"featherweight" poems
Oh werewolf with woollen wings,
Whimpering in the willows.
Thou vile voice a vice grip
Stuffed inside her pillows.
Yours is a violent cry for help
One should never have to hear.
So dare come near, just know it clear.
Your fleer; my leer. For tears, jeers and
Featherweight fears will never break weirs that
Forever fill wells deeper than the darkest hole
You gouged in the lightest soul.
Your sword; her shield. My words; wounds healed.
I’m ever bending moonlight to set it right.
Go haunt yourself through a never ending night!
A single silver bullet shimmers in her sunlight.
The same one you shot upright.
Falling fast into the broken bed you made.
Now let it embed deep in your head. Well played.
Jul 13, 2021
Jul 13, 2021 at 10:22 PM UTC
Candleabra's flickering flames
cast a shimmering dancing
shadow of me,
upon my golden coffer overhead,
brought about by a sudden gust
of window-wind... God's finger-breeze...
Master airy-finger puppeteer
you are
dance the leaves
about my Autumn yard...
Push and stir
soft light newly blanketed wintry snow
on lifting eddies,
causing flying fancy, barnyard dancer's dos-a-dos
among infinitesimal,
and featherweight
delicately frozen
crystal-looking flakes...
Push tiny tango waves
upon reflected sparkling silvery lakes
that crest s l i d e then fall
And spectator trees
that enciricle about the watery ballroom-lake
surface-floor,
then with airy fingertips
clap, clap together
the loudly whispering and rustling leaves
that applaud
the watery dancing waves below...
And with windy fingertips
sail white billowing cotton like
vapor-sails
across an unplowable
oceanless
spatial blue...
Glad God
You mostly are
puppeteer of every star
Dance sundries of objects
on your play-ball planet
and puppet-likened stage
And let me laugh
in zestful rage
about danceable things
that can be danced,
that can be danced
on windy-finger days...
Sep 17, 2014
Sep 17, 2014 at 3:09 PM UTC
anxiety: my heart wakes me up, tattooing irregular beats against
my ribs, pulse racing, breath shaking. i cannot tell
if this is real or psychosomatic. these days,
i think about death all the time,
no longer by suicide. now, i am
an accident waiting to happen,
fragile from years of misuse &
neglect. the shallow inhales
of my lungs tell me
i am not okay.
depression: this is a gray day. i swallow my meds even though
they take away my mania. so i drink black coffee until my mind
races itself in circles, chasing its tail like a rabid dog.
i keep the razors hidden in my sock drawer,
just in case.
anorexia: my ribs ****** forward from my skin again, the sharp
protrusion of my bones beginning to show through. i am eating
but drinking my weight in water
& mainlining caffeine to keep my metabolism high & my weight
low. i am still child-sized & i don't want to grow.
they lift me easily with their arms & marvel
at my featherweight body.
the compliments i get only make me
eat less.
self-harm: on the days when i am low, i trace
the silver stretch of scars scattered over my skin
with a yearning for a blade between my fingers
just one last time. i swear to you, the bleeding is over,
but i need to know
i am still brave
enough
to hold a sharp edge against my flesh
& press down,
hard.
addiction: a month ago,
i downed four adderall in one sitting,
luxuriating in the heady rush & lack of pain,
the quiet & the calm.
when i lived at home, i stole
my mother's vicodin & took the whole bottle.
i'm not sorry.
when the boy who only cared about ******* me
offered mdma for free,
i accepted, but i shouldn't have trusted him
to keep me safe,
blacking out on his kitchen
floor.
drink red wine to forget
my insecurity, inhale
thick, sweet smoke to feel
some semblance of happy,
drag on cigarettes
down to their filters
until i feel properly
alive.
all i want is to be better, but
where to begin?
Nov 19, 2013
Nov 19, 2013 at 9:59 AM UTC
Undefeated. Undisputed. 12 wins, 0 losses. A perfect 12-0 record.
You’re the crowd’s favorite as Vegas odds are in your favor.
Through the years of being in this game, you can almost get used to the fame.
“This fight’s going to be an easy one” – you assured your Coach.
You enter the octagon and see her warming up. Then you hear Bruce Buffer laying out the ground rules.
You’re excited – but nervous.
You feel the pressure of having to live up to everyone’s expectations. From your coach to the little girl on the other side of the world rooting for you.
You thought it was going to be another landslide victory.
Barely 2 minutes in and you feel scared.
Suddenly, you feel a numbing pain on your chin. It was a left hook.
As you fall face first, you feel nothing. Your unconscious body lays flat on the octagon floor.
Lights out.
Moments later you wake up to the sound of the fans cheering in the octagon.
A left hook was all it took for your dream of retiring undefeated to come crashing down.
For the first time, it wasn’t your arm that was raised by Herb Dean.
For the first time, you heard the words, “….and the new Featherweight champion”
You don't let it sink in at first but you can only hold back for too long before you realize that you lost.
You stood up, wiped the sweat off of your forehead, removed your gloves and marched out.
Suddenly you feel this weird feeling of embarrassment.
"So this is how it feels to lose?" you said to yourself.
You found a chair, sat down and composed yourself.
You’re still in one piece, which is a good thing but you know that fact cannot compensate for the emotional disorientation you felt.
Broken bones really do heal faster than injured egos.
Maybe your loss was a way of knocking some sense into you.
Winning is not everything, the same way that losing is not.
Sometimes you need to experience defeat in order to appreciate how satisfying every victory is.
As a fan, I know it's going to be hard to bounce back from this loss.
But you're going to be okay, champ. You always do.
Jul 3, 2016
Jul 3, 2016 at 9:06 PM UTC
*The quake of oblivious control,
aimlessly sends me spiraling.
I feel a break in the tumble,
Realizing the forged signatures from
Those who seek calculated risks.
I am only a human,
With this life thrown at me in a hurry.
Stars march & chant.
Revisiting the nights shallow freedom.
Displaying cuts of bleeding light,
A treasure to those who see its dance.
I have come far for a drink,
Of essence.
The book, we share on the darkest gravel,
Having featherweight ambitions.
The mornings betray my dreaming.
My flaws accept the rituals.
Whatever will, I have left,
Becomes a map.
A velvet initiation, to wonder again.
To seek the ways of life,
That many call disappointing,
& Pointless.
For it is I, who sees a ribbon on true beauty.
Each day following a thread to a lake.
Following the sequenced whispers,
Telling me, I am Moonchild,
Giver; of redemption.*
Oct 19, 2013
Oct 19, 2013 at 2:44 PM UTC
I'm spitting teeth onto the pavement.
Cracked grin cracked across my mouth
like your fist as it splits my lip again.
And again.
And again.
Ribs splitting from the laugh
that is echoing across the bricks
laid psuedo-symetrically like our
best-made plans.
In this corner weighing in at 115 pounds
we have the hopeless romantic.
All featherweight and bones.
All martyrish and faithful.
Jan 29, 2013
Jan 29, 2013 at 5:50 PM UTC
My words spill out like mice
hiding in the cupboards and in the bread
Each ******* is crumbled
and humbled by gnawing
The tables are dusted with
delicate clawing
The marring is whispered
in squeaking silent sound
Impossible to see but
they are rife across the ground
In bed they find the warmth
in the goose down and the cotton
now sullied small diseases
will soon go washed forgotten
Trapping tactics once tried and true
seems wasted on these careful few
Snapping empty in the dark
no silent stealing will squeeze them stark
Each dream they waltz across the screen
like small and spying rolicking ribbons
Through the snowy evergreens and wanton queens
yet waking finds that they aren't fiction
To tame them in time
is what must be
So no more is cradled
by their incredulous creed
Now that they have all run of the house
From the floorboards to the flue
My fighting is futile against this furred Faust
For in my great battles, my life they've consumed
My motions through doors
now move with great heed
over my rasped wooden floors
of naked tails and featherweight feet
Each morning they find
themselves feeling bold
and swim like sirens
through my cereal bowl
At noon when I read
they shred and they gnaw
so I can no longer see
one word without a paw
In my evening bath
they sport small diving bells
As I dry myself off
from my towel I shake twelve
They admire in the mirror
and prance piano pirouettes
they've failed to adhere
to give respect to any threat
One day a magic made it though
to the edges of my mind
to cut short this ever frothing flow
and put my tongue in a bind
Then slowly, slowly, one by one
they folded flew and fell
I'd hardly hope this trial was done
but it all continued well
One night when they were scarce and few
only the faintest furred remained
I wonderfully slept sound and anew
Haunted dreams I no longer detained
The lonely left began to nestle in
an exodus through the sheets and bed
each whisker scraped soft on skin
and climbed back inside my head
Nov 13, 2010
Nov 13, 2010 at 11:32 PM UTC
A Featherweight mind takes a long draw of a fragment of time cut out exclusively for the purpose of observance
There are delicate fingerprints elegantly marked vertically along his forearm
In case of insurgency, please start here
Dread mixed with a sense of urgency
For what purpose were those fingerprints placed
If not for the eventual laceration
Dec 28, 2012
Dec 28, 2012 at 8:51 AM UTC
#*I am all about thoughts and words
Have been so all my life
Words ,being a recent find
A promise to my thoughts, I will word them all
To keep or break it , am yet to decide
The thoughts featherweight, upwards they fly
Words earth bound , gravity they can’t defy
The thoughts ,In silence they live
In words they die , To live another life*#
Oct 4, 2018
Oct 4, 2018 at 7:25 AM UTC
i want
big, doe eyes
that you can't take seriously
even when i'm yelling at you
face red, voice scratchy
at 3am
to leave.
i want
soft, wispy hair
that you'd twirl round and round
telling me you love me, i'm your baby &
eyes red, voice low
at 3am
i'd tell you the same.
i want
a nose only fit for pleasance
that'd allow me to enjoy the roses
you brought to apologize for coming home late
hair up, voice hushed
at 3am
and not the alcohol on your breath.
i want
featherweight skin
so when you pull me by your side
there is only a thin layer of cells between our hearts
noses turned, voices unheard
at 3am
i hug you closer.
i want
a burning ambition to make things work
that would keep this alive
whatever this may be
skin tight, voices livid
at 3am
waking up the neighbors.
i want
to be 80 pounds again
so you would carry me back
when i fall asleep in the car, hand clasped with yours
mind on hold, your sweet lullaby
at 3am
sending me back to sleep.
oh,
i'm not trying to be perfect
i just want you to stick around a little longer
deep down
i know i can change
but the problem is you
Apr 8, 2013
Apr 8, 2013 at 11:06 PM UTC
I wait for my love
To return
To me
Like a boomerang
Tied with string.
I look for my love
To find a home
In another heart
Close to me.
And while I wait
And look
And dream
I revel in invisible
Featherweight caresses
And smile at the sweetness
Filling my ears
My mind
My soul.
Mar 27, 2012
Mar 27, 2012 at 6:18 AM UTC
She’s a dimple and a drag, corner of Worth and Magpie, French Vogue idioms and her mother’s red flowery hoop earrings. Aloha! Aloha! Oopty-oops in contract loot thru streets and backyard parties, concrete larders, her eyes lie like presidential promises, a slipknot of licorice around her neckline to keep her rising tide from the Menarche Moon.
Anything to keep the little penny featherweight dancer from slipping. Her siblings poke fun at her funny way of speaking, her bath tub is just an excuse for chiseling at her innards, taking a drag at her lungs and punching her duck-billed platypus in the kidneys; a heavy-weight champion of the worm.
That until all the saints come writhing off the fishing lines. Until the ballerina’s edema coexists with Tokyo extremists, serial killer behemoths that keep body parts and *** toys in the freezer. Here, here! Wrath goes to the fella with the wicked demeanor. In an area of limited sight, this country, it’s people are sickened at the sights of themselves, and the wackos are coming out in large swaths, minerals and dimples strapped to their waist belts in the throes of a menopausal demagogue heaving OxyContin down El Camino Real.
Nov 7, 2017
Nov 7, 2017 at 4:34 PM UTC
They’re the kinds
That blow in
Like summer heat
And settle in the dust
The bad news blues
Mamma warned you about
The gunslinger’s smile
Daddy didn’t trust
Humid touches
And featherweight footsteps
‘Til the wind carries them
To the next town.
Jul 11, 2010
Jul 11, 2010 at 11:08 PM UTC
i wish i could plant myself in your heart as deeply as you have planted yourself in my head. around you, the possibility of my breathing being normal is less than zero percent.
you make me forget how to inhale anything other than your scent.
i've forgotten how to exhale anything other than your warmth.
you are a creation molded from god's hands himself; his fingers created the sloping landscape that is your nose, your dipping cheekbones, the curve of your lips that expose so much happiness that i can almost see the breathtaking sunflowers growing out from the cracks of your skin.
you were made out of the most fragile porcelain taken from the insides of the most precious Egyptian tombs, your hair painted with the melted gold from the kings and queens themselves.
folding, curving skin.
i can run for miles through this field of ever growing sunflowers, my bare, naked feet leaving a trail of warm kisses as i dive into the flowers and roll, my bare body enveloped in flowers that exert warmth into me.
then there's your lips. (i could go on and on for hours about those lips)
they taunt me with every word that spills out, your cheeks vibrating from the passion you place upon your words. you are warm and lively, nothing more and absolutely nothing less.
your neck vibrates with the passion of your exuberant words and i can't control myself, kissing every inch of your godly body until i reach the featherweight skin that stretches taut over your marked collarbones (marked by me; permanently)
you are more than irresistible and i find myself salivating as i rub my hands over your warm shoulders again and again, caressing them with the intentions of memorizing every curve, every dip of your skin.
i can feel my heart beat beat beating in my chest, striving to rip out and cling to the unexplored crevices of the depths of your body, but i keep it in place as i touch the sweet ungodly shell that we call your body.
soaked in sweat and letting out tiny gasps i cannot find the strength to keep away from your every moment of existence, frantically digging my fingertips into your perfectly molded waist and pulling you closerclosercloser pulling you into me into me.
i bite at your skin with unexplained love (i cant tell you just how strong yet, i cant find it in me) and you bruise me with the intentions of making me feel every pleasure known to man, with the intentions of making me feel like a queen. the desire is inexplicably killing me because my fingers don't fit into the raw insides of your body and i want them to, i want to feel every crack, every crevice on the inside and the outside of your delicate beauty.
i may not be perfect but ill lace my fingers through your hair and ill put my lips to the sweet skin that is just beneath your ear and ill whisper over and over again in tiny gasping breaths just how much i love you. i love you. i love you.
Jan 13, 2015
Jan 13, 2015 at 1:34 AM UTC
We can sense it.
Something deplorable
is about to happen--
we can no longer stop the ranks
of housebroken infidels
from migrating into the wild
they have never encountered
beyond photo and film.
It's coming out! The stampede
of hairy-legged pheromones
we could once browbeat
into prepubescent shame
with the speed of a smack
upon the tender noggin!
It takes courage to enjoy
the canned campfire stories
we passed off as ageless doctrine.
How they once recoiled, squirming
like slugs thrown in a salt mine!
Now the writhing is self-inflicted,
the sweat off their brows no longer
cold, damp beads but now welcome
lubrication that slithers down
their lecherous masses of flesh!
Despite our most dogmatic toiling,
the iron shroud has revealed itself
as a featherweight curtain within a few tugs.
Anyone else feel the walls shake to and fro?
Why does the water in that glass ripple so?
Has it arrived already? The end of our reign
as dictators of the prevailing value system?
Fetch thee the community smelling salts!
Too late! The young and vulnerable
have already begun to trample!
Push the powder out of your wigs
to blind yourself from the carnage!
*The Age of Inhibition has screeched
and skidded into its evil twin's Renaissance.
Big time sensuality has straddled the saddle,
too busy racing avenues to declare victory.*
Jun 26, 2015
Jun 26, 2015 at 2:46 AM UTC
I was riled as I learned an unknown burn.
You smiled as I unturned a new-found yearn.
There’s something so succinct in earning truth,
After what felt like an eternity learning.
Proof that a familiar swirl in an unfamiliar scene
Can bring a million new ways to view your days.
It’s serene, this feeling. Really!
And with it, a chance to lift.
The choice to change one life.
An invitation to chime in time with another.
Perfect imperfection. Resolved discordance.
Binding impermanent reflections in permanence.
An end to what felt like an endless race.
A new beginning; your rawest reckoning.
The featherweight phoenix ever beckoning.
Don’t hide your face. Don’t chase your ghost.
For betterment, you meant it.
In innocence, you sent it.
Sep 1, 2021
Sep 1, 2021 at 9:31 PM UTC
Occasionally, fashion shows start late because the designer is still working on the collection. There are some persnickety types out there who would happily keep tinkering until it’s markdown time.
Maria Grazia Chiuri and Pierpaolo Piccioli decided they would throw in the towel whenever they felt each item in their spring collection was finished just enough to reveal the beauty of the craftsmanship at the heart of a couture house like Valentino. They explained that they had borrowed the concept from the “Unfinished: Thoughts Left Visible” exhibition at the Met Breuer in New York, which showcased some 500 years of paintings still in progress.
The highfalutin’ explanation had one searching for examples beyond the brogues with exposed staples and undyed edges they plucked off a table backstage. But apart from a bit of sagging lining here and a few dangling threads there, here was a collection with that familiar Valentino polish.
The camouflage coats and military-influenced ensembles had a sense of deja vu, too, albeit with more irregular splotches and ruff-hewn embroideries. What felt newer were the monochromatic ensembles, layers of featherweight coats and zippered shirt jackets tucked into tapered trousers. They came in Army green, a deep blue or black — the latter peppered with silver grommets — and were chic from start to finish.Read more at: www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-perth | http://www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-canberra
Jun 23, 2016
Jun 23, 2016 at 4:02 AM UTC
This isn’t something you just live with. You don’t wake up every morning and think, ‘I won’t eat for the day, and that’s okay.’ And when you plunge your fingers down your throat after every meal the scars that form on your knuckles remind you that you can’t even think for yourself anymore.
It is total loss of control.
Your heart is in the wrong place, the inside of your head a minefield.
but at least you’re empty, the voice says.
But the truth is, you’re just afraid. You’re so ******* afraid of what will become of you if you let that meal sit in your stomach.
Get rid of the weight so you won’t sink, you’ve got to be a featherweight to float on these tides.
The other girls don’t matter, the magazines and billboards, the unkind words written on the bathroom stall; *fat. pig. ugly. **** They don’t matter either, what’s in your head has nothing to do with the outside world, it’s all a matter of what you want, what you can’t see in yourself.
But let me tell you this;
if happiness was a number on the scale,
if joy came in a diet pill, if collarbones and rib cages
could fix the constant ache inside your chest,
if you could purge away your sins, if you could
just lose five more pounds and be happy,
you wouldn’t be here in the first place.
Things would be so simple again.
But things are not.
And I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I’m so ******* sorry that you hurt. I’m sorry that you’re insides twist and your head shouts those angry words at you when you’re sad.
Always sad.
But you are beautiful, my dear,
and I can’t help you **** yourself,
I don’t want you to feel this torment that I know all too well.
The last thing I want
in the whole entire world,
is to see you, be like me.
- S.G.
Aug 23, 2013
Aug 23, 2013 at 6:25 AM UTC
Tripping over his feet like so many shoelaces he danced clumsily
Calloused hands holding loosely onto the featherweight of my neglected body
Breath
alcohol tainted and stained with years of nicotine inhalation
raises goose flesh on the whole of my being
My vision is doubling
the dogeared books decorating the walls of his room
pristine white candles glowing hot and soft on the altar
wine glasses silently radiating with a deep maroon
He spins me slowly round
I imagine I look like the ceramic dancer
inside a music box
Inside a fantasy world all my own
My head is getting dizzy from the alcohol from the smokes from the movement
and I stumble
Everything round me slows to an unsure crawl as the world shifts horizontally
Hands grasp the air as my feet pinwheel
Flowing fabric floats away from my body
an angel falling
Mouth opens and a soft gasp is allowed
This happens within the seemingly unending seconds
between leaving the relative and drunken safety of his arms and
Cracking my skull upon the altar adorned in so much white flame
Everything stills and again
There is silence
I do not
hear his screams as my heartbeat matches that of a hymnal I used to sing in church and
I overflow with the memory
As my blood pools beautifully
Complimenting the darkness of the wine stained crystal
I imagine
The altar had been built for me
The corners of books folded to please my eye
The drinks the music the melancholy all exist for
My epilogue
My epitaph
My eternity
Feb 3, 2016
Feb 3, 2016 at 12:55 AM UTC
You’re a bitter sweet after taste
Of what was,
And never again will be
I’m unsteady and staggering on the words you never said,
You never said
But I’ll drink to you.
Because I want to feel
Featherweight,
You’re a fermenting chaos
And I cannot digest you quick enough,
I cannot digest you
Why do I drink?
You’re a craving
Debauchery,
My guiltiest pleasure
What’s moderation when I’m with you?
When I’m with you
I want to drink with you.
There will be no burden of time
Ignorance,
So incredibly blissful
We’ll forget we live miles apart,
We live miles apart
So I drink
Sep 21, 2014
Sep 21, 2014 at 4:21 PM UTC
Featherweight games with a remote control
Racing chickens, i'm on a roll
Tongue twisting exercises across your body
Hold the head, saddle up my pony
Riding hell-bent for leather.
Thirty-minute thermotherapy
Look below, winter came early
Rewrite the Snow White with a giant dwarf
Underground mining, drill a hole of glory
Gather up your wood in the morning.
Wagon attached, touring highways and byways
This is where the rubber meets the road
Heels in mud, reeled under my heavy load
Slightly painful in the rear
Fear not, i'll oil the wheels.
Chills down your spine
Muscles twitching excessively
Something warm to drink and a lullaby
Soothing voices that help me sleep
Louder sounds as i travel further.
Another girl in the back moving with a nice rack
Gives me her helping hand, empties my sack
Keeps me company until we're out of country
Only asks for a little bit of money.
May 19, 2017
May 19, 2017 at 3:15 AM UTC
She lands,
leaving only dampened hands--
Evidence of her stay
Spending her most memorable time
urging a barefooted girl to rip off
the itchy black dress stained
with sweat and graveyard soil.
Such a sour cliché
introducing me to
June, my only
heartbreak.
Tomato plants bent in half
weighted with ripened fruit,
swollen large enough to
split its skin,
steaming in the overgrown garden.
She laughs like warm rain at the way the fruit
and I hang--
suspended. Growing heavier
in the humid heat of yet
another smeared dusk.
Eerie breezes slide through the leaves,
my messy hair collecting her
featherweight secrets--
bringing still faced realizations that
it's easier to hear June whisper
"There is only one thing you can be sure of,"
than to empty the shallow oxygen stream
from my tributary mouth
back into her swallowing sea.
Tides rolling in and rolling out.
"Only one thing to which everyone agrees."
The thing about June is,
you can’t decline the annual walk.
The thing she’s hiding is
a tall ledge in a pink haze
through a field of wild strawberries.
Letting me fall with silent excuses,
I am too heavy, and she
too light--
"The thing is, everyone will die."
Apr 15, 2014
Apr 15, 2014 at 10:32 PM UTC
Oozing hot summer roads, I
crawl across to help others
get where they're going.
The Son's of Liberty
would be hella proud of me,
no eagles were harmed in this tar
and featherweight bout between
ground and pressure wait now,
tectonic water,
drowned in pleasure,
no ***** just essence of.
A girl broken up by her main mans
in Pangea grandeur.
oceans shrivel into marshes,
warming up to global standards
crows nibble in the darkness
with earthly manners, clamoring
casting slander on the dead,
covering graves.
Hitting nails on the head
lawns get shred in both ways
speculation,
scalped naivete,
roads paved
through heat delirium,
post haste,
bringing blurred horizons
in the afternoon haze.
Nov 6, 2015
Nov 6, 2015 at 4:57 AM UTC
i; anchor
you; featherweight
she; shore
the anchor at your neck
incessant
a drawn bow trembling
at the core
a heavy love
you once wrapped your arms around
i told you from the start
where i'm coming from
and how i am
i gave you all disclaimers
i can be a head full of maladies
and you've not enough hands
the featherweight has so much to lose
two heartbreaks in one year
could snap the best in half
but you'll always snap back
you build with your heart
you build every plan
you're even with discipline
you're sleeping alone tonight
the shore stays
even if still
it's known
please keep away
i'm so tired of drowning
Dec 23, 2014
Dec 23, 2014 at 1:46 AM UTC
featherweight
with more heat than light
more feast, than a violence
we found a clamour
together
drunk tank, we tackled
battered at one and the other
we mashed in pleasing
years
we dedicated
fractured time manufactured
sot saturated
employed
misfunctional us
trussed ; brace pinned neat by the heels
whatever be, come
glitched
the floor-riding fits
upturned, revealing sickness
now observed and prone
hold hands
treated far apart
separate medical cots
in damage we bed
Oct 3, 2019
Oct 3, 2019 at 9:09 PM UTC