"niggling" poems
Today I told someone I loved them, and I ment it more than I could ever describe in words.
But there was a niggling thought in the back of my head.
"It's too soon," it whispered.
"You should have waited. It's too soon."
People will judge me. They will think I'm foolish.
But who is anyone else to tell me about how I love someone?
And since when does falling in love have a set rules?
Why should I let society decide that my love isn't real, because they don't belive someone can feel this strongly for somone so soon?
It took me eight months to say it to my X.
And I can honestly say that feeling was like a drop in the ocean, compared to how I feel now.
So yes you can say it's too soon.
Frankly I don't give a ****
Jun 13, 2016
Jun 13, 2016 at 4:07 PM UTC
My auspicious and audacious assault augments the annoyance of aged accomplices.
My bodacious broadside of boffolas berates and buffaloes bros beneficently.
A classy crusade Clownishly chiseling and criticizing childishness.
A devilish ********** of dillydallying dullards; devoutly denying dimwits the dulcet dream of defiance.
Excessive, exuberant edification, ebulliently eliminating education-evictees.
A fair-weather frolic in flippancy with furious fools floundering in flawed foppishness.
Gregariously grating glum guys gleefully, growing grander garnishes of gripping gallantry gaily.
Heckling hooligans highlights my heavenly humor.
Irreverently irking irritable, iniquitous idiots in inestimably infuriating and incredible instances.
A jolly, jocular **** joking with jerks.
A kreiger kicking kleptomaniacs in the karyotype. (Cut me some slack, this is 'k', after all.)
A ludicrous, laughing lambaste of lollygagging lunatics, loftily loosing luscious lunacy on lucky losers.
A magnificent masterpiece of malfeasance, a monstrous, malevolent mission of massive misfortune for the minor minors missing no malicious missive.
A noxious, narcissistic niggling of nitwits, niftily nixing the noisome naivete of niggardly nobs.
An offhand, off-color outburst of outlandish observations to outclass the obnoxious overtures of obsequious offal.
A pragmatic prediction of possible platitudes or platypi, a placid parley of pyrotechnic pleasantries provoking Pyrrhic protections by prurient prats.
A quixotic quibble quarreling with a queer quarry.
Ribald ribbing, ruining the robust reality of the repreachful, repugnant, and rapacious with risque ridiculousness.
A silly, slighting slander of sluglike slavishness, succinctly sinking sloppy simpletons sourly.
Tracing the titillating talent of towing tyranny to towering terrors to tactless, togless, terrapins of the times.
Jan 7, 2012
Jan 7, 2012 at 11:25 PM UTC
Sitting here, thinking about death, about which death to choose, about which passing of time to write about. I am sweating, like, hold your breath or die sweat. It is hot here, but it isn't the temperature that is making my glands leak, it is the memories, it is the death grip that takes my heart when i remember, when i write about life leaving, silence stealing from the night.
Heroine. She's a tuff-tender ***** with soft sleepy skin, the daughter of Morpheus, who takes your breath and holds it inside you. Somniferous, She likes to sit alongside you while you die, she holds your hand and whispers in your ear, allaying fear and slowly she wraps her fingers around your lungs. So tired, of this world, of this life; you think, i'll just close my eyes, nothing new about being on the nod, nothing strange about this tiredness that follows a quick projectile puke in the gutter.
Let sleeping dogs lie.
Writing about Overdosing. It is a strange thing, a quick story, one minute your blinking, nodding, often murmuring, then asleep.
Lucky the dog who runs in a pack.
Lucky the man who walks with strangers by his side.
I don't remember much of what happened before i closed my eyes.
A shot, pin ***** relief, then, quickly/slowly/gone. It is night out, with a dark and steady sky, I am watching the stars through slitted eyes and loving my life, loving my wife; ****** how she makes my heart sing. I am glad to be far from withdrawing, i am happy to be in sin with my lovers, stainless steel turemo picks.
It is my first blast for the night and apparently my last.
There is no warning, no red flag that appears in my minds eye. Just silence and a world fading away. A heartbeat disappearing. Short shallow breath and a small niggling concern that soon will come the time when i am not high then...
I am going. I am gone. I have died.
The strangest thing about dying is not dying. The hardest thing about it all is waking up and realising you were finally gone, you were finally done with the rigmorale, the procedure, of living, of life. You had reached the ultimate goodbye. And now you are back. Still high but not high enough to be faced with the living. Narcan gives your lungs back, it breathes back into you what She stole away. Wanting more then ever to ***** but not wanting to puke on the paramedics lap. Fear of police and reprisal, anxiety soars high on the agenda of the recently revived. A trip the hospital, a free ride, then signing out early, i have shots to blast, a past to wipe out, a life to live or die trying.
Feb 11, 2010
Feb 11, 2010 at 5:01 PM UTC
I’m sorry for the things I’ve said or stupid stuff I’ve done,
But I truly never wanted to be your one gay son.
I know it can’t be easy to hear those words out loud,
But I know that you still love me and I hope I make you proud.
I couldn’t live a life where all I did was lie,
If I couldn’t be honest I think I’d sooner die.
To understand it fully, I’m still not at that stage,
But to still be in the closet was like being in a cage.
To love another guy, to me it don't make sense,
And so around my heart I built a little fence.
Although as time went on that fence became a wall,
Built of solid concrete standing ten feet tall.
I try to take it down to let a good guy in,
But it always ends in tears I simply cannot win.
Then it starts all over and you think you have found one,
Until he turns around and says that all he wants is fun.
You can’t help who you fall for, it’s not a simple choice,
It comes from deep inside you, this little niggling voice.
So if you are still hiding don’t just live in fear,
For a happy life is worth it, the price of life is too dear.
Those who stand and judge me, will never be my mates,
Laughing at the fact with guys I go on dates
Sure who really cares, we can’t all be the same,
It’s like we have thrown a dice in this life we call a game
So take a big deep breath, it will be ok in the end
Oh hey parents this isn't my college mate, he's actually my boyfriend.
Jun 10, 2014
Jun 10, 2014 at 7:00 PM UTC
Standing on the intersection of
a Monet, a van Gogh, and a Picasso
Nice piece of real estate!
Water lilies ~ Charrette de boeuf ~ Tete d'homme
Let's start with the lilies:
I'm impressionable and I gaze lovingly into the pool
I see my reflection slowly unfurl in the shimmer of the pink petals
As in a dream ... I float on
The watchmaker sends an instruction: rotate clockwise
Now an ox cart:
I seem to be walking in Poe's imagination
Crows flitting about as the ox champions
His burden on a drafty day
Another instruction from the watchmaker: continue clockwise
And now Tete d'homme ~ cubism:
My world deconstructs
Line by line, shapes and forms
Fracture into the subterranean unconsciousness of my mind
Leading to another instruction: close your eyes
Shift
Your
Perspective
Watchmaker says: open your eyes
Uncentre
Misalign
Unhitch
Watchmaker says: ens causa sui: 'a being that causes itself'
Now I've got Dali giving me niggling doubts about the nature of time
Sartre with a side of Darwin and I'm being and nothingness
Ground yourself Mullin!
Open your eyes ... this is reality
There's Rodin in a battle of good versus evil
Munch and no screams! This is good
Gaugin sharing his garden view
I'm in my happy place again ...
That's better
And here's Cezanne, Degas, Renoir, and Pissarro
Bringing me back into a recognizable reality
My eyes and my mind are in alignment here
But I can feel that watchmaker winding me back up
My iris constricts and my pineal widen
Third eye ain't blind
Hope someone is around to catch me
No worries, I'm sailing with Renoir and
I've found A Muse (Constantin Brancusi)
Ain't life a musing?
Nov 12, 2014
Nov 12, 2014 at 10:34 AM UTC
T- Take all his rules and directives on board
H-Heed them well or he'll put you to the sword
E-Edicts he announces mustn't be ignored
S-Stay within the definition of his pit
I-Indent it into your mind's memory fit
T-Test not his patience nor his fab wit
E-Enter good work that will be a great hit
M-Mad as hell he'll become when he sees a bad post
O-Ousted you'll be if he doesn't like what you boast
N-Niggling him will obtain a certain kind of verbal roast
I-Irking his upright position means you'll be put on toast
T-Travel within the hallowed guidelines he prefers the most
O-Opposing him means debarment at a far flung coast
R-Riling him over his rule's will disappear you as a ghost
Mar 12, 2013
Mar 12, 2013 at 9:41 AM UTC
In the midweek of twelves months I torched blunts and choked on wet smoke and chamomile tea.
Fretting the niggling giblets of a queasy disrememberance of a sober stroll through your tossed hair salad.
I managed to mangle the marvelous gross lust of our impending
delirium. i farmed bok choy to annoy our local siege. our muskets were polished with misdeeds.
our demons barked, all coy and ravenous in the sweet diffuse of our useless aplomb.
ginger rockets in our thespian numb. you Dis-Oriental surrogate Mom.
You.... flame folding cranes, like a Japanese cancer
with opposable thumbs.
Unstoppable in the dead wink
of an awkward eye
upon your heaving *******
You burn regardless.
May 8, 2013
May 8, 2013 at 11:53 PM UTC
Love proves
inadequate at
every turn
****** niggling
over stupid
****
Shed no tears
Ain't like he
crying over
you
Mar 29, 2015
Mar 29, 2015 at 1:09 PM UTC
pebbles
over the eyes
beautiful vacancies
and folded hands
our true home
land of inanimate flesh
gray skin
in sunken grave beds
and operas
theater of mice
while tumbled hair still grows
we are already dead
waiting for the flaming barge necropolis; to
shuttle seas raven
vanishing point
age; a slow erasure
the mind still wreathed into the torrents of life
morals transmute into desires lost
every inhalation
a going going gone
the only savage kisses;
crypt tongues slow unwinding
allusions of a destiny abandoned
forgotten
from niggling chatter
and the price of a chicken
bathing in a tide pool abyss
of inked black teas
i hold fast
losing steps
a worn animal, waiting
till sanctuary comes
Feb 18, 2019
Feb 18, 2019 at 3:23 PM UTC
Sisyphus compelled to roll his boulder,
the poet who attempts to reconcile
what he knows with what he feels,
sensing even in compulsion
his stony effort no match for gravity.
Knowledge transmuted into feeling,
feelings obverted to some new knowledge,
a seismic process that rolls in waves,
peaks of insight, troughs of mental block,
all to foist a new perception upon the world,
squeeze perspective from the driest fruits.
What devilish irony to be admired,
for verse most often misunderstood,
philosopher and virtuoso to a tone-deaf audience.
Camus concluded Sisyphus
was happy with his lot in life,
but a poet continues to paint strange landscapes,
never content with color schemes,
ever niggling for that undiscovered pastel.
Jul 13, 2012
Jul 13, 2012 at 5:38 PM UTC
Chamomile lines
In a cup filled with sorrow
As they swirl, rise and burst your eyes burn on.
Ice-blue, yet warm
As the morning in winter
Feels like I'm breathing dragons and walking through fields of silver.
Spider web catches
The rays of the sun
Rising on the horizon, is it called a horizon because of the rising?
Hawks drop and whirl
It's all so romantic
And it makes me feel sick to my stomach because I'm just a wandering girl...
You're a beast in the den
You're a wolf in the lair
You're the wood for my fire
You're the breeze in my hair
But I never asked for a den
And I wanted the lair for myself
And my fire should be burning with coal not wood.
And the breeze in my hair? Well that's just annoying
The affection you lavish on me feels like cloying
Reproaches from some kind of horrible clown
All lathered and slathered in wet eiderdown
It's leering towards me, its horrible face
Lifts into a smile, an ugly grimace
And I realise suddenly
That my mind is painting grotesque scenes
Over the beauty of the one that I love
But then how do I stop it?
How do I stop it?
How do I stop it?
You make me feel putrid
We laughed when he said that
Yet love lies niggling at my insides like a blister
That I don't want
And yet it's mine
Mine
All mine
And I want to keep it
Forever.
Jun 23, 2015
Jun 23, 2015 at 11:00 AM UTC
It's the smell of a mild summer evening. The grass, an occasional bloom mixed with overheated lawnmower and gasoline undertones. It's simplicity and classic rock love songs; U2's The Sweetest Thing. It is complete satisfaction overall, with a pang of uncertainty niggling at that fact. It's when the windows are rolled down with the wind blowing in your face, buffeting your hair. It's the sun shining through the trees--blinking and flashing like a strobe light. Hurts your eyes. Look away. Headache.
It's hearing beautiful things as if underwater. It's having a great idea but no means When you want to say something, but don't have the words. It's you. It is all of you and thank you.
Jun 23, 2013
Jun 23, 2013 at 5:28 PM UTC
I'm getting this nagging feeling.
I don't know whether it's because in the pit of my stomach, I know you don't approve.
Or if it's the fact that you're not responding, and I'm worrying my fears will be confirmed if I call you.
Or if it's this niggling little thought that wormed its way into my brain, the same one I desperately hate.
You would think I'd learned that this time of year, when I (possibly) gain someone/happiness,
I'm destined (doomed) to lose someone/happiness.
It's happened a little late this year,
Or maybe it just happened a little early last year.
I just want you to talk to me.
I just want to know you're okay.
Normally when you're not, you tell me.
But once again, something's changing, and I can't help but feel happy despite my growing shame.
Apr 19, 2011
Apr 19, 2011 at 6:36 PM UTC
Anger
Is a powerful
Destructive
Wild
And irrepressible
Beast
Threatening to destroy
Temper
Is a blood-thirsty hound
Leaping
And snapping
Lunging at everything
That reminds it
Of Anger
Threatening to get away
Thoughts
Are little imps
Sly
And cheeky
Manipulative
That populate the little village
In your mind
They create illusions
And images
That pester you
Incessantly
Selfishness
And
Kindness
Are the lion and the unicorn
Fighting over the
Crown
To rule
Your actions
Or Thoughts
Jealousy
Is that sour
Whiny
Voice
Niggling you
At the back of your head
It spreads its propaganda
Through your Thoughts
And they start
To turn
Against each other
Starting a
War
With all these
Monsters
Running through
Your mind
It’s a wonder
At how you can still manage to keep
Your sanity
At times
Or at least
Look like
It
Jun 12, 2013
Jun 12, 2013 at 11:22 AM UTC
The receding horizon,
The fading light of day,
Azure taking a livid hue.
Pokhran's hot, scorching sand,
A lash on our moribund logic.
Death and Life, Life and Death-
Religion and Atheism, Nobel and Booker,
Make us proud and shiver,
Make us happy, rob us of gaiety,
Shoot all our fragile hopes to artistic acme.
Smash all our favourite dreams to smithereens.
The Ganga meanders amidst a maze of
Ripples, crest and trough-
With a dour askance,
With a nonsensical exterior,
At the dead of night,
The hoary-headed ***** rises,
To take stock of pelf,
He keeps in hiding,
Looka yonder, the man with a rice plate in his shack
Stirs out of his lumber, in a jiffy,
Dawns cracks, leaves rustle, breezes whistles,
The nightingale still chirps coo, coo, coo....
Breaking the calm of a nostalgic daybreak.
Love buffoonery, antics of sweet urchin,
Effrontery, betrayal, self-destructive urge,
Blinds love toting niggling details of despair
In it's womb.
A silver of modernism, none can deny,
Gleaning the core of every 'ism' in it's *****
Roads, alleys crisscross, end of tunnel seems dark.
At least, a hairpin bend,
Across the debris of a fresh landslide,
A ray of hope, a shaft of optimism,
A changed universe, a reclaimed Utopia.
Coming true!
-Subhanjan Saha
Nov 15, 2014
Nov 15, 2014 at 1:41 PM UTC
you stainless steel
stain-maker.
a hate-lump of drums, wicked.
stick it too your browbeat
widget
of precise niggling...
ink links -
to kerosene. and scribe farce
for the disabled.
but wrap it up in
' what's up ? ' .
but
get unstuck
on
other people.
sheepskin
your grey wolf. and -
leap shins and fair maidens.
skip **** that's too
mythic.
reel-in your best
wishes.
for weak wishes
ditch *******
So wish strong;
and
all day long,
you should rob
lightning
and come
wit
it !
be
exactly
the right wrong thing
to catch
fire
most likely.
[ so dig it ]
hide your feather in your cap
where your head
might be.
and your macbeth
has a
happenstance
for a sequel
and a meaning.
be in-betweening
and lost
chapters.
[ be these
things ]
but bring the
laughter.
last about a day
and i got somethin'
fo' ya
still immaculate.
just lean back
a bit.
and that'll be the bit
you're
after.
Feb 6, 2013
Feb 6, 2013 at 2:07 PM UTC
The receding horizon,
The fading light of day,
Azure taking a livid hue.
Pokhran's hot, scorching sand,
A lash on our moribund logic.
Death and Life, Life and Death-
Religion and Atheism, Nobel and Booker,
Make us proud and shiver,
Make us happy, rob us of gaiety,
Shoot all our fragile hopes to artistic acme.
Smash all our favourite dreams to smithereens.
The Ganga meanders amidst a maze of
Ripples, crest and trough-
With a dour askance,
With a nonsensical exterior,
At the dead of night,
The hoary-headed ***** rises,
To take stock of pelf,
He keeps in hiding,
Looka yonder, the man with a rice plate in his shack
Stirs out of his lumber, in a jiffy,
Dawns cracks, leaves rustle, breezes whistles,
The nightingale still chirps coo, coo, coo....
Breaking the calm of a nostalgic daybreak.
Love buffoonery, antics of sweet urchin,
Effrontery, betrayal, self-destructive urge,
Blinds love toting niggling details of despair
In it's womb.
A silver of modernism, none can deny,
Gleaning the core of every 'ism' in it's *****
Roads, alleys crisscross, end of tunnel seems dark.
At least, a hairpin bend,
Across the debris of a fresh landslide,
A ray of hope, a shaft of optimism,
A changed universe, a reclaimed Utopia.
Coming true!
-Subhanjan Saha
Dec 15, 2014
Dec 15, 2014 at 2:05 AM UTC
Vieques
Snakes were here by the grace of God, but
knowing Him, He set them down while He fiddled
with an Egyptian plague, forgetting where He’d left them.
The Navy brought mongooses to eat the snakes
so they could relax and shell the sunrise coast in peace
but mongoose got to eat, as any chicken farmer will tell you.
Spain sent Church and State astride the horse, but conquistador and cleric
dismounted to take in a sunset from ***** Arenas while the sea breeze
whispered soft and sweet to a restless stallion and his starry eyed mare.
Ticks in the grass, indifferent to bombs, bitter on mongoose tongue
bloated equestrians each every one, blithe captives of nothing
but the cold blue Atlantic and the turquoise bath of the Caribbean Sea.
Bored by the endless cycle of creation and destruction, inspired perhaps
to beauty or by niggling guilt, God unveiled the egret, elegant in its simplicity
with a taste for tick and a knack for lazy symbiosis.
The Malecón sways with rhythms we won’t bring back in our carry-on’s, a drink
down the road from the old United Fruit Company dock, short stroll to sugar house
ruins, unhurried drivers nodding to afro-son, waiting for horses to make their way.
Oct 12, 2016
Oct 12, 2016 at 7:43 AM UTC
yes i do love you
but talking to you
creates this ugly niggling tension
in my stomach and my thoughts to get cloudy
and i just become so frustrated
all i want is to be left alone
but then you think something is wrong
something is obviously wrong
but you are never going to be the right person to talk through it with
May 9, 2014
May 9, 2014 at 6:53 AM UTC
barely it was swaying terrifically in cotton wind of sharp niggling wafers that flummox specially the growling infant sea, this lake, where i am by and satting with my soft particular femme who's metal slithers from her very roundest nostrils glinting rather unobtrusive and stubbornly silver. and jousting by in meager dollops college children blatantly. a basic scent of nonsense huddles on the 2's and 3's (or mayhaps more) they slant upon the dappled lazy soil reticent and uncouthly tread upon with flats little souls. their heads are fat with gullible churning knowledge. they farted from the dusted books. that stately chord of mugging music. that lays in bricks and mortared sighs. on the hillest of tops over looking the cordial bay.
Mar 5, 2011
Mar 5, 2011 at 12:33 PM UTC
Flow in its intricate beauty, in its parabolic slide through an inexact thought,
Niggling here and there as it soars through the rough appendage of reason.
Flagellating the highs and lows of delight and sorrow,
Titivating the realm of ecstasy to thrill the fluttering eyeballs,
Brushing mounds of ragged hurt to bruise the tender, tender sensitivities.
Then soaring, at once skyward, in a quest for knowing,
Scintillating in a spangle of joyous, YES!
To land, exhausted and deliriously happy
In the knowledge that we two,
My mind and I,
Have won ourselves a freedom.
M.
28 March 2017
On the eve of my 72nd birthday
Mar 28, 2017
Mar 28, 2017 at 12:23 AM UTC
Could you see this?
Or could you not
The empty clouds above
Veiling blood and bargains
Like a parody
Akin to mundane ghosts
Hey you gamine
This is no place to cry
***** along with me
Through the whistling woods of irony
Look at
The open windows here
The sky lights in your eyes
Against the shadows and silhouettes
We are all nothing
But street urchins on this land
For we were condemned
While we were asleep
Deep into the lights and oceans of
The superior rule, love
Sing along you little one
For this day of spring
Shan’t be the same
You and I will break bread
You and I shall be friends
You and I shall ride together
The giant wheel
For the people to know
May be just once
You are at the acme
In a niggling time frame
You touch the ground
For he, who is from heaven
Is for heaven!
For all who is gold
Will eventually grow old
For all who live
Shall fall one day
I will be here with you
I will be around
And I will mellow down
With the infinite skies
and a canopy of rains….
Jun 3, 2014
Jun 3, 2014 at 3:18 AM UTC
D
eath is a gray lady; waiting and.
she is whitely quiet but always niggling the
bones in our frameless panes. pale cheeks stained
onyx rivers or. ash skirt fluttering in no breeze. felt
but heard whispering in our.
dEath is a solid nothing. or green stems bent withering
petals dry under and stiff. blooming never more ever more.
a manure tree odoring better than.
death is a noise unheard blaring
but death isn't your delicate plush
perfectly imperfect perfection. in my cleft
stunningly dim. death is. waiting and.
a silent riot of colourless gardens frozen
infinite decay. a notion so sweetly bitter.
death is a gray lady!so cometo my sheets and spread
your legs and salty tears and feathers gently or.
peacefully scream deAth in the rapture
of
my
palms and.
Jun 20, 2010
Jun 20, 2010 at 11:02 AM UTC
I am the ****** and damaged warrior
Mighty presence on an arid plain
Waste-land empty and scorch-scarred parched
Looking to the dazzling dawn
Of another baking, aching, dry day
Of another dying, desert year.
They watched bold marching
Fearful tramping
To each pitiful skirmish
And every blood-hungry moment
Of all the days and nights.
They watched corded muscles
Spasm and seize
With each call to stretch and pull
And drag the weary-worn
To fight again.
Let no man call with shrill-shriek of the owl
Across the night-filled silence
Let no-one ever whisper in the dark, dearth
Across the shadowed chasm
I am alone within a purple shade
Night-cloaked in cunning strange
I am the time-deadened, weary watchman
Locked in a forever-circle of despair
Manacled with lead, banded with steel
Tight twisted and knotted by a skein of silk
Woven tightly by the softest hand
Strengthened by certainty and pure calm
There is no escape to unearth
But death
Is skirting the edge of existence
Picking at the loose threads
Teasing and niggling the fraying filaments
Laddering and snagging
And pulling, pulling out beyond time
The winding-sheet, the sack-cloth shroud
The only closing choice.
© M.L.Emmett
Mar 3, 2016
Mar 3, 2016 at 10:23 AM UTC
We sit in the still
and through tiny buffeted windows
watch the stubborn shore arrest the fierce sea.
An old clock tocks as slow as winters
as we recall the beach of crowded summers
The cold wind whispers along the scurrying dunes
to throw the sand in abstract arcs
against the ice blue sky
In large coats, billowed scarves
and stout boots
we trudge against the bickering wind
blustering in its niggling argument
far into the sea.
I never thought our steps
could be this close
as we huddle and cower
against the wind
and in a tiny distance
the gale rips up our prints
as if no foot had ever trod.
Yet behind our watering eyes
We know that once two footsteps touched
Our shoes kissed
in the wild wet and wintry night
There will be warmth
in the accordion blessed bar
with pipe smoke leering to the rafters
and yellow light from candled glasses
casting tall shadows
of the shawled women
waiting for the long lost sailors’ return.
Shall I be a sailor then
to board the narrow boat of your body
in all the crash and yaw
the swell and deep
the thunder and breech
the pounding and clamour
until in the safe soundings
in the harbours of morning
we drift like flotsam
on the shoreline of sheets.
And driving home on a damp Sunday
will we marvel at the twisting rain
and how the tiny ship of our footsteps
survives the howling gales
and the all wild wide oceans of our watery ways
Feb 5, 2015
Feb 5, 2015 at 7:09 PM UTC