"paperclip" poems
I can still hear your lisp
the way it covered every "r" you sounded
bare skin under mist, your eyes
matched your hair
the first, all blue raspberry stained lips
the second, pure spring sky
Never before, had I loved the rain,
as much as when we ran through it
we let the downpour soak our clothes
and congruent, thunder couldn't scare us
we felt naked, or I did,
but I didn't mind it
to be naked with you
was all that I wanted
Never before, had I looked at a girl,
and wanted to hold her, the way I held you
suddenly, the laws I believed in felt
paperclip thin, and completely untrue
it didn't take much strength
to twist every one of them
into a shapeless and easily
ignorable pile of waste
You knew the flags of every country
as if your allegiance was to the entire world
I wanted it to be to me
only
and I think I knew that it was,
but that doesn't mean
I didn't want you to say it
Jul 12, 2014
Jul 12, 2014 at 3:23 PM UTC
She’s underhand throwing words with her mouth
The boy leans in past natural borders, to study the agenda in her eyes
He is built like a bent paperclip,
with bottlebrush forelocks, a barracuda jaw.
Between her bare legs, she gently squeezes
a cup of iced hibiscus tea.
She reaches down and lifting it to her lips,
I feel mine part, in thirsting sympathy…
Her upper thighs blush wet with condensation as
The boys eager fingers click on her knee,
like ice cubes in her sweating berry hibiscus,
floral melt cascades down her throat.
Fairy breath lands on my shoulders - my silk overcoat
It makes me dissolve with memory
of my beloved tea picker,
a cocoa skinned Sudanese girl
traveling the road to market in Al-Junaynah,
swaying in the truck bed under a warm sun,
dreaming of red karkadeh flowers
and a paper clip boy.
Sep 25, 2014
Sep 25, 2014 at 9:37 AM UTC
the little pink paper clamp
you see once upon a time there was a little pink paper clip
which had three anchors on it, one of them is blue, and
2 are black. the anchors mean it keeps the paper from blowing
away, you see it opens really widely and it keeps all of your
personal papers from blowing away, but what i am doing
is saying, what will happen in the anchors wanted to move away
from the paper clip, like if one moved, it will lose 1 third of the power
and if it lost 2 anchors, they would lose 2 third of the power.
if it lost all three of the anchors, the power of the paperclip will
lose all it’s power and the only way to get the anchors back is
go the ship dock and take some of the anchors there, sure it
might mean the ships haven’t got anchors but this paperclip needs
it anchors because it needs the power of which it brings.
at present the little pink paperclip without the anchors is sitting
at the bottom of the stationery desk hoping that one day the anchors
will come back so he can keep paper in a folder.
this was going to be a hard job, as the people thought the anchors
were way to heavy to carry home, despite the anchors being small
on the clip, so one man went out on a boat who was doing whale watching
and when they threw out the anchor, which incidentally was blue, and he had
to stay by the anchor, so when the tour was over, he took the anchor away
and the blue one goes in the middle of the paperclip, and then he walked around the
other ships to find 2 black anchors to give the paperclip a lot of power to keep the paper
down, but there was only one black anchor on every boat, so he rang up the company
to find a black anchor to make up the 3, but he took one black anchor to bring back to
the paperclip and it got two thirds of the power, but they were having a hard time
trying to find the other black anchor, you see they found a pink anchor, the same colour as
the paperclip, and they found a pink anchor but it was far to light, they found a green anchor
but it was like green cordial, so he went out again and he got a orange anchor, but no it wasn’t the one
and he bought a purple anchor, the same colour as black, but no way, this wasn’t working, none of these
anchors fitted on the paperclip, so they looked hard and wide, hoping they will find a black anchor
you see they needed to keep the paper from blowing away from everywhere around the office, and just
as we gave up for day, we found the second black anchor and we put it on the paperclip and it worked
the paper was tightly on the folder, and that is how they gave anchor power to the paperclip, but the only
problem is, the ships will miss their anchor, so we must go out to buy some for them, and we did, and
our paperclip hooked the paper together and every boat was anchored down, and everyone is happy.
Apr 4, 2016
Apr 4, 2016 at 2:01 AM UTC
As I fidget with the paperclip
My eyes run away from perception
I am spacing out, outer space
Holds a universe of things
It has no lines or bends
Like a paperclip has
Or like a sharp knife has,
A universe is before my eyes
And the lines of a paperclip
In an office somewhere
Are whirling like razor comets
Cutting apart everything that
Might have been in front of me
Had I not run from dream-like worlds
That no one else can see
May 29, 2013
May 29, 2013 at 7:29 PM UTC
My heart is like a paperclip
Flexible but tough
It will bend and hold its shape
But play with it too much
And it will break
Blood pumps
Pumps...
Pumps...
And stops
Love...and paperclip hearts
Jun 18, 2013
Jun 18, 2013 at 10:24 PM UTC
Listen to you with your lip-synch promises
You kiss me and take a bite with acid tongues
Spiked with sugary smiles
Your words are liquid lead
Your letters bleed loudly through their envelopes
Bubbling like broken dreams
How do you know what you seem to know?
It is a black skinned paperclip globe
A slow ticking suffering sickly
Strobing life
Watch you with your face of clay and prosthetic eyes
You stroke me and scratch with a headless finger
Sliding in my heart to lay your egg sac
Whenever you speak
Your words are biting back laughter
How can I take you seriously?
You hair in black chains
With synthetic singing locks
Double tracked and prerecorded
Sensual loops
Aug 30, 2010
Aug 30, 2010 at 12:36 PM UTC
she cups something in the cradle of her shivering hands
a piece of body warm candy, cellophane crumbled up
a neon quilted paperclip, a wilted tulip
the stars, the moon, the quivering of the rocking fan
the warping granite, the pastel green lawns, the cars that sped along
she wore a feline attire, whiskers drawn on the curves of her cheeks
she held out her secret, the one she kept close to her feet
while she stayed low to the ground, safe as she hounded out,
"this is my stuff, my stuff you see,
but it is for me, for me, only."
Jan 7, 2012
Jan 7, 2012 at 12:52 AM UTC
Nestled in a pencil case
And snuggled up in fluff
There snoozed a tiny pirate man
Of legendary stuff
He'd spied the hidden secrets
And trod the haunted shore
Blu-tack Beard the buccaneer
Scourge of the open floor
He stole a shoe-box galleon
And sailed the carpet blue
With pencil mast and paper sails
And crayons as his crew
They forayed on the crooked tiles
And crested every ridge
Blu-tack Beard the scallywag
The raider of the fridge
When moored up in the kitchen
With all his crew around
The captain showed to one and all
A treasure map he'd found
It bore a chart of distant parts
And quite a course it plot
It pointed to the bathroom lands
And tip-ex marked the spot
They crammed the hold with cornflakes
To feed them on their trip
They pulled hard on the piece of string
And weighed the paperclip
The crew they dragged their boat aloft
On neatly woven hairs
Blu-tack Beard the privateer
Surmounter of the stairs
They heaved their vessel restlessly
Atop the final brow
The crayon pirates caught their breath
And leaned against her bow
Then scaled tiny ladders
And each took to their post
Blu-tack Beard was at the helm
And watched the foreign coast
Through countless minutes voyaging
There loomed the bathroom door
They slacked the sail and went below
And each took to an oar
They pulled a mighty rhythm
Till their waxy arms were numb
And Blu-tack Beard the plunderer
Was beater of the drum
But though they pried in every nook
And each last inch of grout
They skirted round the skirting board
They tapped each silver spout
Illusive was their bounty
And they grew ever the crueller
They took their skipper angrily
And made him walk the ruler
He landed glum and ruefully
Amid the ***** socks
He heard the merry spiteful sound
Of laughing, taunting mocks
And saw the sight of mutiny
With waxen little smiles
Blu-tack Beard the cast-away
Alone among the tiles
He commandeered a washing cloth
And weaved himself a rope
He scaled the dreaded washstand
And stole a bar of soap
He carved himself a coracle
And set his sights on home
Blu-tack Beard the wanderer
Awash amid the foam
He slithered down the stairwell
And landed with a plan
For warmer climes and restfulness
A cocktail and a tan
And so he met his final port
Right then did he retire
Blu-tack Beard the pensioner
Of the warm spot near the fire
Feb 22, 2014
Feb 22, 2014 at 4:33 PM UTC
No, I have a ritual.
I turn it over and shake it.
Get all the loose crud out,
then take a paperclip & dredge
the remaining particles of detritus,
The dust can,
preferably with a red straw.
Clorox the tops of the keys,
The sides of them
(scrape, if necessary)
Then dredge the bottom again.
Repeat with the phone, the 10-key.
Blow these actions up,
Apply to thoughts, actions, emotions
Swirl it all down the drain...
May 19, 2013
May 19, 2013 at 4:16 PM UTC
i like to be wise with my beautiful brown eyes
my thick thighs and my voluptuous size
fruit flies sticking to me cause i'm so sweet
i make the beats but dont eat that red meat
sensitive but calm and super duper collected
will get you wrapped around my finger, kid
pinky promises is how i keep it real
drinkin' tall boys, always breakin' the seal
addicted to my flavor, youll be on dis fashionistaquena
part puerto rican, but got money but not enough lend ya
crowds call my name and it keeps on echoin'
famous like the amos cookies, keep my green in a tin
i'm so frickin' visual, ROYGBIV colors make me trip all day
so vib-rant, i spy a red ant and rainbows are the color "gay"
lets collaborate, take your hands & drop all the hate, i just ate...
chips and dip, my lip ring fell out so i put in a paperclip
bobbypin in my hair, my lion locks
i'm like uffie "i pop the glocks"
Feb 27, 2011
Feb 27, 2011 at 6:05 PM UTC
I would argue that what is happening here isn’t the crushing of creativity but the addition of knowledge. As people get more knowledgeable they are better able to evaluate their ideas and sift out the ones that won’t work. Looking at the quantity of ideas for the use of a paperclip tells you nothing about creativity but the quality of the ideas might.
If we want pupils to be good at problem solving we need to give them a lot of knowledge with which to solve problems. There is no generic problem solving short cut we can use. The problem solving skills of “I need to put up a bookcase but have lost the instructions” is very different from the problem solving skills of “We need to resolve the conflict in the Middle East.” I we spent less time trying to find these short cuts we might have a lot fewer wonky bookcases and a little more chance of peace.
I can’t speak for all subjects and contexts but in secondary school geography we are constantly problem solving. It is what Geographers do but each problem needs a wide body of very specific knowledge. We look at how they would solve the problem of the UK’s energy mix, how they would improve housing in informal settlements and yes, even how to solve the problems in the Middle East (if someone without a knowledge of catchment hydrology tries to pontificate on the issue I wouldn’t give them the time of day).
The same applies to “creativity”. The ability to create is an important and wonderful thing. Music, art and drama should play a full and important part in the curriculum but they aren’t about teaching something as generic as “creativity”. They are about teaching the skills to allow you to be creative in that particular domain. Learning to express your creativity in art is unlikely to help you pick up the trombone and learning how to write is unlikely to make your interpretive dance any less awkward.
If you think that these things can be taught as stand alone generic skills (I assume you there is a 54% chance you are) then please do send me a lesson plan because I would love to see how it is done.
Conclusion
I think the term “21st century skills” is a nonsense. The generic skills that people will need in this century will be the same as they have needed in all of them because they are the things that make us human. I don’t think they can be taught in isolation. I don’t think we get better at “problem solving” by solving problems in different domains or better at “creativity” in one domain by practicing another.
Schools play a role in preparing children for the future and that role is to ensure they leave us as knowledgeable and well informed adults.
Aug 26, 2019
Aug 26, 2019 at 1:05 PM UTC
I read through a bedside stack
of my poems labeled The Heartfelt Architect.
They were bound with a paperclip
reshaped to accommodate their numbers.
Half the pages featured watermarks
around the edges like emotional copyrights.
I had written about friends' frustrations
with loves and losses for three years,
stressing that paperclip every day
before realizing I had written an autobiography.
May 28, 2014
May 28, 2014 at 12:10 AM UTC
i fell in love with a boy
who was fragile
like paper
in a way we were paper
together
i was falling apart
he was
sensitive
and vulnerable
this boy wasn't much
he was plain
save for a few typewriter smears
under his saddened eyes
and paperclip wings
adorning his back
we painted on each other
i covered him with strokes
of happiness
distractions
and a sense of
something
he was a brush upon me
reminding me of who we were
and what it meant to
know
he started to fall for me
the girl who was blown over
by a breeze
the girl who
thought eating was a bother
the girl who loved a boy
who was nothing more
than an intangible
whisper
then there we were
holding each other up
when the wind came
and took our painted bodies
ripped his paperclip wings from his back
tore our paper selves into shreds
we were blown into the world
strewn and lost
and apart
under tires
that tread terrible teeth
into our tiny pieces
stamped us into cement
and stole us
from what was
and now here we are
in what is
i can't pick myself up
because i don't know where i am
who i am
and where the paper boy i loved
has gone
out here is a world
where fragile love
and caring hearts
cannot bond
without loss
without being forgotten
just like
the paper boy
who smiled when he saw me
and who painted me into meaning
who saw
something
who
knew
who was
there
but now is
here
is
gone
Sep 3, 2017
Sep 3, 2017 at 9:08 PM UTC
Cement patch brick twenty dollar bills.
Sidewalk with f i g u r e d steps figure
skating around Bazooka Joe and Joe
Camel sharing banana split menthol
kisses beneath Atlas' golden world.
Idealism, baby.
We gold-stripe fine Chinet, fine clothes,
a broach laden with Leda swan feathers.
Plastic-tipped felt strips wound with
a straight paperclip.
That Ginsberg belt & pleated pants +
ruffled shirt. Seinfeld, Central Perk,
and Easthampton. Flip through
conceptual art book with art
still inside your glowing, artistic
mind. Reverse countersink
a media bit / Craftsman
holds it still. Teal X (Tilex)
on a Chuck Taylor floor
so clean, sparkle, innocent,
blind, oblivious, ignorant,
narcissistic, sparkle, spark
me up but don't let me help
you find your face in the dark.
Hold the gun, ease the trigger,
ignore the twisting hair and wet
shoulder. Forget the shreikscreechscream,
it's only jazz.
Dec 8, 2014
Dec 8, 2014 at 12:39 AM UTC
he calls you
paperclip
not because you hold everyone together
when the wind tries so hard
to scatter souls
or because your eyes flash hints of silver
when you talk about your favorite song
or because your lip ring taints your kisses
metallic.
paperclip
because he can downsize you in an instant
replacing you with a version of yourself
that doesn’t weigh his pockets down
your body now too small to hold your essence
and a mouth that will only open wide enough
to swallow.
you are easily forgotten
but somehow always end up
attached to his keychain.
paperclip
because he can bend you to his will
and you don’t even notice
until everything else
begins falling out of your grasp.
every time he snaps you back into place
the world has only changed
but a fraction of a centimeter
and you’re used to measuring your life in kilometers.
paperclip
because he is a staple
leaving puncture wounds in everything he touches
a few drops of blood in every corner of your mind
and when you learn how to extract him from your heart
no goodbye is successful enough to patch
permanent holes you fold yourself in upon
and pretend not to notice.
to this day,
that chapter of your life remains dog-eared
and you wonder
why you still have trouble
picking locks.
Jan 20, 2015
Jan 20, 2015 at 4:04 PM UTC
Today: A Paperclip
Continuously and seamlessly complementing and complying with myself
Bending solely to hold something foreign as whole
With a surety of security
And right angled refine
Unless the load is too much or too smooth or not right
And in leaning the lines some part
Or some whole
Sideways makes escape
From skewed hold
Shiny soundness
Will surely soften
And the Paperclip appeal will reveal
To be as paper thick as any
Continuous and seamless
Paperclip in a Paperclip ***
Maybe tomorrow warrants
The hopeful and overly capable Staple.
Apr 15, 2015
Apr 15, 2015 at 7:03 AM UTC
Expect the unexpected
and the dusty faded book from 1983 said:
"not mine. his..."
revisit the past with
a newspaper cutting, black and white photographs
and a rusty paperclip connecting both stories
for one would not be complete without the either
and of what that has been
bliss, excitement , worry - happiness.
interlocked arms
their lives intertwined.
they took to their promises on paper
all in a day on September 1936
no cakes nor fireworks
did the picture held secrets?
Jul 29, 2011
Jul 29, 2011 at 8:17 PM UTC
Do you know what I mean?
You asked.
I told you I did.
Although, I did not expand.
I left the explanations up to you,
that night.
I left a window open,
to clear out the smoke.
As you cleared the air,
and through animated gestures,
you let your mind spill out
onto the proverbial canvas.
You called it negative space,
but that was your discomfort.
You rested your hands.
Do you know what I mean?
I wanted to rest my hands,
on top of yours,
I needed to know you were real.
Do you know what I mean?
My eyes never faltered.
If I blinked, you'd be gone,
and that I did not want.
All I wanted was you,
at that moment,
all I needed,
was you.
Do you know what I mean?
You started to pace.
My hands hit the table;
yours hit the air,
because idle hands
are devilish when kept by your side.
Disconcerting, felt mine,
hidden in the depths of my pockets.
Anxiety ridden,
I searched for change.
A penny to free my thoughts.
Only a paperclip, a button,
lint and other nothingness.
I surveyed the room,
looking for a moth
to hit the light.
Do you know what I mean?
I knew what you meant.
I know what you mean.
I told you I followed.
In a figurative sense,
I followed.
In a literal sense,
it was implied.
However, I kept that notion to myself.
Considering the following you have built.
I knew I would distance myself,
from that familiarity.
Do you know what I mean?
We are perceptive.
Acquaintances see this,
and thoughtfully they are left
to their own devices.
Because God-forbid someone becomes close.
No. No, that vulnerability is tangible.
It's nauseating.
Food for thought,
I'm sick,
you know.
I expel my insides.
Still surveying the room for a moth,
and I spot a butterfly.
Do you know what I mean?
Jun 20, 2012
Jun 20, 2012 at 4:37 PM UTC
i opened your file
and what i saw
was diferent than what i expected;
i saw that you were
sad, pained,
angry, confused;
i turned the page.
you were suffering,
afraid, and alone;
i looked at your photo,
it was diferent than the you i knew,
you looked terified and sad;
i printed a new sheet of paper.
it said that i would be your friend.
that i would be your friend no matter what;
i fastened the new page in the folder
cautiosly, caringly,
with a paperclip.
Feb 24, 2021
Feb 24, 2021 at 11:18 AM UTC
Lovers circle
Their glass Sabbath.
Hands like magnets
Find joy in funeral.
Death of *** a
Tornado of fire,
Conflagration
Of the senses. The
Asteroid that shed
Her dress now crashes
Into the cactus, standing
Stone-faced and rooted
Deep in Earth.
Ordinary planets
Ring saint birth
On Thursday. Angels,
Paperclip assassins, rope
Bankers and truck drivers-
The ribs of Utah in the winter.
The cage that guards
A snowglobe heart. Mid-
Center shiver shaking,
Continental breaking
And aching, the shallow
Foundation of
Some growing space,
Suspended in static
Tribute to the ideal.
The cactus now this
Blank-faced man,
Sick framed mannequin
Dressed in scarlet
Remembrance, knee-deep
In strained white somber.
Sweet pair of sobbing,
Feeling faith found again
In the rain that water-
Logs the gasping pores
Of some colliding flesh,
Vibrating and ringing
Warm cold as the starlight
in your hair. You fish me
From your hairbrush
At the wake of cosmic
Death. Downstream, the
Next of kin of now fallen star
Whirl and cross, clasped in
Stellar embrace until
They splatter the gray stains
Of memories past upon
This cheaply made scene,
The spread of this mute
Moonlight; This obsidian
Distance is a well.
Mar 15, 2018
Mar 15, 2018 at 8:37 PM UTC
Throwback dissonance, results in future social dystopian conversations. Tormented lives swept under rugs, in between the cracks of floor boards. Dust and filth, years of names. All scratched into the bathroom stalls of so called neighborhood's, subordinates of time and "hush-hush" the city to the suburbanites. Shocking to them eating dinners still in the 1990's, fastened tight in seat belts of self esteem, MTV news and 50 inches of reality. You must be joking, not ever knowing, folly box dwellers, why they say all "white".
The back doors were shut and locked when you looked left and double took right; as jokes from the safety of your water stained walls and cigarette burned carpets, to joke hatred like art and we must pretend not us though? Wall to wall, our prison starts here and ends in our front lawns as the country shouts "white man" and we must remain silent.
My father's land, nearly 20 year cultural hiatus that split our family in two, came back from time, in a paperclip, over the wall, east to the west side of Berlin and delivered in a rebel DeLorean with bumper stickers of second amendment speeches and pro-life Bible out of contextual arguments. These retrospects, taking advantage of sales on tiki torches while stealing phrases from my great grandfather class of 1933. And the whole country shouts "white man".
No, my country,
not white men.
In skin yes, in history, no.
They were never men.
Never did my father speak of men.
I heard the gang rapes of Gypsy's.
Stories of slain Catholics.
Murders of homosexuals,
The bones crushed of opposing parties.
The staple mascot of pain, Judaism extermination that swept through culture like a bad advertisement tune.
Gassed.
Tortured.
Worked.
They come for us all.
Not as white men.
They come as their own.
This is not man.
They maybe white, but not man.
I am a white man,
but it's always been human, first.
That's black.
That's white.
That's purple.
That's life.
They come for our progress, not our skins.
Aug 13, 2017
Aug 13, 2017 at 11:51 AM UTC
Went to bed and dreamed of getting my *** kicked by the Queen of Earthquakes.
Six hours later and I'm waking up with a headache.
Hid from the sun beneath sweaty sheets.
The only thing that gets cold here is the space in our chest.
Road the bus with a load of automatons withered with rust.
Scanning the seats with dead-beat eyes.
Hey, would you mind if we traded places?
I like the window seat best.
Paperclip trebuchets wage war in front of ignored spreadsheets.
Just another day in paradise,
but now I think I feel a stirring between my legs.
Here we sit waiting on a disaster to speed up our slow demise.
But all that aside, the thing is that when I stare into her eyes I can feel my feet sliding -
Carrying me toward the tittles in the middle with a gliding force that can't be avoided.
i think i might like her a little.
Nov 28, 2016
Nov 28, 2016 at 11:27 PM UTC
I tear apart what I can
on the outside
because I am helpless
on the inside.
I tear and tear and tear
and pull and pull and pull
it's become routine
until you see the damage.
A spot of nothing.
A patch of proof
what insignificant detail
to no avail
the damage is done
ignoring the larger matter at hand
strand by strand,
until i'm surrounded by piles
of hair and pieces of my heart
I don't even notice it anymore
my hand is drawn upwards
like a paperclip to a magnet-
totally helpless
completely thoughtless
I grab and pull and yank.
until i'm perfect-
At least for a moment..
until these insecurities mount again.
Jun 30, 2014
Jun 30, 2014 at 2:42 AM UTC
Rocket-ship footie pajamas and stars from the galaxy on his bed
Running 'round the yard with a fishbowl on his head
He'd stutter the names of the planets and stars
with no desire other than to walk on Mars.
The boy created his own ship:
cardboard box, crayons, and a paperclip
3
2
1
BLAST OFF
The roar of the rocket drowned out his nemesis' scoffs
Days, months, and even years past
His big chance was here at last
He looked upon Earth with shock and awe
A bluish green dot was all he saw
Distant lights and strange color specs
No sign of alien lifeforms to detect
Everlasting darkness engulfed him
His life-long dream is actually quite grim
With the stale taste of toothpaste food
His heart sank with the lonely journey he had pursued
He longed for his loving mother and his dog
He'd had enough of the Milky Way's fog
He pined for the place he had aspired to leave
That blue-green dot forever he'll cleave
With a homesick feeling he reached for the throttle
Unfortunately the fuel was at the end of the bottle
With tears in his eyes and hopelessness in his chest
He decided to try a deadly quest
With the last of the fuel he blasted his jets
It was his last possible effort and he had no regrets
With a million to one odds;
He had to contribute his success to one of the Gods
He hit the atmosphere and exploded in flames
Busted the cardboard and ruined all of his games
The boy rushed back to reality
Relieved he didn't reach his fatality
Exhausted and satisfied
His adventure had only just been outside
Looked upon his fishbowl that now had a big crack
The little boy decided his journey warranted a snack.
May 7, 2015
May 7, 2015 at 1:37 AM UTC
Throbbing heads thrash together,
sorting trash from treasure, and losing time.
I throw together an outfit and leave
my house to try to sort through the pieces
from my rattled mind.
Lines of sunlight break through
the trees and melt
molecules with memories, fusing together
the time I had lost.
I lay in bed, exfoliated and slain,
pondering the cost of each meltdown;
of new brains.
Thumping against the ticking clock,
sleep covers me like a childhood blanket,
and my life, much like a button on the back of a toy
which gets pricked by a paperclip,
resets itself.
Jul 20, 2015
Jul 20, 2015 at 5:11 PM UTC