"footnotes" poems
Features, my reflection—
subtle hints stare back offering wordless reply,
their evidence a betrayal of age.
A wrinkle looking deeper,
mane of face, of head—hairs
fresh lacking pigment.
Vain attempts made to mend heart,
to sooth soul's dread.
Testimony of experience
of wisdom, persistence, perception,
an impotent contraceptive, the argument
aberrant.
Regret to cloud memory, my youth
seeming a flesh and blood cliche.
Tiny footnotes heavy with prose,
words in bold
to distract mind's eye—a demand of attention.
Edging out tomb's more beautiful weight
of love and heartache
of passion's attempt failing,
to try again, sinking before succeeding.
An era's dusk and dawn anew, life's advent
unpredictable—without cause changing.
Notion hanging lingering, poisoning future,
the venom of defeat an insidious invasion.
This new age creeping toward night
in this stage my life's sun less bright.
Maturity's introduced responsibility,
some enjoyable while others to own hostility.
A brigand mugging freedom—time for leisure.
Spurring combat for what remains of youth,
fingers wrapping air in futile seizure.
The inevitable to command subservience,
presuming ownership of life, though the mature
demonstrate the defiance of the immature.
Objects, activities, music assaulting ear,
their manner,
symbols of strict adherence to who once was—
a spiteful surrender refusal.
A piece of me defining me until no more,
years holding power—threatening
to change who I am at very core.
Canvas construction the colour of murre,
rubber toe caps the shade of pure.
Design worn since youth, dead and resurrected;
a million mile shoe of valorous resistance—insurrection,
a Converse rebellion.
In torment of age's scars,
I'll never be too old to wear my All Stars.
Nov 18, 2014
Nov 18, 2014 at 10:18 PM UTC
It was hard to miss Jerry
in the corner
holding court
over the bran muffin.
Flurries of judgement and wisdom
flying across coffee dappled pages
as he sentenced a large cup of
Paruvian Dark Roast
to be ******
7 am Dan never flinched
steeling his tenured chair at
a spot one section of stir sticks away
calculably just out of reach
of the regularly scheduled tantrum.
An auburn-haired newbie
fanes camoflage
peeking over two pages of Obituaries
she never intended to read.
Her raised and nearly detached eyebrows
hover above the dateline like a magic trick.
And on every table fall
scattered leaves
of press print trees
unsorted and littered with intent
by careless absorbers of trivia.
Disconnected
ear-budded
footnotes of humanity
see nothing
hear nothing
using the disarrayed World News as
enormous coasters
unmoved by hyper-ventilating compulsives
pushing panic buttons through
desperate quests to uncover
one alphabetically organized set
of local news.
Of the papers not strewn
the remnant holds anxious
on a distant wall
a throng of flopping
rabbit-eared
step children
dangling precariously
from unaccomodating magazine racks
like smoky orphans from
windows in a fiery building.
Disordered.
Disrespected.
Discarded...words are
Jews in the holocaust.
Death of a voice.
We are irreverent in our silence
diminishing genius through apathy
put off by the imposition to be challenged
choosing disposable principles
above responsible knowledge.
Everything is disposable - cameras, cars,
relationships, loyalty, babies...and wisdom -
crumpling Pulitzer prize authors
and discarding WW2 veterans
just to get to the cartoons.
Apr 30, 2014
Apr 30, 2014 at 11:15 PM UTC
There's an architect designing the world from the skyline downwards, as he believes himself to be a God
The paraffin lamps on Victorian cobbled corners are as dry as the seraph in dust bowls over some arid sea
A portrait exists, of a town covered in mist and the orange cliffs are a thousand bloodied wrists
Somewhere music plays to ghosts, obtuse reverberations of some cave on a mountain... or something
and what a useless skill it is to be a poet, flouting fanciful words as if a single soul cared or could possibly muster anything more than unadulterated apathy
What a lonely life it is, to spend entire days watching *********** and reveling in dissociative stoicism
Watching cam girls for hours on end, swept up in conversation yet never taking part, only watching
They seem as lonely as anybody, holed up in crimson rooms as anonymous DJs play through laptop speakers
Fielding obscene questions with a smile and renting their body in timetables to the highest tipper
and some days the depression becomes so heavy that ************ seems impossible, though it's possible to blame such scarcity on the anti-anxiety meds that have ruined so many-a youthful folly
Is there a more flattering notion, than a story teller being commended for honesty when every word is a lie
Fictional accounts of melancholic lives told in a pulchritudinous verse or a prose of the most regal purples
Using nothing more than psycho-stimulants and a smeared bedroom window for inspiration
There's a writer sat at a desk, typing ridiculous lines of text, as he knows himself to be human
and in that humanity he strives to create a realists interpretation of existence through scattered memories
and derivative styles of his favourite authors whilst using educational texts as footnotes in imaginary diaries
Nov 24, 2013
Nov 24, 2013 at 2:10 PM UTC
(Genesis chapter 1:6 and God said: “Let there be a firmament in the midst of the water, and let the waters be divided by the water.” I never understood this statement, well not until I wrote this poem).
The ocean.
It’s just a wetter version of the sky
a graveyard' of poetry
that broke into my heart and open my eyes,
and I saw the brightest darkness mirror reading
handwritten dreams cuffing the stars consoling the rain
whom tears laugh
and in that laughter, I hear the words
God hates you
these insulting tears that only once god could hear
now speaks to me with warring tongues
and I had nothing deep to say
just a crushed sentence
a pile of regret
a sky that jumped on my train thought
and we went from an angelic blue to a halo of black.
God, I do apologize if you feel like I have displeased you.
See I have been searching for a weightless god
because the others are too heavy
and too weak like watered down gospel,
Weak like the dark side of poetry
Weak like a religious inside joke no one gets
Forgive me for you know everything I don't
so tell me am I a self-portrait of you and will you promise to
clean ***** lost souls like mine
and will u forgive me for having an enchanted mind
You see I often mistook you for a poem that has never been written
Mistook you for masculine words that became undone
I mistook you for a selfless father that has more than one son
Mistook you for a sky filled with multiple sunsets.
I know nothing of you,
you unseen god
tell me am I of the other god
am I his fleshly creation standing outside my normal heartbeat
and on the footnotes of his story
standing breathing whirlwinds on death ears of soundless music
into the lungs of his bible
The lungs of his heaven that often resembles the blood stains in his hell
blood that flows throughout my veins and into an anthem of sorrow
Sung with broken tongues
sorrow buried in all kind if ancient languages
And I sit in this hell crying with roses
that's been wounded by his thoughts and
his words shoved into each other and I hate this
so much that I stripped down to pain and
I am exposed naked with caution
and I can see that my heart is a jealous god also
an egoistic ghost filled with love I never felt
a love that has no title
a love I am not entitled to feel
and why should I be
When that god knows I am a sleepwalking addict high off of pain
why should I be when that God knows I am as useless as a headless butterfly
When I should be more like the ocean
Yeah just a wetter version of the sky
The human body is made up of 75% water
(So in Genesis chapter 1:6 when God said “Let the water be divided by the water.” Where did that water go? It is in me).
Oct 2, 2018
Oct 2, 2018 at 12:47 PM UTC
Dedicated to all my Poet Friend, as I wish them a Merry Christmas & a Happy New Year - 2019 ! Kindly read the footnotes too. If you like it, do re-post this poem for wider circulation please! Thank You, - Raj
A BRIGHT STAR OVER BETHLEHEM !
* By Raj Nandy*
“We three kings of Orient are,
Bearing gifts we travel afar;
Field and fountain, moor and mountain, -
Following the yonder star ! “
- A Christmas Carol.
Named Casper, Melchior, and Balthasar, - @
The Three Wise Men came from the East,
Travelling west guided by a Bright Star,
To seek out the child born under this lucky
Star ;
And to pay their homage and before him kneel,
For He was to become the Savior and King !
They brought Him precious gifts of Gold,
Frankincense, and Myrrh, -
Which were also symbolic gifts by far!
Precious Gold has been a gift for royalty always,
For the baby Jesus was to become the 'uncrowned
King' one day!
Frankincense as a soothing perfume was really
good ,
Which also symbolised His future priesthood !
Myrrh as an embalming ointment was being used,
By the ancient Egyptians as a preserving perfume ! #
This gift of Myrrh was like a breath of new life -
in the prevailing gloom;
While symbolising His sorrowing, suffering
and crucifixion;
And leading to His final resurrection, -
To save mankind from their sinful affliction!
So Friends, when you celebrate Christmas this
year,
Let us with love bring hope and good cheer!
And help to wipe out those sorrowing tears, -
By giving gifts to those destitute children
and bless,
Since we generally tend to forget them always!
And let our gifts become a true symbol, -
Of His kindness and love let them reflect and
resemble!
……………………………………………………………….......................
NOTES : - @ = One 8th Century AD Manuscript says that these Three Wise Men were also astrologers, who had known about the Prophecy of the birth of Jesus who was to be the King of the Jews! They were guided by a Bright Star which had shone over the town of Bethlehem in Judea, ruled by the mad King Herod! Their three symbolic Gifts signified the King, the Priest, and the Savior of Mankind respectively! From the ‘Gospel of Matthews’ we learn that King Herod had told them to inform him about the Baby’s location! But since they had been forewarned by a dream, they returned by a different route! So Herod gave orders to **** all children 2 years and below, fearing this ‘King of the Jews’ will one day take over his throne !!
#MYRRH = was being used by the Egyptians during the 5th century BC, which they had obtained from Africa. It was used in incense, in perfumes, & in holy ointments; mostly for embalming , - signifying Jesus was to die for mankind ! Thanks for reading, – Raj.
ALL COPY RIGHTS WITH THE AUTHOR ONLY
,
Dec 22, 2018
Dec 22, 2018 at 8:45 AM UTC
What if we had roots deep down to the centre of luck –
wouldn’t we be laughing about rain and tears
and wouldn’t we keep growing if we embroidered
our thoughts with roots and luck.
What if the fruit at the end of the twig was happiness, without a question mark.
Wouldn’t we chuckle about the empty space in our mind?
How could we stop?
What if, instead of connecting dots we overdrew parentheses and footnotes with smileys and flowers and purring cats;
What if science and pain only existed
as cuddly monsters with toothache in children's books;
What if we found a rabbit’s hole leading us into a world where psychiatrists and gurus were nervous patients
in big waiting halls without flushing toilets.
Wouldn’t we be neurotically smiling?
What if we didn’t call ourselves falling leaves,
but started feeling eons of love upon our wrinkles.
Wouldn’t death then simply be a slight breeze
releasing the heat at the end of a wonderful day?
What if our hearts went on, free of age and weight,
circulating kindred songs beyond fixed identities.
What if I was wrong and every conditional was closer
to experience than arguments and miracles –
My dear: I unlocked the universal laughter;
I turned sadness into luminous gardens, into a slow waltz
to hear the non-dancers saying: Cheers! Cheers! Cheers!
What if we finally found the recipe for equilibrium:
Would we still be needing stock markets and currencies?
Or could we simply exchange syllables across languages
without losing the message of oneness.
What if we really had roots deep down to the centre of luck?
Yes. Roots and luck.
May 4, 2013
May 4, 2013 at 3:28 AM UTC
When you opened my mind
Alongside my knees
I thought I was a book of kinds
Some volume you would read
Perhaps even thoroughly
Unhurriedly
Or intimately
But ultimately
It came to seem
That referencing is all you need
Searching for a flair or look
A certain way of speaking
Honestly, in my book
It's merely vain traits you're seeking
A written list for your esteem
Or footnotes for or your story
Because surely
You know how sorely
Paper cuts
Come from paper *****
Tight and gory
Dec 5, 2015
Dec 5, 2015 at 8:17 PM UTC
layers of scars
over your heart
sedimentary footnotes
pages of insults
stacked one atop another
novellas of reminders
select a spot on the bookcase
pray to forget
Sep 18, 2013
Sep 18, 2013 at 7:26 PM UTC
They say you can't choose whom you love,
But I say that's not entirely true.
Sometimes, you will it
And their flaws melt into sea foam and footnotes
And you begin to love so deeply,
That it becomes as automatic as breathing
Constant. Ever. Driving.
Love that paints the sky pink and the blacks blue
But me, I'm not ready for that love.
Something inside me becomes nauseous.
The air gets taught and sharp,
Goosebumps become body briars
Ready to cut anyone too close.
I want to love, and,
One day, I'll will it.
Won't I?
Mar 1, 2023
Mar 1, 2023 at 6:36 PM UTC
diamonds and navy strung together by a row of brass buttons trailing up your chest;
your flesh is the night sky,
and i...
have always been a clumsy astronomer.
tumbling through the footnotes of books i pretend to have read-
searching for applicable knowledge and definitions that at least begin to pay you homage.
blissful in the sun beams and sullen in sudden rain-storms...
though,
you glow,
regardless of the natural disaster trailing in the wake of jet-streams out your window.
you translate the smoke signals trailing from the tails of our cigarettes,
and the morse-code transcriptions of my off-beat heart.
such a beautiful transistor of the divine gift of speech.
such a handsome mystic.
make me magic-
paint me natural...
leave me stranded in your starlight.
a tidal metronome to my unsteady pulse,
composing arrhythmia's barefoot in the night.
tap-dance with me in the graves we're digging deeper with every passing instant.
in comparison,
this could be penned a bad decision,
but those seem to be the only kind that the creatively maladjusted are ever capable of making.
perhaps we're cliche...
but the only person i care to find in a crowd is you,
and you stick out like the sore arm of a spiraling universe.
pearls and coal grey strung together by a row of silver buttons trailing up your chest;
your flesh is the night sky,
and i...
have always been a clumsy astronomer.
let me study your pulse through a fogging telescopes lens.
Nov 20, 2012
Nov 20, 2012 at 2:21 AM UTC
***KIDZ! DON'T TRY
THIS AT HOME! NOTHING
IS WORTH LOSING YOUR
LIFE OVER!***
Three reasons to live.
Three good ones to die.
Shall I throw 'em in a hat
And draw the first I try?
Shall I act on impulse
Once the drawing's done?
If I choose the
Skull 'n crossbones
Will I fire the loaded gun?
If I pick the black stone
There's no two ways
To view it.
I've got to carry on with it!
Then I'll have to DO IT!
So here I go. I've got the lots.
As I have amassed 'em.
It's up to God to
Make the choice.
I will let Him cast 'em.
Uh, oh. Drew out
The white stone.
The gig is up. I give.
This game's no fun.
I've been undone.
I guess I'll have to live.
Dec 1, 2017
Dec 1, 2017 at 11:34 PM UTC
Herein lies catacombs of ages past
Where sanguine spread from the lashed spine
And coated echoing halls of their superior peer
Below the shredding tempers of a desert wind.
Omnipotent fires of archaic Gods
Charring the souls of petty architects
Slaved under their jeweled prophets
Were not the scribe's footnotes of time.
Aug 30, 2015
Aug 30, 2015 at 5:42 PM UTC
And the ships were fogbound for three days
Their hulls split smiling wide by the spray of the channel
We're hovering with them in the dimness of a drunk sun crawling under
A dusk devoid of color
Welcome rainclouds follow countless bouts of bleakness
Slate-gray miasma of refinery exhaust swirls
Mingling skyward with the overcast scene and all it's gulls and cranes
Cawing in the dampness toward their roosts under jetties
Those frayed hurricane tarps on dilapidated rooftops
Laid creased and faded by morose Texas suns
Epitaphs blotting dismal landscapes of copper and olive
And smashed concrete begging to be reclaimed by nature
As all of it is when the seasons heave
Our interim footnotes disguised by the power of purpose
The notion that one day our role will be to make life better for each other
(Oh, how we loathe being found out)
Instead of grimacing, sage-like, naked and angelic in our blindness by the mirror
While each shred of truth oscillates into blue ruin and we shake, shake, shake
Mesmerized by houses where we once lived and stories we must have led in them
In varied and skewed alternate realities, and in dreams we once had
Some of which paint homage to our own grim summers here
Some in which where my roads leading home were less obfuscated
Instead being laid out like the chemtrail creases drawn solemn on our brows
(We won't notice them until our thirties)
This far south, everything is the ageless vacuum we've known since conception
Thusly we're bound to the irony of it all by dull tradition and the will to break it
Among all other shams bred real by the ambitions of confused white men
Their warring remains reigning evident within my crooked heart
Under whichever corner of earthen floor it may be buried
Your guess is as good as anyone's
Dec 27, 2016
Dec 27, 2016 at 3:20 PM UTC
I write metaphors
and speak in analogies
because I like them more
than my realities
Because metaphors don't tell the truth
they just sum it up in a way that makes sense
sometimes they make more sense
than anything I could write in past or present tense
Metaphors aren't as personal
I don't have to give names or dates
I don't have to tell any anecdotes
or write down any footnotes
with definitions of what I mean
I just give symbols and motifs
and hope you understand the motives
I have for doing what I do
and writing what I write
and not letting you into
my personal life
I like metaphors
because they give me an excuse
to lie and get away with it.
Dec 4, 2011
Dec 4, 2011 at 5:37 PM UTC
To all the ungrateful ******
that felt me up on the back seat
in some unknown parking lot
because you wouldn't spring
for a real date
Perhaps your waiting for me
to bled my angst onto this page
Pffft
Don't wait!
If you've decimated me
into tiny parts
where slot A no longer fits
for your tiny part B
you don't deserve to be carried,
vaunted upon a poetic chaise
it's a pathetic waste
of my Joie de vivre
I can't read another word
of *You were my one and only
until you left me
so I'm just going to keep
writing about
how good I was for him
and how he doesn't deserve me*
Because He doesn't care!
He's down and *****
on the back seat
in another unknown parking lot
with another faceless name
for him, it's freaking hot
So stop spilling your life's blood
upon an empty page
Pick up, move on
Discover life after ungrateful ******
Write something that will live longer
than just your age
Feb 12, 2014
Feb 12, 2014 at 2:50 AM UTC
"Footnotes" she publicly said the personality shorn,
both from my poem and the club,
the camaraderie I had expected as foregone, now unmerited
and the role trodden, had died.
C'est la guerre.
Jan 12, 2013
Jan 12, 2013 at 1:23 PM UTC
are you one of those people who love things
and Oh My God you're pregnant
with a pause ?
i am your poet drinking skin
dreaming how you wrote nothing
so that i may
blue gems scowl in your footnotes " To Self "
i pin miracles to your pout....
a fetish for a simpleton
in your complex.
Apr 6, 2013
Apr 6, 2013 at 1:14 PM UTC
Under white bulbs
Dr. Black studies me through the glass.
I will be figure A on page three,
and how I purchase jazz CDs will be section II,
which will have footnotes
on 21st century Latinos in White suburbia,
the economic decisions of lost boys,
references to Dr. Earnst’s
Entitlements of the Capuchin,
and droll digressions on such and such and such—
dear Erwin musing on the thirteen times
we happened upon each other in life,
the most embarrassing being when I wore a pig mask
to what I thought was a masquerade
but which ended up being my own funeral.
One day we’ll vaguely recall the white sky on the morning
we met through an imaginary friend,
a girl who we forgot to name.
Does it matter, if it never really happened?
I just remember when you were a child
you looked through the glass for me,
and when I wasn’t there you waited through the night.
Jul 20, 2013
Jul 20, 2013 at 9:18 PM UTC
this is where i was supposed to tell you
(what I was going to say)
i guess you know now that I didn't
because if I had told you these last few lines would have rhymed
would have been details into the synonyms my heart has ascribed to your name
this is where i was supposed to give in and admit
what all my little footnotes of blushes really mean
that i really wouldn't mind it if you kissed me
this is where i was supposed to tell the truth
but all i can write are lies
because this is where i'm terrified
terrified that somehow you'll read this and know
even though i didn't say anything at all
this is where i beg myself to let myself say just one little thing
just one little anecdote, just one little truth, please?
this is where i was supposed to open my own file
and read what my subconscious wrote
this is where I stay in stasis
this is where i erase this
backspace.
Mar 8, 2010
Mar 8, 2010 at 6:25 PM UTC
You are vibrant patterns
of colored star-dust, and
I am a mute spectator.
You are streams of clouds
bursting with music, you
rain pure joy, and I, a
welcoming blossom.
You are infinite pools of
pink affection and I am
a blank sheet. You are
the movement of life in
the skies and I, an observer
on the ground. You are
sensitive ideals and I
am malleable motion.
You are incessant love
and i am staccato
acceptance. You are
clear head space and i
am poorly articulated
mumbling. You are all
the color, all the joy, all
the love. I am scribbled
footnotes in browning
novels.
May 2, 2016
May 2, 2016 at 2:38 PM UTC
I’d heard a story in that proverbial once upon a time
(Though its origins are hazy, at best, to me now:
Perhaps something my son heard at Sunday school,
Or part of the never-ending nattering
From the marketing guy at lunchtime,
Maybe cackled by the crazy, toothless blind guy on the 16A bus)
Concerning the programmers who’d worked on a project
In the earliest days of nano-technology,
Creating software for their relative monoliths,
Australopitchecuses of artificial intelligence,
Serving as prototypes for some envisioned universe
Where tiny drones served the whims of some doctor or researcher
Operating unseen and omnipotent behind some microscope or monitor.
The trials went quite smoothly, almost flawlessly,
The models impeccably doing what binary switches
And if-then-else statements decreed,
But the researches noticed that
Just before they executed the final bit of code,
The models would invariably exhibit
A slight hesitation--almost imperceptible, infinitesimal even,
But clearly occurring, nonetheless.
They’d assumed, quite naturally, it was a mere matter of de-bugging,
Some misplaced comma or parentheses among the thousands,
But they reviewed the code any number of dozens of time,
Only to find it was clean as a whistle.
What’s more, they’d found that while the vacillation appeared
At the same point in the process,
It didn’t happen at exactly the same time;
Indeed, they cropped up, relatively speaking, months, even years apart.
One of the white coats jokingly referred to the pause
As the machines “Peggy Lee moment”
(You know, ‘Is that all there is?’)
But no one else involved the project saw the humor.
They’d decided to ignore or accept the quirk, though it was rumored
That it drove a few of the programmers to near-madness,
With one or two of their number bolting the project without notice,
Entering monasteries with the intent
Of shutting themselves off from the outside world
For the rest of their days, and its existence was buried
In reams of footnotes at the end of their final report
(Though as I said, the tale’s source is unclear,
And I am inclined to regard it as apocryphal.)
Dec 22, 2016
Dec 22, 2016 at 10:00 AM UTC
Power and military acumen to the mighty king
were the true weapons of conquest in his possession,
til the time marauding made him squirm with pleasure
went on his trail of terror, destruction and subjugation.
Many wars won;no bloodbath to this iron willed one
ever seemed different from any other, victory was routine
then came a rare moment of pause, a sudden bend
in the path of a roaring river,initiating change.
"It's time to put down this blood splattered crown
envy of others, but weighing me heavily down"
Frenzied, in no time he removed the thorny crown
and every bit that embellished him from head to toe
in naked glory he stood before the mirror, but why
couldn't he look for a long moment in his own eyes?
"All I see is an architecture of muscles, nerves and blood
on a skeletal frame, no different it is from any other
just lingering further, all one can see is dead matter waiting
to dissipate in to elements, when the time rings bell"
(words of his Guru, long long forgotten, came alive)
"The bird is bound to this cage,with elements for a time
in a flash, it would pass,where then is the bird's true abode?"
All the wars won, achieved only the creation of cycles of pain
countries taken over by brute force,women taken as trophy,
loads of gold, diamonds and riches; just footnotes of an epitaph
"To search and find what really matters, that transcends time"
was the famous last words, before the conqueror's renunciation.
Jan 14, 2016
Jan 14, 2016 at 12:27 PM UTC
Fighting my demons are always hard
For they have the poet's mind
That lured me in their metaphors of
the taste of the sun
or the comfort of solitude
They pull me in between their lines of
Desperation and depression
As if basking in the sunlight will make it less empty
They tangle me in the swirl of the words
Embracing me with each broken thorn of a flower,
or every drizzle of the rain, or every blanket of snow
or the feel of the breeze
As if those imagery
will make it less painful;
Written in papyrus with the ink as thick as blood and teardrops on the footnotes
As if those drops can lessen the burden that clutches my chest
They envelope me with every space
in between their words
as if letting me breathe
but then they enter
cutting the peace in between letters
but never putting a period
to end this miserable excuse for a poem
they made me
It's all a hallucination
An endless illusion
for in the end
I'm still chained,
existing with this void inside
and with my demons
Eating the life out of me
Then suddenly pressing save
for all the world to see
without even really
saving me
Jun 26, 2019
Jun 26, 2019 at 8:39 AM UTC
For our sakes
they are plated with silver
now
for our sakes
they are just pieces
of once upon a terrible day
disassembled bodies
flesh
with ragged edges
hung on hooks
for our sakes
collectibles
from afar
they look almost pretty
blood removed
and reasons
like justification
none
Aug 29, 2013
Aug 29, 2013 at 2:57 PM UTC