"mixtapes" poems
The first time I saw you it was in math class.
I didn't notice anything about you at first I just memorized the back of how your head was.
After all, I had an hour to ****
The second time I saw you were in English class.
You sat next to me but not by choice.
But I was happy about it.
It took me about four to five weeks to talk to you,
and I wasn't even the one to speak first.
You introduced yourself and then we worked together on an assignment.
It's been two weeks and I haven't said another word and I probably won't out of random.
My anxiety swallows me whole
and I'm sorry I can't even say hello.
But I have had time to notice you.
And let me just say
I'm in love with your taste in music
I'm in love with the way you hold your books
thinking that if you change the sound of your voice when the diagonal changes,
or if you struggle reading words you've never seen before and sit there for a few seconds trying to piece together what they mean.
I love how you can play the mandolin, you should show me sometime.
As I think about these things I also pick up how you would never even think of me.
I mean really,
you probably want some girl that's outgoing and can strum a guitar solo at midnight with you.
You probably want someone with long hair you can intertwine your fingers in,
or someone you can spend an afternoon together after church with.
I can't move mountains
and I can't even speak without looking like a fool,
but even if nothing will ever happen
It would be just as quite exciting being friends with you.
We could trade books and make each other mixtapes.
It hasn't even been a month yet and I'm already writing mediocre poetry about you.
I'm sorry about that by the way.
I'm not asking for a relationship but a friendship with someone like you would feel just the same.
Sep 18, 2013
Sep 18, 2013 at 6:46 PM UTC
It was nice meeting you.
I bet you didn’t know you’re the first guy I ever tried to hit on. I bet you didn’t know I prepped for this conversation for a week. I bet you didn’t know how deep my heart sunk when I saw you go upstairs with another girl.
Thank you for being the first guy who’s ever flirted with me. Thank you for the pink gin. Thank you for the hand you placed on my back when you hugged me goodbye.
It was nice talking to you.
I know you falling on me was a move, even though you said it wasn’t. I know sitting and listening to the story of how I met J was a move. I know you like L. I know deep down she probably likes you too, I did.
It was nice that you didn’t message me after the party.
But I bet you didn’t know that I would of loved you with my whole heart. That I would of wrote you love letters and made you mixtapes of songs that reminded me of you. Thank you for making me realise that the right guy will come along, but that guy isn’t you. I know I’ll always be that girl at the party who’s name you can’t remember, or face you can’t place but I don’t lie.
It was nice meeting you.
I hope one day we’ll meet again.
— p.d.e
Apr 1, 2018
Apr 1, 2018 at 7:46 PM UTC
I
Stacked green crates by the futon,
records sealed as buried letters,
each sleeve longing
to be drawn out into daylight
by her small, thoughtful hands.
I just want to play that Nick Cave again
teenager’s resolve in her voice,
she drops the needle on "Tupelo",
traces Peter Murphy with her thumb,
holds Kate Bush to the light
like stained glass.
She laughs
at the ****** box on the speaker.
I tell her it’s never going to happen.
She grins, unbothered,
says she only came for the vinyl.
I watch her tilt each sleeve,
never touching the grooves,
brush the dust,
lay the needle like a secret,
slide the disc back without a wrinkle.
Each time I’m surprised
by her precision.
It’s the third time
she’s dropped by.
She makes mixtapes.
Pressing pause,
pressing record,
stitching songs
into a spine of hiss.
Once, to me, or to herself,
she said her father wanted a tape.
She’d mail it when
he had somewhere to send it.
She follows me across the bridge,
talking about her brother,
an ex-best friend,
mimicking her professor,
how he wags his tongue
when he writes on the chalkboard.
I haul a duffel:
apron, uniform, boots heavy with grease.
She skips in the rain,
strumming cables, humming
the last song played, still in the air.
II
I unlock the door,
steeped in garlic and kitchen sweat,
boots leaving grime on the boards.
She isn’t there-
only the crates, stacked neater,
jackets squared, spines aligned,
as if her care was meant for me.
The room settles with her absence,
yet holds me upright
in its small, thoughtful hands.
Sep 17, 2025
Sep 17, 2025 at 8:11 PM UTC
somehow all neighborhood tribes & tribe lords love you.
somehow you beat my score on the nickelcade spaced invaders.
we leap fences
in escape of party befouled
cops. crusaders
of mustache & veiny hate.
you rip your jeans
& lose your artifacts in the creek. into
convenience store warm lights
& makeout mixtapes.
Aug 20, 2014
Aug 20, 2014 at 3:31 PM UTC
I wanted to write about walking away
the two of us, fading away from each others view
I'd decorate it in poetry as if it were anything more than another premature ending
but all I'm left with is shrines in the form of mixtapes
and days spent wondering what it would feel like if I was still in the backseat of your car
instead of sitting upright in the passenger side of his
he says he likes the song I'm playing
but I think he'd hate it if he knew it's just another epitaph for the nights I spent with you
Jan 10, 2019
Jan 10, 2019 at 8:22 PM UTC
i'll make mixtapes we can lay down rubber in parking lots call out our joy and anger which are almost the same thing anyway i will cry at night but you will lick the salt like a wild deer pepper me with small bruises drive in our underwear just to feel skin sticking to something make contact with your hair as it billows in and out of the car in and out of sight make contact with the only part of your body that is not warm stop only in small towns that keep their stories close in those towns press silky moonlight to the warm parts of your body like poems like slits of light to let the light in through smoke and eat hanging out of the windows pretend we are leaving crumbs to find our way home with but never come back anyways anyways
May 15, 2013
May 15, 2013 at 8:44 PM UTC
"long time, no see,"
is what i'd say if i found you again
i probably won't find you again
but my heart is aching for you
my heart is hoping for you
and i need you
i was a pianist,
you loved to sing and make up lyrics to music
you woke me up from my solitary dreams of music
so beautiful, were your words
so innocent, were your words
you were the first new thing i heard
where are you now?
i miss our days of music
can we have one more day of music?
the place; time; songs would be different
even we would be different
maybe our old joys would be brought back in that instant
how have you changed?
i can't play piano, i'm too short to catch you like i did
but let me put my heart into mixtapes for you, and i will
you brightened my world in our old life
you were my ray of light in our old life
i have just one wish in this life
that we get to spend it together too.
hey, are you out there?
Apr 19, 2015
Apr 19, 2015 at 8:46 AM UTC
"The best memories are like overplayed mixtapes: they lose clarity and detail over time, yet they seem to sound better the older they get."
We listen to the fourth round of Trois Gymnopedies
on our break from the second round of **********
Our limbs entwined, in part because we like it
partly because we're stuck together by sweat and--
The air is thick with scents foul and fragrant
as furniture music fills the gaps in between
Every breath stalls to anticipate the notes
fingers twitch slightly on the downbeat
Ten minutes ago, we made our own music
Ten minutes ago, we were in perfect harmony
She stares at the ceiling as I stare on her lips
I watch her mumble the lyrics Satie never wrote:
*A pack of cigarettes,
a pack of cigarettes
Could you please buy from the store?*
We're taken over by uncontrollable laughter
as uncontrollable as the trembling when we came
She shifts to her side, and my arms are freed
I stand and pick my jeans from the floor
I take my time buttoning up my shirt,
soaking in the view before I run the errand
She lies naked still, as I put a jacket on
I leave on the fifth round of the Gymnopedie
Feb 27, 2014
Feb 27, 2014 at 1:51 PM UTC
Philosophers have out grown philosophy
So they set down their motions of peace
And pick up the mixtapes and cds
Of the artist that speak the truth
Tho, truthfully I believe,
Real artist can never become mainstream
Ideals of the underground
Shake the balance of the things
We watch on tv, Subliminal messages
and suggestive themes
I confess that I once was meshed
With the things they wanted me to be
Silent to world I had a voice but could not speak
Nothing special just a ***** from the streets
Had a lot of brains but lacked hope
So I became I refuge of anger and violence
A menace to society,
My hands seemed to find everything I need
My hope was stolen, So I stole whatever could fit in my jeans.
Misguided by the bad influence
As I grew I broke hold of the influence
Tho, still lived my life under the influence Sleepless nights, emotionless days
So I concocted a formula To make the pain go away
Let go of my anger Locked up my rage
Educated myself On matters of the new age
I found that’s nothing’s new
Besides the technology We’ve grown accustom to
People sale their souls
To get their face on the news
The media grabs their tongues Insolent fools,
Voices are silenced Or set to hide
When what they say Is what’s on their mind
The truth, Whispered to blind eyes
Now mentally I’m the Voltaire of this century
Learn your history I shall enlighten the
Dec 18, 2012
Dec 18, 2012 at 1:34 PM UTC
There's only one of you
Irreplaceable,
Unmatchable.
There's only of you
That appreciates the good
That I'm proud of, too.
One who knows
When I need mint chocolates,
Or eye droplets.
There's only one
That makes me mixtapes and playlists,
Constantly checking my wrists.
There's only you
Who befriends the demons that I fight,
To ease them, give me a peaceful night.
Only one of you
One who knows I hate emotions,
For their power ends in destruction.
There's you and only you
Finishing my sentences,
Fixing my mess.
One of you
Who saves me from all my pain,
And knows how much I love the rain.
There's only you
Who comfortably rubs my belly,
And kisses my shoulders gently.
There's only one of you
Who can send me straight to heaven,
Dragging me out of hell.
There's only one of you
And I can't stand losing that too.
-djs
Jun 25, 2013
Jun 25, 2013 at 9:36 PM UTC
my first boyfriend bought me an etch-a-sketch for christmas
with "i love you" drawn onto it
then broke up with me on new years day
the irony is not lost on me
and i still don't know
what shook him so hard
that i was erased
i was young then-
didn't know much about life
about love
hell, i still don't
i stumble my way through it all
i often trip & fall
yeah, i'm clumsy like that
but i'm saving all my "i love you"'s
and keeping them to myself
'cause honestly,
my love is the quiet kind
it's not candles & fancy table-cloths
or nicholas sparks dialogue
no, it isn't shouted from rooftops
instead,
it's whispered into pillowcases
in lonely beds
i make valentines mixtapes
that i never give out
i catch my tongue
before it runs away
with the words
i don't have the guts to say
i keep them locked up
somewhere in my ribcage
when i see you
i feel them rattling in my bones
there are claw marks on my throat
from times they've threatened
to spill out my mouth
i cry for you
like spilled milk
as white as your library smile
let me inside
i wanna learn everything
your wisdom teeth have to offer
i promise
i will be the perfect pupil
get straight A's
in the curves of your lips
anyway,
what i mean to say
is if i kiss you
would that
be
okay?
Oct 4, 2013
Oct 4, 2013 at 7:31 PM UTC
remember your hands, remember them like this, twirling cigarettes like ballerinas (you were four, and your mother said you looked beautiful up there). twist my fingers with your pretty hands, darling i'll thank you in the morning, gravel in my dead heart, littering rose petals at your wake you took my tongue and made it something sickening.
eat me raw, please, please, i need something to do with my fingertips, with the small of my back you bruise so much prettier than i do close your fingers around my throat i like the way you leave marks. i'm a disease and you're the closest i can come to something worth dying for.
call me beautiful, praise my hips and dig your pretty teeth into my spine. my skin is too big for my body but i'll wear it for you anyway i'll try to be pretty for you anyway your laughter lines are a geometry problem let me solve you, let me fold your smiles into me i promise i won't disappoint you.
"have you ever been in love", and "i love you i love you i love you", and "we're sorry, you have reached a number that has been disconnected or is no longer in service", and oh my god i love you but not in the way i'm supposed to, is it still love if i want you to carve your initials into the arch of my spine?
i'm disgusting and you're disgusting, claw your way into my stomach, hold my bleeding organs in your hands and smile at me (i know this is true love, isn't that how predators look at prey, god i want you to kiss me with your canines, god i want you to break the flesh, god i, god), i'm ******* immortal i can't die i'm prometheus chained to a rock and i can feel the sun drying my lips give me water, give me blood i don't care anymore--
and, loving you is like loving a forest fire (god, this is just like those old mixtapes you made for me, the ones with "this is for you", and "i love you i love you i love you", and "we're sorry, you have reached a number--", and god, i, god, eat me raw, and, oh god, oh god, i can't wait to eat you raw, babe, i wonder how you taste, i wonder if i'll taste you on my tongue three days after, oh god, oh god, eat me raw).
Oct 12, 2014
Oct 12, 2014 at 10:03 PM UTC
we can sit up all night in some hotel room,
curled beneath each other, listening to the sound
of heartbeats and old cassette tapes.
you are the kind of girl i want to make mixtapes for.
when i see your smile, i collapse.
you give me the faintest idea of what a heart attack might feel like
and, god ****** i enjoy it.
i remember you telling me that you haven’t felt purposeful
or useful or strong enough to be either
and i looked in your eyes and saw
the only person who’d ever been strong enough
to admit that their only purpose was to be purposeless.
and if life is only lived to find promise,
then what the **** is death for?
i’ve seen god on lonely street corners
where homeless men stare at buses
wishing they had enough change in their cups
to change things.
i’ve seen happiness in the eyes of single motherscarrying three jobs and a failed marriage
in the shopping bags they drag up the stairs.
i’ve seen one bedroom apartments with more space to call home
than you could ever find in that mansion on the hillside.
and i’ve seen you look so helpless
that the only help i could offer
was to let you climb out of it yourself.
i have trouble letting you be.
i have trouble finding myself.
i have trouble being anywhere but in your arms.
there are disciples in your chest
preaching off-balanced wisdom and there are
people written across your skin
all of them whispering,
"you made me feel welcomed.
you made me feel something.”
and if you only understood how lonely the bus rides get
or how hard it is to walk home in the dark
carrying nothing but your heartbreak,
then you would know what it meant
when i told you that you are the only thing
to ever make any of it worth it.
i will write your name in my poetry until it no longer has a meaning.
i will kiss you until my lips no longer make your knees weak.
i was homeless until i met you.
you handed me enough change to change things.
i hope you don’t find better things to do with your day
than to pass by my corner
and smile.
your are purposeful and you are useful
and you never had to be either.
Jan 23, 2014
Jan 23, 2014 at 6:55 AM UTC
If I had a mix tape
It would be thirty one hours long
Get the cassettes ready
Poetry was something I chose and we're going steady
Sometimes I draw details out tediously but sometimes I like to get with the program already
They say Rap is Poetry
But I didn't compare my work to the McDonalds bathroom floors
The disrespect towards women, money and drugs
It's a dog but it's not as cute as a Pug
Someone end this concert, pull the plug
We used to have a standard and kept it snug
But even the Snails are laughing
We're too slow to realize
That were accepting bile with our eyes
And we're encouraging it
Why?
I have a mixtape
But I'm no legend
But neither are they
I just hope my influence is here to stay
Because as the clock arm sways
I get older another day
And I want to be sincere in a way
That will dramatically improve your day
I hope you feel the warmth of my heart hotter than May
Because it burns for you
And we don't need to pull out the other thirty mixtapes because I only need one
Let the repugnant trends come undone
I'm a song that's been left unsung
But that's okay
Because I want you to sing it
It will be more resplendent than the harmony of the Mockingbirds
And it tunes out the geese
That make me act the opposite of PeeWee Reese
And pull out a shotgun
Ernset Hemingway was relatable in that way
Apr 8, 2015
Apr 8, 2015 at 3:17 AM UTC
I've got the world's best kept secret
locked in 2 AM screenshots--
her late night musings over a crusty joint, a crushed pill,
or some ***** cigarettes.
She sends me her thoughts,
fears,
anxieties,
insecurities--
at her most vulnerable,
absolutely the most beautiful.
Her anguish stressed in the digital scroll
(though she doesn't like Kerouac, I let her borrow my copy),
her stained fingers mashing all their hurt and nicotine
into the keyboard--
and her pen aches and her paper stains
with the unrequited love she empathizes with
in the somber pop punk songs that explode from the stereo
she sings loudly on cold and lonely night drives
(I shiver in her passenger seat).
And she made for me the greatest of mixtapes,
her holy scrawl expounding upon a dull grey donut-shaped
slowly fading form of intimacy,
a blank CD--
"This mix is a good time"
and when I jammed it into my car stereo I was illuminated.
She is so cool, she is so punk,
and in her clandestine drugstore car charger thefts,
broken poems,
impalpable aesthetic,
impeccable music taste,
illuminated or even further obfuscated drug trips--
I have the world's best kept secret,
and more than anything, I wish to share it with you--
so she can make someone another mixtape.
May 30, 2016
May 30, 2016 at 11:50 PM UTC
As always,
read aloud
and enjoy.
It’s been one month,
30 days since the last time they touched.
I mean sure,
hands’ve been held, lips’ve been locked, heart beats counted,
armpits tickled, eyelashes licked,
backs rubbed, hips hugged
but
It’s been one month,
30 days since the last time they touched.
720 hours of smiles and telephone conversations and ticket stubs and flowers and mixtapes and tree climbing and
waiting for the other to finish showering before the night begins and your recite again
the smiles and telephone conversations and ticket stubs and flowers.
43,200 minutes since that night.
That night that night fell softer than
eyelids overflowing with sleep.
Finding no full moon to mask,
The thin cloud cover sat in the sky
like gasps passing lips slightly parted,
like abandoned similes left suspended midsentence.
That night his house was
cold as a corpse,
empty as an elephant skeleton,
But between the two of them
They managed to salvage some warmth.
That night they whispered three words to each other
through sheets of white linen and teeth.
Three words,
the culmination of all they’d shared thus far,
Three words
worth more than any that’d follow
In the one month
30 days
720 hours
43,200 minutes
2,592,000 seconds since the first time they had ***
Yes it’s been one month,
30 days since the last time they touched.
A full moon since they made love,
******
Poured the night’s libation into her drawing salty emotion from sincerity’s well giving back blood running blind turning brown against white cover down where three words were loosed from lips translating the ***** leaning into one learning from the other like lusters slipping in and out of fun like lovers finding oneself in the other.
But time can’t count all the ways things have changed.
And time can’t stand him standing out in the rain.
And he can’t remember which hit him harder,
her lips curving to form that big L word or
her hips arching to meet his.
And he could hardly discern pain from pleasure and confusion swam in their hands until paralysis overtook their power to put a stop to it and he finished before she could fish up even a single coo but that didn’t matter because he was in love and loved in return and all the sudden the Beatles are making a whole ******* lot of sense because
It’s been one month,
30 days since the last time they touched,
And he doesn’t give a ****
He’s just happy to be in love.
Apr 20, 2010
Apr 20, 2010 at 9:59 PM UTC
Passively Pacify Our Minds
Lil Wayne Is Our Guide
Willie Lynch’s Spirit
Masterminds his Rhymes
Spirits Full of Hate
Played Out on Mixtapes
Ancient Ideologies Perpetuate
As we greedily devour
Beats that makes us
Forfeit Our Power
Physically we are free
But our minds are in 1793
Archaic ideologies
chain thee
May 30, 2014
May 30, 2014 at 1:58 AM UTC
...a pillow
...another pillow
...mixtapes and re-runs
..."500 days of" DVD
...the TV on mute
...your restless hopeful heart
Feb 7, 2021
Feb 7, 2021 at 10:55 PM UTC
You were forever on my mind.
Your eyes,
Your dimples,
Your entire ******* face.
I stopped thinking for me
And started to think for you.
Will he like this shirt?
He won't like me if I gain anymore weight.
Does he prefer my hair up or down?
I should have ran then.
Now here I sit
Watching the waves roll in,
Completely devoid of emotion.
I've cried my heart out until i could cry no more.
I decided then to pack away my heart.
I wrapped it up in the newspaper from last Sunday.
The one that mentioned all the graduating seniors.
I whimpered a little when I read your name.
Then I placed it in a cardboard box.
I ****** in a deep breath when I realised
That box had your mixtapes in them.
I shoved the box that held my heart into the back of my closet;
The one you hid in when my parents came home unexpectedly.
I take a few deep breaths whenever I see that box.
I remember taking a sharpie and writing a few words on the top.
NEVER TRUST A BOY WITH GREEN EYES AND A GUITAR.
May 10, 2013
May 10, 2013 at 11:19 PM UTC
unstill life with a peach pit.
//
i paint you in every colour before you leave my field of vision.
i spit out words i don’t understand like i love you, i need you.
you dance with me in my bedroom, spin me around until i’m blue
in the face, you say you love my glow in the dark, i say but you
shine brighter.
maybe we could sip on the cyanide in our peach pit smoothies
while i carefully contemplate? i don’t quite understand this but i dream
anyway because there’s nothing better than our flashlights.
i’ll make you a thousand mixtapes and we can dance to modern
day synth pop and we’ll feel like we’re in the eighties. i’m a nineties
baby i just made it there. syncopated words, and clever cacophony
spill out of my mouth, you’ve got my lip gloss on the corner of yours.
stay careful, i don’t know what any of this will mean in two weeks.
but, we’ll go out singing,
*baby, we’re golden,
baby, i’m holding
on to you.
baby we’re golden,
baby i’m holding
on.
baby, we’re golden
baby, we are,
we are,
we are...*
Mar 3, 2017
Mar 3, 2017 at 9:45 PM UTC
my heart goes boom,
along with the,
beat of the stereo,
loud and alive.
the sound of my heart,
boom, clap-- it goes.
it makes me smile,
for this time.
then it goes on--
subconsciously humming
to the tune,
of your heartbeart.
Feb 19, 2016
Feb 19, 2016 at 4:22 AM UTC
Tie your powder blue checkered sheets,
and dangle them out of your
splintered window frame.
Wire bodies scrambling down,
you and your sister, tan and loud,
bringing ultra-light cigs and
burner flip-phones,
promising *** without
the feeling of being alone.
This is for the chips on your polish,
much like you: red and drawn
by a shaky Saturday night,
where I'm your friend,
unsure and twenty-two,
driving through muddy water
like a submarine submerged in time.
The stereo shouts out Minor Threat,
neon and done, are we, the naked,
parked outside the park
where you wrecked your bike,
we threw mixtapes off the bridge,
where we had fun.
I can still hear our theme song
beyond the headlights
beyond the moans.
Jul 14, 2016
Jul 14, 2016 at 10:09 PM UTC
She was your epitome of everything good
The words she spoke were truth
Her arms were the fire
On a snowy storm
And though you didn't know it then,
She was the wall
She was the bridge
She was perfect
Now the words she speaks
Are echoes, broken tracks,
Old mixtapes.
You don't really listen anymore
The wall, your protector
Your shield, so strong
Now you think unnecessary
A burden, a divider
The bridge that led you places
Now leads you to the gloom
To the slums
To anywhere but the world
But you'd rather have them all,
You can't and won't tell her
But she's still
Your number one.
You're learning to fly
And you see you have
Differences, prolly irreconcilable
And you have to fly
But you're a homing pigeon aren't you?
The world may be full of wonder
But nothing's more wonderful
Than a mother's love
And maybe someday you'd tell her
Or maybe not, but just a hug
Which you rarely give
And you can be her little girl once again.
May 11, 2013
May 11, 2013 at 7:52 AM UTC
I must be talking to you
About these past few days thats been rough
About how the blue skies become strange dark grey unknown
About the suddenly lightstorm breaking my body
About those stars who shines darkly often
I must be telling you
About our songs became a death march very instantly
About the roll of mixtapes out of the line and playing badly
About the lovebirds suddenly gone hatebirds
About how naive she is whos writing these poems lately
I must be watching you
About how you have fallen for the beauty and ditch the poetry
About how your long black coffe turns out to be a sweet lylac tea
About two lost souls meet at the wrong time asking somebody
About how i drunk on tears after you watch choose and dancing with the beauty.
Mar 2, 2017
Mar 2, 2017 at 4:01 AM UTC
i've got my eyes set on the sky but my feet are nailed to the ground. gravitational pulls and cosmic love are contradictory, what can i say?
you can't see where i get it from though, all this love love love love, and babe neither can i. it lights me on fire and tears me to shreds, it makes me scared to go to bed, and all this thinking of the love i can't get to rest when i do, it keeps me awake at night.
i have no time to die, i've got things to do and people to see and nothing you say can stop me. (except for those three words that blue eyed wonder has said to me lately- but i am his friend, i am his friend, and he love love loves me, so you can't stop me, you can't.)
these days i have become well acquainted with these facts.
a. i am not loved
b. i can not be loved
c. i am broken
d. i will always be broken
and e. no one wants to share this madness that drips from the words i speak when i'm sober. (i'm always sober the only thing i've ever been drunk on is love love love. god i have so much. oh god, i can't stop.)
i'll swing like sinatra, rock like a rolling stone baby, and remind everyone of the mixtapes they used to love love love when they played seven minutes of heaven in their mother's closets on a saturday. the closet i used to hide in, but i'm clean now, wearing green, and my name is blue blue blue.
i'll have a little baby girl one day. i'll call her baby blue and she'll spit fires and cry snow flakes, and she'll remind everyone of how they used to love love love love love.
Oct 24, 2016
Oct 24, 2016 at 1:41 PM UTC