will be fetched
For I heard a One Shepherd who drank and bathed in this pit
He said "I will reach this abyss and pour Living Water in it"
Oct 30, 2018
Oct 30, 2018 at 1:51 PM UTC
Basic Attention Token
we all gotta cache, like a cistern.
Tis tension implanted deep in lower chakras
more, more, teasing, tugging, twisting
crying ever, more, more,
…
it is a flaw,
go, and stay connected, I understand
-- wait
-- the txt is for the single participant act
no mention is made, save the very act, guest
I guess, we guessed,
the man got away,
but, nobody asks,
like I assume they assume they know
- taken, in the very act -
full, full, fill the law to the jot
whittle me a key,
pick this lock, unravel the complexity.
- casting lots for the garment
- knitted from one thread,
New Testament Greek between the himatia
(literally “over-garments”)
and the seamless robe,
which is chiton,
(literally "tunic" or "coat").
https://kenpepiton.com/?p=1273
Jul 31, 2021
Jul 31, 2021 at 10:26 PM UTC