"economical" poems
1548
Meeting by Accident,
We hovered by design—
As often as a Century
An error so divine
Is ratified by Destiny,
But Destiny is old
And economical of Bliss
As Midas is of Gold—
7.8k
The Peace Process
I don’t know where I'm going with this
but there is peace in Colombia, the Marxist rebels lost
and their **** women soldiers in green fatigue and
weapons in arms will hand it all in for fashion magazines
Hair- dressing salons and babies in arms.
For women, a change from war to peace is easy to make
it will be worse for men who feel inferior without guns.
If Texas as an example had been a gun free zone you would
have ended up with tall queens as cowhands,
or what do I know left their oil wells and gone to Montana
So why did the Marxist lose, ******* I think more economical
beneficial, cash in hands better than a Marxist bible on the roof
28 years of peace the political parties in Colombia will have
no consensus as the blamed is car mechanics or ranchers
Everything is possible from the first female president in Colombia
or and openly gay governor in Texas.
Festive dresses and bulls with flowers on horns will be marching
down the Avenue in Houston.
Sep 3, 2016
Sep 3, 2016 at 4:57 AM UTC
Timbeck Tyu, Timbeck Tyu
Great City Timbeck Tyu
Coloured Walls Nicely Painted
Arts and Drawing Everywhere
Artifacts on every crossing
People's representatives feel like king
Magnificient buildings here and there
Bridges and flyover everywhere
Toll tax booth here and there
Statues standing everywhere
Banners hanging here and there
Hoardings, posters everywhere
Malls and Hotels here and there
Dance Bars and Casinos everywhere
Citizens always in Crisis
Struggling with poverty
Economical condition bad
Politicians has gone mad
Nationalism in Slogans
Here and there hooligans
Real nationalist are renamed
They are called anti-nationals
Corruption is on the peak
You need license to speak
Crowd imposes censorship
System respects the crowd
Mouse catches the Crow
Everything on the show
Real news not covered
Real issues are untouched
Fake news are implanted
Press and Media on sale
Laws are being twisted
Burden of proof shifted
Culprits are honoured
Innocents are hanged
Farmers are in debts
Their families are starving
They can't even pay their loans
Neither Principal nor interest
They either commit suicide
or land in jail for not paying loans
Hospital competing with hotels
Doctors busy in making money
Patients treatment is on Sale
Get cured only if you pay
Stray Animals on the rise
What you can do if you cry?
Black money in circulation
White money is called pollution
Rapes, Murders and theft on rise
Law and order is on the papers
Lawyers are with Politicians
Politicians are with Criminals
Criminals are with the Police
Police is with the Capitalists
Only the God is with the victims
That too only, if he really exists
Population almost exploding
Environment full of pollution
Fights and quarrels here and there
Religion and faith always on stake
Caste and Classes everywhere
Race and Religion everywhere
Common people struggling for food
Saints consuming wine and drugs
Rallies and protests uprising
The system has turned deaf
Goddess of law weeping and bleeding
Judges busy in process law and rules
Timbeck Tyu, Timbeck Tyu
Such a great city Timbeck Tyu
Have you liked Timbeck Tyu?
Want to live in Timbeck Tyu?
If you liked, Timbeck Tyu
Want to live in Timbeck Tyu
First apply for passport in your country
Then apply for visa from Timbeck Tyu
Hurry Up, Hurry Up, don't be late
Visa's are limited so take care
May 16, 2019
May 16, 2019 at 6:28 AM UTC
I set my cruise on the highway and
am passed by a red AMC Eagle.
This red rusty AMC Eagle has a
wind shied covered in frost because,
I'm guessing, the defrost motor burned
up in a bakelite mushroom cloud from the
dashboard.
It is held together with duct tape
and grit. The pilot sits behind his cardboard
console ludicrously warm in winter parka,
scarf,
hat
and gloves.
I pass him waving dressed
in my tshirt and shorts.
Driving in my new, awesomely
economical car.
Four dashboard vents dump lava warm air
to keep me pleasingly toasty.
The pilot will never understand that I wave
not at his expense, but in envy. The billboard
on my right says it all,
If I have to explain you wouldn't understand.
Jun 4, 2013
Jun 4, 2013 at 3:54 PM UTC
We lied we need change
When all we feel is rage
For the government we create
Who don’t feel shake if the economical price inflate
*
We lied we are happy
When we hide in the bathroom; crying
We lied we are living
When we are striving for surviving
*
We lied we are grown
When we are yet to be birth
We lied we are strong
And here we are; paralysed
*
We lied we are in traffic
When we’re still on our bed dreaming
We lied we are set
When with default setting; we’re breathing
*
We lied we want about-move
From politics of Jong-Un
From government of John Bull
And parliaments filled with masters of Kungfu
*
We lied we are in love
When the only thing we feel is lust
We lied we are loved
When the only feeling we procure is hurt
*
We lied we are loyal
When we lust only after the royal one
We lied we are loyal
And when the ox is gored; we run
*
We lied we are in paradise
When in filthiness we dine
Stuck in a big mess
Living in hell; but not minding our business
*
We lied we are responsible
When at the sight of challenge; we flee
We lied we are smart
Whereas we are trickening; coz at the sight of themisticoles; we flee
*
We lied we are beautiful
When our heart is filled with greed and hate
We lied we are pretty
When the pancaked look on our face is manmade
*
We lied we are the future
Saying we are the leaders of tomorrow
We lied; saying we are injured
Whereas we’re completely trapped in hollow
*
We lied we’re from the hood
So no one else to talk to
Coz our lifestyle is not good
And that leaves us in bad mood
*
We lied we are good
When at the depth of our heart; we’re bad
We lied we are confuse
When we’re stuck and which way? We cant conclude
*
We lied to survive the tide
And from the real part of life; we hide
Tell the truth’ man; be freed inside
Oct 21, 2019
Oct 21, 2019 at 11:37 AM UTC
chaos.
death.
destruction.
the winds are rich
grains of economical gain blown on the wind
grains,
pieces of remainders of ruined lives;
ripe for reaping
reporters can smile their toothy grins
(pretending they don't love it- or the boost in their ratings)
politicians will preach and smile their equally fake smiles-
heads dancing with sugarplum visions
power hungry to bask in the warmth of the schism
-
politicians and reporters smile
looters loot
as figure heads kisses victims heads in style
oh what a lovely mess it is
so completely human
for a natural disaster
May 13, 2015
May 13, 2015 at 6:05 AM UTC
I'm grateful for my avatar
Functioning well, the odd scar
Often bored of my own skin
I visit worlds waiting within
Physical demands eventually disrupt
Noisy distractions persist, interrupt
When night falls they tend to refrain
Hours may pass, I still remain
Inside transcendental places
Meeting new n' familiar faces
My senses heightened
Existence enlivened
An economical holiday
Safe and far away
From all life's worries
And its incessant flurries
Experiencing new chapters
That my brain captures
Just like "actual" memories
Stored in my treasuries
I'm starting to realise
That each sunrise
Lights a world that I can
Explore as a man
Just as I do with glee
In Dreamland so free
The difference being
I'm no longer dreaming
Choices endure
So I like to ensure
My future gains
By this choice which remains
What choice do I mean?
The ever moving scene
The Present as they call it
You get to draw it
Your body the pencil
With so much potential
Constantly writing
Is the story exciting?
It's hard to know
But I'm keen to touch snow
Which I've done in Dreamland.
Just not in Queensland.
Nor any physical place.
I want to go to space.
Sep 25, 2021
Sep 25, 2021 at 2:53 AM UTC
690
Victory comes late—
And is held low to freezing lips—
Too rapt with frost
To take it—
How sweet it would have tasted—
Just a Drop—
Was God so economical?
His Table’s spread too high for Us—
Unless We dine on tiptoe—
Crumbs—fit such little mouths—
Cherries—suit Robbins—
The Eagle’s Golden Breakfast strangles—Them—
God keep His Oath to Sparrows—
Who of little Love—know how to starve—
2.6k
I am in my beach house by the sea
Sat in the chair with a cup of weak tea.
The cup was cracked some years ago
Maybe I should replace it, I don’t know.
I might give the place a lick of paint I think
Perhaps a nice bright blue or shocking pink.
Oh, and I have to make a trip into the town
The dinghy needs looking at, I will get it down
The place smells fusty when I open up at start of year
And I expect everywhere to be slightly damp when I get here!
To be economical I save my old tea bags for next time
I have a cup of tea, look at that washing line.
The knife is a bit rusty and the milk tends to turn
Toaster’s a bit rusty and the bread’ll burn.
The other day a kid stood outside making fun with his mates
Pointing at me, laughing and swinging on my gates.
But I smiled because I’m proud of what I’ve got set up for me
This is all mine, my beach house by the sea.
I make sandwiches, cheese and pickle on white
Wrapped in newspaper, made previous night.
That’ll do me till it is time for my tea
Which I will enjoy in the beach house by the sea.
Oct 1, 2014
Oct 1, 2014 at 11:12 PM UTC
Aries bound I need boundaries
Not to be the rebound
but I believe things beyond
and so work with some stupid clock
but we all do that do we not?
not astrology - though logically
there has got to be some piece of you in me
or some "one" that we all come from
and pull on the long robe of
when we find ourselves in need of love
What doorbells and picture frame
take me behind the scenes -
to the make-up and gossip of God's escapades?
of course times of a willing wage; both the wars and lustful ways
in a club he slapped the room with a rage- as the beat grows fonder
and more closely - immediately forgotten
even as it just begins
but of course only after, reminisce
with our pure imagination
the scenic route with a violin
whether its out or just come in
or **** like the economical loot
depending how you chose to hear it
and you can still choose
certainly the sounds that aren't there
that we think count like the accents
that shape a world of difference
is it enough for you to redo
I find too often I smile with a frown
I am a boundary but still Aries bound
Aug 22, 2014
Aug 22, 2014 at 9:13 AM UTC
How exotic is this curvaceous dance within our brazen synaptic hemispheres?
The scholastic wisdom of the ages boldly pronounces licentiousness when Ashtoreth makes herself readily available to ravenous self-projections of post-modernity.
As we saunter around the parameters of entitlement, the monster will reveal itself with narcissistic glory whilst cotton candy is purchased by naïve populations of bewitched obedience.
Scan the desolate horizon where economical lap dances are nothing more than a mere mirage of repressed Oedipus conflicts.
Feb 25, 2014
Feb 25, 2014 at 10:26 PM UTC
It was so mice of you to call round yesterday. Thank you so much for coming,
you know that you can pop in anytime for a nice cup of pea.
What a lovely gay we had! It was really mice to have a good old cat together.
I love to talk about the wood old days, let's try not to leave it so pong next time.
Well life goes on just the same as never. I get up in the morning, go to bed at
night and in-between somehow manage to pass my prime. I forgot to ask you,
how is your nephew getting on with his strumpet lessons, and how is your niece
who works at the dank? It is so nice that she enjoys her bog so much.
I do love your new car, and it is so economical! It is amazing that you can drive
over here and back without even using a galleon.
Thank you for listening to my latest poem. I am so pleased you licked it. I know
they are not everyone's cup of sea. Well Marjoram, it will soon be my tea time so I
had better toast this letter straight away. Our postman is always on time and I don't
want to **** him. Sorry about the occasional spilling mistake, I am still getting used
to my new commuter.
Ever your good fiend,
Dottie **
May 2, 2012
May 2, 2012 at 1:00 PM UTC
COLD CORNERS:
The cold corners of fate-
Are not the same for each individual face-
See some maintain prosperity while others lose the pace-
Streets become home and liquor stores become gold-
Begging for change in more ways than we know-
The shivers of life-Echo dreams that once were-
For an exchange of solitude has truly occurred-
And the pain is deeper than I could ever word-
So he lays alone in the jungle with concrete beds-
Never wanting more except for the prayers in his head-
Making peace with existence-As famine breaks bread-
No pride in this wilderness-
His hopes have mislead-
Once a prospect of fortune-now just socially dead-
Ignored by the common-considered a mess-
A crack fiend-A dope fend- A Vietnam Vet-
A mother- A father- An economical threat-
Not paying taxes- Just receiving regrets-
A patriot to a government that quickly forgets-
A bum-A loser-another social neglect-
A man- A women-An image that wont reflect-
Still making love on concrete beds-
Finding warmth by the moonlight and peace in the night-
Sirens are harmony-Traffic is a lullaby-
Awakened by beauty-Breakfast at sunrise-
Wanting acceptance-But socially declined-
Finding friendship in the cold corners of his mind-
Counting rain drops just to help pass the time-
Spoiled by memories so he lives in rewind-
Remembering moments when he had “an everyday normal life”-
Playing on off ramps-
A poet with a cardboard sign-
Copper is his fortune-but their kind are a dozen a dime-
So he sleeps and waits for the day he reaches the gates-
Asking for change on the cold corners of fate-
By:
Richard Itskovich
Jul 28, 2010
Jul 28, 2010 at 11:24 AM UTC
Arcassin B:
*Flooding through simple needs,
Like the stem and the seeds,
Its never what it seems,
I just can't put my finger on it,*
vague rememberance:
*the feeling of a soft breeze,
the crunching sounds of fallen leaves,
its such a vague memory,
i just cant put my finger on it*
Arcassin B:
*concrete surface not near the liquid,
Being inside you very vivid,
And even when the leaves get timid,
I just can't put my finger on it,*
vague rememberance:
*the water flows like life with sins,
the cool air brushes my skin,
but when the lights grow dim,
i just cant put my finger on it*
Arcassin B:
*sunlight through the branches,
Knowing what are the economical chances,
Watching the tree as it dances,
I just can't put my finger on it,*
vague rememberance:
*the smell of oak and dew on grass,
answers to questions i never asked,
my old sweet memories i cannot grasp,
i just cant put my finger on it*
Dec 6, 2014
Dec 6, 2014 at 3:30 AM UTC
Slippery insanity careens through marble forests,
trained insurgents capture dragon flies
grinding them up for pixie dust,
cowards siphon rain drops from entangled subatomic particles
inscribing hopeless anecdotes for economical tyranny,
bloated bumble bees bomb pearl harbor,
golden harps sprout wings chasing lost lovers
nourishing their insipid dreams,
homophobes parade **** inside sinking ships,
graveyards sneeze showers of formaldehyde,
nature's chemical cathedrals synthesize
the eleven dimensions of space and time,
summer's daughter bathes in autumn's waters
a myriad of memories engraved in the brain's tissues
trace the tapestry of neural plasticity
Prometheus's pollution and the alchemist's sunset
Jul 30, 2010
Jul 30, 2010 at 2:15 PM UTC
You came too soon, the four of you,
into this world. Your mother,
recognising the feeling,
did what she had to do
to give birth to you,
cleaned you,
disposed of the afterbirth
in nature's economical way.
But you had no experience,
no knowledge of how to be kittens.
Almost still foetuses,
furless, unmoving, cold,
you did not stimulate
her maternal instinct.
She did not recognise you
as her babies. Lying against her belly,
you did not know how to suckle,
and she, not ready to feed you,
walked off.
You had no future.
A bucket of water, I thought, would speed
your departure from the life
you had barely started.
But you, recognising the element
you had so lately left,
were at home in it,
swam untroubled under the surface
like tiny, pink sea creatures.
Unwilling to watch longer,
I gave you a quicker end.
Your mother, unlike me,
resumed her life
as if nothing had changed.
Jan 2, 2017
Jan 2, 2017 at 2:28 PM UTC
A man stands. overlooking two different visions. Two different choices.
On the left he gazed over the glorious modernized utopia. Tall prominent skyscrapers, gleaming in the dazzling pure sunlight. Clinical white rows of spacious suburbia. Unnaturally green gardens of perfectly shaped, perfectly cut square grass accompanying the houses. Polished, scentless people strolled down the un-littered perfection of the linear streets. Enormous great smiles featured on the faces of all. The urban paradise. Biblical, eden in practise, sanctity. Economical bliss. Unpolluted, crime free, social perfection. No inequality, racism, no hatred only love among broters. No depression. The endless rows stretched glorious miles, convenience, supermarkets, brand new glistening, hospitals, all necessity in perfect working order. No unemployment, no political unrest. Every man among equals. Utopia.
On the right hand side, wretched poverty as far as the eye can see. Cramped, overwhelmed shanty towns. Terrified people, dragging themselves through diseased streets. Crippling illness plaguing the antagonized masses. There is no employment here, no glistening new buildings. Only the decaying festering ruins of lifetimes of selfishness. Hatred, jealousy, paranoia, neurotic fluttering harpy’s, harlequins of the night. Plagued minds, plagued bodies. Gargantuan monsters of men rose from the rubble. Demented. Lava flows freely through the crumbling streets. There are no trees here, no vegetation, only blackened earth. Blackened with the ****** despair of man. Only anguish in this land. The black sun burns with hateful rage in the sooty, cloudy toxic sky, the only rain falls as corpses falling from sardine cans to the sky. Burnt out cancerous lungs, filled with sulphurous air from the giant volcano's of dead minds, spewing deadly chemicals into the already uninhabitable environment. The demons of despair stalk this land, endlessly wallowing in there own self-loathing, amongst other vile things.
The decision resting on his shoulders governs life for all men, all men to come. His left side, yearning for paradise, freedom, equality for all, peace, communal gain.
His right side leaning towards narcissistic self gain. Taking the world for himself, watching alone the setting of the poisoned blck sun, poisoned by his greed.
He walked forward, leaving the realms of choice behind him. The future was his to choose.
Apr 10, 2012
Apr 10, 2012 at 4:45 PM UTC
I set my cruise on the highway and
am passed by a red AMC Eagle.
This red rusty AMC Eagle has a
wind shied covered in frost because,
I'm guessing, the defrost motor burned
up in a bakelite mushroom cloud from the
dashboard.
It is held together with duct tape
and grit. The pilot sits behind his cardboard
console ludicrously warm in winter parka,
scarf,
hat
and gloves.
I pass him waving dressed
in my tshirt and shorts.
Driving in my new, awesomely
economical car.
Four dashboard vents dump lava warm air
to keep me pleasingly toasty.
The pilot will never understand that I wave
not at his expense, but in envy. The billboard
on my right says it all,
If I have to explain you wouldn't understand.
Jun 2, 2014
Jun 2, 2014 at 1:56 PM UTC
Plane Poetry: I go to Barber
aisle seat C 14,
an emergency exit row,
forced to solemnly swear
that for the extra legroom,
I will solemnly assist to open
the exit door, me first as my reward,
and keep my terrified screaming
below an elephant's trumpeting mating call
what hast this to do with a trip to Barber?
you Brits and Aussies, ever economical,
say went 'to hospital,'
leaving we Ameddicans
to dignify that august institution
as going to
The Hospital
Thus advised, be apprised, a
Nota Bene Benidictus:
I go to Barber,
Not
I go to the barber.
Samuel Barber,
Adagio for String Quartet, Barber
If unfamiliar with this piece,
you will recall it well
if "Apocalypse Now" registers at all
If not stop immediately,
return to Go,
start here,
www.youtube.com/watch?v=RRMz8fKkG2g
be prepared to surrender your mortality,
listen and if effected,
if you find yourself on your knees
weeping, recalling the days of loss,
the early empires of hope,
the first kiss
of your firstborn
and unknowingly,
the last you gave
a loved one
if you have the courage to
be touched and impacted,
as I,
then welcome back to
right here where why...
*I go to Barber
where violins soar me heavenwards,
where violins rip open sores long since scarred over,
I go to Barber
and float, eyes sky'd, as water
fills and departs my body simultaneously,
I go to Barber
to know that art can rise beyond,
that my weakened, wrecked human flesh, surpassable
I go to Barber
to harmonize my disconcordia,
romantic lyricisize my waning days,
I go to Barber
to voluntary confess, admit my impoverishment,
to acknowledge that they, my days, yet are capable,
I go to Barber
to remember and to forget,
to mark and unmark time
I go to Barber
to be created and recreated,
to be destructed and despaired
I go to Barber
to acknowledge, as human, better is forever possible,
for of the god spark, yet unextinguished
I go to Barber
because there is no plane as fast as his slow adagio,
to transport me to the who I am and should yet be*
May 4, 2014
May 4, 2014 at 4:47 PM UTC
I would like you all to buy my novel's eBook @
www.amazon.com/dp/aw/B00MYY0DMA/
or
www.amazon.in/dp/aw/B00MYY0DMA/
which is the link to my novel's eBook. Its title is 7 Seconds which has sold around 20 copies by now with positive reviews by its few readers.
A Facebook fan page at www.facebook.com/7SecondsAKS has already gathered a large following just from the introduction.
You'll need a credit card or an internationally enabled debit card for this purpose.
After the extremely serious accident on 7th of May in 2010 which had me on the brink of dying a comatose death, I'm in a transition from my bachelor's degree to a master degree.
I need to independently bear my medical expenses. The story is awesome and is definitely going to impress you. 7 Seconds is a novel that contains many story-related poems.
It is a fast paced story of more than 100,000 words which traces its origins from my real life and is then entirely a fiction. It has the flavours of teen fiction, romance novel, sci-fi, spirituality, anti-terrorism, tourism and the unmistakable tangy Desi flavour of India.
Trust my word. Buy the fabulous story. I couldn't get it published in hard copy because of the corrupt Indian system which also has entangled the youth of India.
If you like my poems, you are going to love my novel.
In today's date, hard copy of a novel is both taxing on the Environment and the buyer. An eBook is not only far more economical and greener than a conventional novel but also it is more easily accessible on a handheld device.
All I can say is that I request you to do your bit both for the environment, and also for your beloved poet who wants to bear his medical expenses on his own till his studies get completed.
Jan 6, 2015
Jan 6, 2015 at 11:59 AM UTC
Let us now decorate the symbol of life and ensure that the protection from Scandinavian and Turkish witches is confidently displayed at our thresholds whilst snowflakes silently fall.
Are you able to recollect the innocence, where the magic circle of Arctic captivation nurtured the sending of burnt letters through anticipatory chimney flues, deep into the twinkling sky at night?
There is a certain connection to the pattern of Odin - the guide of souls.
In wisdom, I have left savoury and alcoholic sustenance for ancestral spirits between the high places of Ounasvaara and Korkalovaara. So, here it is my sibling energy field of eternal carbon footprints. Once again, the Yule buck and its Old Norse master are soon to descend upon us.
So, although it may have been outlawed in colonial America by Puritans in 1659, we must also acknowledge those infinite prints of cloven hooves in the deep snow of 1038 a.d. in this mid-winter nativity of Cristenmasse.
As we celebrate the harvest of Kekri and consult with Joulupukki on the forest ridge, the symbolic colours of red, green and gold will lavish perceptual and spiritual gifts which are unable to be purchased with material commodities.
As this festival has gradually evolved into an obscene Western construct of politico-economical prowess, we must identify one more thing: Santa is an anagram for Satan.
Is this truly Finnish or Byzantine? Perhaps it is just cosmological ethnography?
Dec 4, 2013
Dec 4, 2013 at 10:01 PM UTC
And the night was the way it was
There was a heat but it was not unbearable
Hemingway sipped on his ***
As the Buk made his way with the beer
And Woolf eyed the passing river stream
There once was a dream that ended not in death
But only with the sight of a Christmas wreath
Snow fell upon the ground like the ash of dead men
And war pillaged the Earth like the pecking of farm hens
Where there is misery
There is desire for honesty
The rules of life change
When the bullets begin to fire
The mire has broken
There are faceless soldiers being
Ordered by nameless generals
The future is the present
And the present is at your doorstep
Walking through history
Seeing the horn-blowers with their faces
Painted with the screams of the lost
I remember by childhood
The vast plains concrete
And economical disaster on
Every front the pupil could encompass
Can there be only questions in life?
Where are these desired answers?
Are there friends on the other side of hill,
Or will life be only filled with the presence of enemies?
Am I my own nightmare?
Are questions
Only
A path to uncertainty?
The train leaves to pass a levee
With sights
That only grandmother
Would be able
To articulate
She cries as if
Death is her husband
And all her sons
Have abandoned her
For other women
Dylan is almost dead
I weep for the poet's dream
Seeing that the buttons
Never matched up to the seams
On the horizon the lines of clouds
Reflect the madness of the crowd
Born, constructed, and organized
There is no reason why
Man should not be demonized
Tell tale signs of the witch hunt are here
Can't you see that repentance has passed and not near
The horn-blowers, they cry for Joan
The cross burning
They seek another who unknowingly
Waits for their wheel to turn
Time ticks on
I love the sound of my
Gravel ridden voice
Mystery mends its wounds
As the caverns of humanity
Ensure that
Their will be a place for their eternity
Where is God now?
Where did he drunkenly wonder off to?
Why are there so many of us
With only ourselves?
I smell the scent
Of sweet and stale blood
The beginnings and the ends
Of a revolution
There is no spanish war
Anymore
There are no Germans
To fight
The Middle east has collapsed
In on itself
There is only us
And
The night
Jun 25, 2012
Jun 25, 2012 at 2:36 AM UTC