"huxley" poems
i
why don´ t they just make a machine
that does our living,lily,darling,
save a lot of messing..
we live all these years and then
slowly our memory depletes them
(though they say all memory lives within..)
if we were programmed at the beginning
some kind of limiting of emotion
ambition etc..
alpha to epsilon
brain washing
soma..
*** but no reproduction
endless fun
order..
is belonging
art gone
the way sure..
simple dogma
love or go
love..*
ii
lily says
love is meaningless
unless we are ready to
die..
who is..
would i..
i
stood
high
to the very
devil..
fall over
weebil..ha..
but to die
and see sun
rise no more..
little bird
sing
in
the silent
dawn
sweet voice
eternal greeting..
blithe angel
o children
of the future..
messenger of
the gods..
loyal gaurdian
to ever
and never..
outside
and know
a silent cosmos..
be born anew
to heart
be found..?
*through-out the poem are references to the
brilliant novel brave new world.for which i make no
apology but as a mark of respect to great talent of
aldous huxley..
Jul 29, 2018
Jul 29, 2018 at 7:40 AM UTC
Pop a few Bukowskis to set the day off right
And sip a little Hemingway to keep me feeling bright
Smoking on that Ginsberg, mind is opening wide
Doing lines of Robert Louis Stevenson,
and a Hookah full of Baudelaire
Ingesting Kerouac, it feels good I swear
Coleridge into my lungs, floating on thick air
Shooting up some Burroughs, my literary affair
I begin to lose sight of reality, taking some Cocteau
Tripping with the Kesey, my life is nearly through
A final hit of Huxley as transcendence I try to pursue
But old Walt Whitman, is where I say adieu.
Sep 16, 2013
Sep 16, 2013 at 7:22 PM UTC
you wrote the book on being an *******
i read it twice.
and i find myself alluding to it
all the time.
you told me the definition of high art was broke.
if i wanted to succeed,
i needed to trash my collection of huxley
and memorize
every action sequence
in every jerry bruckheimer film.
you based the last six years of your life
on a ghandi misquote,
you ripped from wikipedia.
you told me love was just mankind kidding himself.
only trust in what you can feel,
"like *******
i wrote an article about you,
i asked if you believed in god.
your reply,
"god is a concept
by which we measure our pain."
i thought that was clever.
it took me 3 months to remember
that's off lennon's Plastic Ono Band.
Jul 19, 2010
Jul 19, 2010 at 10:38 AM UTC
No life or death
Pain or pleasure
Galaxy
Or Universe
No more beautiful dawns or dusks
No world of wonders
Or anything
Once we are gone.
So it’s Now Boys!
Attention!
As Huxley said
On “Island”.
Live for Now.
For this very moment.
Stop.
Let your mind go blank.
Listen to your body
And all that surrounds you.
Breathe in the oxygen
That gives us life.
Admire the sky
And all beneath it.
Join with nature:
Sapping grass and foliage
The song of birds
As Mummy Sparrow feeds her fluffy chick
Its beak open wide
Clamouring for food.
Enjoy it all
While it lasts.
Paul Butters
Sep 8, 2017
Sep 8, 2017 at 5:53 AM UTC
Maybe someday people will speak of a great group of logical poets. It will be a group though. Maybe a help group for the more fragile ones. Not the type of fragile you are...the type that breaks. Carry on army, and tend to your fellow army members' wounds. Maybe someday you will see that you have fake bullets. Fully automatic, with hollow points and full metal jackets
You like my poem, then i'll like yours
we don't have to call it reading
even if yours could heal my sores
mine would be all i'm needing
i like your whole style of no style
nothing to do with form or function
you say it's not a one way street
when i see you at every junction
to be honest, it fills me with fear
hitting like becoming my being
then i will get roped into even more
when less is all i'm seeing
because this group is the real world, on a page, in cyberspace. My mind isn't real, because you can't see it, and it can't hit the like button for me. I must be as insane as you think i am.
It tickles my pickle to see the same poets that pointed at me years ago writing the same exact poem over and over. Talking about writers block like it's real. I stick to my guns and my guns are automatic. If you have a block, you're not a writer. You are still used for building though. Building what you hate, building what i love. I know some are blocks of **** but they fertilize, at least. Thank you truly. If you hadn't kept putting me to sleep, i wouldn't have had so many awakenings. I do see the good, in blocks. One thing about a big block is that it gets cut into pieces, to make smaller blocks. Then you get mixed in with other blocks that you want no part of. I guess then, you and the other blocks just stand for that one building. You know...the 1 million square foot ranch. It has a basement, but no upstairs.
Oct 12, 2021
Oct 12, 2021 at 11:04 PM UTC
i chanced to see a
tin foil car
in the library parking lot
yesterday
the carpet, molding, side panels
all removed
tin foil
had been duct taped
on every surface that
was not glass
even the shift ****
and the steering wheel
wrapped and wrapped
in tin foil
a Volkswagen Faraday cage
i searched the faces
of the people about me
would it not be obvious who
would drive around in a
Faraday cage
listening to voices
chasing around
their mind
tin foil car
reading Julian Huxley
and muttering about telepathy
or reading Faraday to get rid
of those nagging radio-frequency
electromagnetic radiation signals
in a hollow conductor
but, then why leave the radio in the car
Dec 15, 2011
Dec 15, 2011 at 9:44 AM UTC
I'm walking laps around my apartment complex.
Passing a red-headed girl with a bottle of Corona,
a few Johnny Rebs talking adderall,
headlights, streetlights, lighters,
swirling, combining, but never providing enough bright.
I'm still bearing a slight headache from Saturday night,
but finally past the nausea.
I spent the day conversing with Rachel's family.
The domesticated, scene of warmth was a sharp
contrast to the hell I put Rachel through in
the waning hours of night.
I woke at 9 this morning to find
her barely covered in a ratty,
blanket, no pillow under her
ruffled hair, her eyes burnt red,
asking if I was okay.
I thought she was overreacting.
She shoved water in my face.
She said, "Drink it, ******
Like she'd tried a few thousand times before,
and apparently she had,
I just didn't remember any of it.
She had saved me around 4.
She cleaned off a death mask
of filthy ***** by force.
I wouldn't comply because
I wasn't coherent.
Tonight as I touch each crack
of the pavement with my sole,
the rest of the human family
is pounding beer, suckling the barbeque
off their pudgy fingers,
and howling at a nation divided between Cheese and Steel.
I'm stuck in the trough of existential contemplation.
Old Mr. Huxley self-medicated with mescaline
and said he discovered the "is-ness", and somehow
found contentedness in "everything is".
That never made much sense to me.
Bukowski found god in ******* and drinking beer.
Vonnegut said when god created the world,
man asked what his purpose was. God was surprised,
and he replied, "I don't know. Make one up."
Feb 6, 2011
Feb 6, 2011 at 4:53 PM UTC
GOODBYE TO THE CIRCUS
( 'Oh! Nellie the elephant packed her trunks
and said goodbye to the circus...
off she went with a clumpity clump
...clump....clump... clump!
The head of the herd was calling...
far far away.' )
Auntie Nellie
died of:
drink, loneliness: & whatever...
(not necessarily in that order) .
And the farm that was
our young days summer holidays
cast her youth like so much pig slop
to the squelching grunt of
cow dung days
moo cow lowing years
until the dust collected and
settled in the corners
no one could reach....
Time left her like a Holy Picture
high above the mantle piece.
See the children
take the coloured cards in their hands
go play 'Fish in the Pool! '
Scream: 'Snap! '
Laugh at who is left to be:
'Old Maid! '
'Not me! '
'Not me! '
Time never took her
hand like a lover's...touch...
... Time...
...only...
...waited...
. . . for her.
In her loneliness
she read and re-read and lived on:
Aldous Huxley's - ISLAND.
She said...this said: 'Everything! '
Years, later...when she reads
like a fictional character in someone's story
when time no more ...mattered.
I travelled to her
ISLAND
and touched her LONELINESS.
felt her LONGING.
Auntie Nellie died of:
drink, loneliness: and whatever
(not necessarily in that order) .
...said goodbye to the circus......calling far far away...
May 24, 2019
May 24, 2019 at 4:46 PM UTC
Let me tell you what I want….
I want to read Somerset Maugham and Aldous Huxley and Leonard Cohen and Mary Oliver
I want to hike bits of the Appalachian Trail and take long walks in the hills around Snowdonia
I want to ride about in the DC Metro and the London Underground
I want to explore small towns and big cities
I want to eat lunch in quaint little bistros and have dinner at the table in my yard
I want to browse through antique stores and fancy boutiques
I want to play with dogs and rub their bellies
I want to take long drives without a destination in mind
I want to waste an entire Sunday at home talking about everything and doing nothing
I want to build a fire and watch a movie
I want to sit on the couch and sip tea
Most of all, I want to do these things with you
Don't let your addiction take this away
With all the bits of my heart….
Sep 25, 2013
Sep 25, 2013 at 9:12 PM UTC
They tell us, in school,
to read all these books
by great minds;
H.G. Wells, Arthur C. Clarke, George Orwell, Ray Bradbury, Aldous Huxley;
but, at the same time,
they tell us,
even if subconsciously,
to ignore the grim implications
coming evermore true with each passing moment
of these Prophetic authors.
Feb 10, 2014
Feb 10, 2014 at 6:00 PM UTC
Following the bloodstains home,
we tread the land with bristled soles,
to cleanse the souls of the wide-eyed youth,
spectacular fireworks to alter the truth,
tar the land, and pepper the streets,
concrete the corner where strangers meet,
the placebo joy of the modern life,
left vacant in the money-man's wake,
a cardboard lot left to decay,
oh, this is my Britain of today.
The newsrooms are clinical,
policies in place to reduce moral outrage,
to reduce it to a hysterical mess,
a cartoon-disaster of life's distress,
so the public in fear, exist but not live,
to fight the recession; you must give, give, give,
give, your life to your freedom
to live without choice,
you can sign a slip,
to mimic a voice
and to ensure the vow of regular pay,
oh, this is my Britain of today.
A history of salvation,
we lend heroes to established truth,
we parade on corners in our concrete joy,
rejoice in the miracle of the new royal boy,
who shall live in fat, and live in health,
sacred tender to the country's wealth,
of empire and power of totalities,
of stone-walled cities,
and Northern breeze,
the Jack tattooed on imperial flags,
oh, this is my Britain of today.
A stream of entertainment,
how it pounds the floor in seamless sound,
how it drizzles the walls in a trophy glitz,
a hypnotic and false, synthetic blitz,
of caffeine veins, and digital sea,
of attention-span in atrophy.
Wait not on thoughts, instead mind-chatter,
you say “don't talk on dark topic,
and keep depth away!”
oh, this is my Britain of today.
Following the apathy home,
I tread the land in heavy-worn soles,
to cleanse my soul of restricted air,
to dream of travel, to fortunes fair,
but in this bliss of a greener grass;
it is for Britain I hold communal mass.
For each Blair, I know, is a Rupert Brooke,
each levelled city, there's Wilfred's book,
or some Dickensian dream of caricatured past,
where only tyranny is built to last,
for each liberty taken, is Huxley's piece,
is Lessing's thoughts and Shelley's release,
and the meander of Avon through grey rain,
adds desperate poetry for the lives still slain,
so we can live in peace, and in sugared tea,
with red wine lips on the periphery;
in those day's hard living,
in those days' worth spent,
with only a book
and blood descent,
the community dances in the advent of May,
oh, this is my Britain of yesterday.
Jan 25, 2014
Jan 25, 2014 at 12:44 PM UTC
aldous huxley told me twice,
'that men do not learn very much
from the lessons of history is the
most important of all the lessons of history,'
both times i put my pen to the page
and re-read what he had said
until i thought i understood
today i watched big fish and
thought of spectre longer than
i probably should have,
where is it that i arrived before
the road was paved to bring me there?
when will i return?
i know i don't need to figure out
timing because that's what fate's for,
but with a wild wandering mind
it's difficult to detract senseless what-if's
from buzzing about in my brain
tonight i delete excess and make plans
to live a life that doesn't declare ignorance
of what preludes each step taken,
tonight i find sollace in full moons and
figure if there's anything i've learned
thus far, it's just as aldous said,
live life as if you've learned something
Jun 24, 2013
Jun 24, 2013 at 12:49 AM UTC
"The realization
not the knowledge,
for this wasn't verbal or abstract,
but the DIRECT, TOTAL AWARENESS, from the inside,
so to say, of LOVE as the primary & fundamental cosmic
FACT.
I was this fact;
or perhaps it would be more accurate to say that
this fact occupied the place where I HAD BEEN."
Aldous Huxley, English writer, died 1963.
A quote respectfully, deeply so, arranged on the page by Martin B.
Mar 25, 2017
Mar 25, 2017 at 11:37 PM UTC
"I ate civilization. It poisoned me; I was defiled. And then I ate my own wickedness."
- Aldous Huxley
i let my head hit the brachiaria.
cyan sky rolled past,
and it seemed to me as if
my past itself was dragged out of my body,
excorcised and pulled up
and traveled with the sky's current
the sky is moving,
impossible and slow.
the clouds jog with a rush.
sometimes i think i have never
felt at all
with my year ****** up,
on their way to Mongolia or
Philadelphia,
I tried to desperately recall
sullied at the thought i couldnt.
I thought about how i always embarrassed you
in public
how i'd turned into an embarrassment
at this point in time
my pure innocence
that flowed in the past gently
uncomfortably shifting and
wondering how certain things felt
i don't know
manhood devoured me like
an apple.
in the garden
i walked
tried to spot all the perennials
and i did
and i thanked mankind for taking up the
habit of finding wild plants
bringing them into our lives
i see a sign, the museum is holding an exhibit on
british pastorals and hellscapes
i tell her we should go.
she agrees
walks across the street to buy a wire.
my blood ran down my body
onto the linen
Egyptian cotton
like the princesses who
married at 14,
at 13 i laughed
when they asked me to go the square
and at 15 i felt it my responsibility.
the fetid collapse of my
sincerity and my serenity
flowed through my being
patrolled round
my purity like
a culpable
sentry
i closed my eyes
and i felt the sheets heavy with
plasma
i blinked and
everything turned to burgundy
the subway grates licked at my ankles
the poplar and elms
in firestone
laughed at me,
who had so eagerly
held on to a fray
consumed by mankind
gutted with
certain
toxicant.
Mar 21, 2016
Mar 21, 2016 at 12:55 PM UTC
My life is occasionally a continuum of anxiety of and or relating to the possibility of my going insane. My greatest fear is schizophrenia, thanks mostly to Aldous Huxley's Doors of Perception. At my worst, I am standing in a Wal-Mart under the surrealistically bright lights of dead consumption waiting for my head to become an unfamiliar place filled with unfamiliar voices. It has never happened. The closest I ever came was on the night of February 4th, 2013 (which, in this case, just so happens to be last night), when in a state of silly pointless inconsequential anxieties I thought I heard the faint hum of an unfamiliar voice chanting, 'Hey, hey, hey, hey, hey, hey, hey.' It went away, but the moment I started hearing it I freaked out a little inside as I was lying in bed having just finished reading. I attributed it to the possibility of over-reading, over-conceptualization, not enough time in the real world. I blamed reading and writing and watching for the feeling that I'm never quite in the real world, because my head reads and writes and watches and asks itself; “are you real? Can you truly say with any certainty that you exist? How much sense does depth perception make, and now go to sleep and dream in your head because one day dreaming will be considered a symptom of mental disease. Enjoy it before it terrifies your strange fettered wits.” Sometimes I listen to music in my head and wonder if that's insane. Sometimes I listen to music in my head and contemplate innocence. Sometimes I listen to music in my head and sing along. Sometimes I listen to music in my head and realize all music comes from inside so I calm and I calm and I calm.
Feb 5, 2013
Feb 5, 2013 at 8:56 PM UTC
Remember Wyoming?
Those two days find their way to me, and it always seems so vibrant.
How it hurt to breathe with the constant cigarette smoke in our mouths,
and how hard it was to light one in the windy cough of the night.
I remember us and the others drinking some tea,
and seeing myself in its ingredients.
I remember looking in the splintered mirror for half an hour,
exploring the wonderful fluke of my face.
I remember feeling every ***** of you in the prickly light of night.
The desert howled at us and we howled back, not caring if our sounds would slap the others in the face.
When we stumbled back in afterwards, the space was silent.
Someone took something and they heard their own voice,
but they didn’t like that echoing clatter.
Their hands were over their ears; they writhed on the floor like their skin was a size too small.
It was then I realized that our cabin had no windows or doors, but just gaping indigo gashes,
and I felt so defenseless against the angry emptiness of those American wastes.
Eventually his body slacked, indicating that he was stuck in himself once again.
We stayed inside for the rest of the night, keeping our eyes away from the spaces in the walls.
We huddled together, me and you, on the concrete floor, and tried to keep the fire going.
I remember someone through in that Aldous Huxley novel, and I thought it was a waste.
I, for one, always liked the ending, with the feet rotating like Columbia Mall’s carousel.
But I’m sure you’d beg to differ.
The next morning we and the others shook ourselves awake, and shambled our way into the Dodge.
I sat in the flatbed, and as we hollered down the highway,
I watched a single cloud slip across the sky at the same rate we were driving,
and lied on my side for those 8 hours; the cloud looked like a tired blur.
But when we arrived outside Omaha, and everyone and you jumped out to ****
I realized that the cloud I thought was still must’ve flew about seven hundred miles.
It could’ve fooled me.
And then you kissed me on the cheek and took a Camel out of my pocket,
skipping into the soda shop like a child, two days younger.
Apr 9, 2010
Apr 9, 2010 at 1:50 PM UTC
the wind is reading
Aldous Huxley's ISLAND
dropped among the hollyhocks
the wind speed reads
skips entire sections
a fat fly walks over the title
an obese raindrop falls
upon the author's name then
another & another &. . .
ISLAND
turns to mulch
raindrops batter the book
it comes apart
at his touch
islands of words remain
"...two thirds of all sorrow
is homemade and so far
as the universe is concerned..."
the rest is lost
but he can fulfil the words
". . . unnecessary. . ."
now here at your grave
my fingertips trace
the curves of your name
as a lover might
trace the taut
muscles of a back
a ladybird pauses on
the H of Huxley
as if learning its letters
their metal inlay
glinting in the sun
"...it isn't a matter of forgetting..."
your words scattered
across the years
"...what one has to remember is..."
"...how to remember and yet
be free of
the past..."
I still grieve my lost book
eaten by the weather but
glowing in my mind
I laugh and tell your grave
"Give us this day our
Daily Faith but...
...deliver us
Dear God
from Belief."
Apr 23, 2015
Apr 23, 2015 at 6:09 PM UTC
Sunday at 1pm
In perfect synchrony with the rest of the United States
I will
Sit down to receive my
Re-education through television:
The prophecy of Huxley’s New World,
L’Engle’s Camazotz,
Realized.
Nov 24, 2013
Nov 24, 2013 at 11:20 AM UTC
WRITE YOUR OWN RESUME' - THEN I'LL SIGN IT,
MY MENTOR SAID TO ME, ALBEIT FLIPPANTLY,
SO I DID: PHD IN PHILOSOPHY, A FIRST
IN ENGLISH LIKE ALDUOS HUXLEY AND
PROFESSOR OF ORIENTAL STUDIES AT LONDON
UNIVERSITY; A NUMBER OF NOVELS, POETRY
AND WHITE PAPERS COMPLETED A BUSY LIFE,
NO TIME TO TAKE A WIFE, RATHER ARMED
WITH A KNIFE TO PUT INTO PEOPLE'S BACKS,
A REPUTATION MADE AFTER NUMEROUS ATTACKS,
KNOWLEDGE WAS PASSED ON, STUDENTS CAME
AND WENT, ANYWAY WHY SHOULD A PROFESSOR
NEED TO BE HEAVEN-SENT? THE LIFE WAS MINE,
NOT GOOD ENOUGH - MY MENTOR REFUSED TO SIGN.
Mar 4, 2016
Mar 4, 2016 at 5:05 PM UTC
Ask, and ye shall receive
_another question_
Seek, and ye shall find
_multiple layers of the truth_
Knock, and it shall be opened unto you
_the doors of perception_
Nov 27, 2018
Nov 27, 2018 at 8:46 AM UTC
Bob Dylan’s hats mean more to me than a requited lust for fame.
On our screens over the summer months,
with it’s logo slapped obnoxiously onto the water cooler -
covering more pressing concerns.
As people rant and rave, the so called stars of the show are prominent for a matter of days.
In their fifteen minutes of fame they become better recognised than a man called Dave.
Some are hated for things they have said or done.
trending on twitter and being memed from day one.
But as the winter solace rolls into place
Everyone forgets the familiar face
that pranced and clapped on morning TV
What was his name again who was he?
What once was a Dave is more like a Huxley or Mort.
He was far too easy to replace, when fame hit abort.
Mar 11, 2019
Mar 11, 2019 at 8:04 PM UTC
the rain is collecting onomatopoeia (rare
to find a word with plurality in it
misspelled in the geometric hyper-linear
onomatopoeias) -
ever think of the womaniser bred
from feminism? i know you haven't,
and i know you won't before playing
the Shelley game of test-tubes -
your ideals i'll never die for -
i'd be in the trenches during the first world war,
but your world, i don't want to be part of.
she read Huxley, he played football -
he was an outdoor kind of guy,
she was a moth rather than a butterfly,
a new breed of womanisers has spawned -
turns out my kind are the idiots -
well... hello darling, welcome to the real world.
the rain is pouring out there, god playing
piano, looking for both onomatopoeia and metaphor...
it's drain drain drip... it's hospitalised drain
drain drip and the words that encourage
the wholly vacant - the rain -
imagine the evolutionary tactic approached with
assimilation, the invisible immigrants i call them -
they're there, they always want
the dumb innocent Alexei Karamazov to marry,
but when it comes to the events via Ivan as
hidden wedlock, they want the knights of Charlemagne
to bitch-slap them silly for the crown of menopause -
i.e. what if i wasn't a woman and never wished
to be one?! freeze the ***** invoke onto me
a belittled version of ****** - you know you are neo
accomplices, and now defence from feminism will
spare you such association;
just remember why the Nazis loved science,
feminists love it too! more in the extreme -
all that's missing is the eradication of Eastern Europeans -
a fear of Russia - most feminists are in love
with the potentials of science like Nazis -
i kept my phallus in a pickle jar to prove her point
that she wanted to reign over the role of the Paraclete
as the comforter of futures to come -
god she loves the fascists - the womanisers in
feminism and the idiots that marry her -
leave her! let her utilise the full potential of a Frankenstein!
Jul 12, 2016
Jul 12, 2016 at 9:43 PM UTC
a deep chthonic rumble bids me re
read
Aldous Huxley, Ape and Essence. See it, beyond the doors of perception
Brave
New World Apocalypse,
now retold by the last of those old carp,
using modern magi-tech to tap
Old intel, informing conforming minds of masters,
each holding certain truth servant but they
mention no slaves, as we imagine
all men were by right rich in time to read
and speak of things read or said
in writing found in hidden places,
lonely,
all by my self places,
said to be, places in the mind, while
places in the heart have others of our kind.
We make up a mind, we say in thought
I see
the old wise men were not all wombless eunuchs,
though many
of the idle words they left as
landmarks, lost all meaning over time
being folded up and put away,
for future perusal with intent to improve
whose angst is only felt while beating their own drum?
whose joy is wishing and hoping and dreaming the best
is yet to come?
Not mine, in my future, your now.
Now, take a thought, a non stature increasing one,
ignor the basest of
us,
the beings once mated with actual gods
Ignacio's right use of wrongs, to foil the enemy...
that thought
that evolved into,
lying for the good of the corps social structure,
the mould… formed from thinking that thought
the shape. the frame, the footing under the cornerstone
the builders rejected,
get that straight, the stone rejected for valid masonic reasons,
genuine geometric unorthonicity, not right, not straight
from one point to another,
not smooth as glass,
level as
any
still pond, still lake of your one time experience
seeing the meaning of still
water
that remains the measure of stillness,
by which all further stillness is judged.
You know what I mean, by the measure you use.
Selah. Shalom. Nothing missing, nothing broken
meanings tie us to our measure.
Truths held in trust rust through boots of iron and form the dust on Mars visible from Venus,
as we all bear witness
everything under the sun is much older than any
New World Order, on fractally every scale.
Jul 3, 2020
Jul 3, 2020 at 4:26 PM UTC
I was robbed tonight, but what
did they really take?
Hiking gear and a skateboard.
They left my Huxley, My
Bukowski, Hemingway, Gibran and
hell even my homebrewing books.
They must not have been a very learned fella,
passing up on the gold in front of there eyes.
The change they took, The lighters, but oddly, left my medical supplies
They didn't look twice at my Dr. Dog, My Modest Mouse, My Sunset Rubdown
They left all my culture, and they took possessions.
For some reasons unknown, I feel like they're the one
who's being stolen from
Feb 26, 2016
Feb 26, 2016 at 12:43 PM UTC