"proclamations" poems
There are no right answers.
The sky rejects the birds, turns them
over to gravity,
embedding them in the concrete and dirt.
The grit refuses to become a pearl,
just as the wound refuses to heal
and the flesh eats itself.
The market sees a sudden spike in
sales of Champagne and cyanide.
Coordinated efforts seek and fail
to curtail the rising tide of violence
in the nation's dreaming.
You realise that this crude, barbaric language
that you can't understand
is your own.
Beauty glitches and pixelates.
Frightened, furtive confessions of love
are unheard over proud, visceral
proclamations of hate.
Tongues divorce mouths.
Every now and then, a voice
inside your head says,
'Thud.'
The measures of sanity become
more quantifiable and
totally arbitrary.
The horizon
tightens
like
a noose.
It doesn't matter if this is wrong.
There are no right answers.
Jan 19, 2017
Jan 19, 2017 at 4:40 AM UTC
I know you are part of my destiny
So I haven't cried as much over our separation
True, I did cry an ocean of tears
But not so many to drown the grounds I stand upon
I said words of frustration
And whispered cries of surrender and desertion
But I am open to emotions and those words allowed release
-But- what I suggested in heated state of mind was just that
Suggestions, not proclamations nor plans
You know I tend to submerge myself in evil waters
In order to rise from them with strength even greater
Those shouts you may or may not have heard were the waters I was wading
And now, I am back to the heavens with a heart more unbreakable
Refreshed and replenished with the purity of home air
I remain sure of the decision I made that day
Don't worry, I am still certain of my true love for you
No- More certain of everything
I guess it took all those months to realise it
I needed to break down in strengthening
To lead the way to the point of exhaustion
Because now, it's your turn to stand ahead
As I deep down predicted, my words did not gain action
Although reactions were clearly achieved
Though words were controlled and questions avoided
Your eyes that trick you, are as always unable to deceive me
I guess what I am trying to express
Is my undying true love for you
My heart is unbroken, despite what I said
Still holding you within, still cradling our infants to come
Sep 11, 2013
Sep 11, 2013 at 2:07 PM UTC
Trouble, love...
You drown me in
Quick
Beats;
Palpitations of my
Red *****
My waters run for you.
Tied with
Ribbons of
Silk,
I shout proclamations
To the clouds who
Threaten to rain on us.
Nov 24, 2014
Nov 24, 2014 at 1:28 PM UTC
SPREADEAGLED
Bucharest,
*
Spread-eagled and naked
in her crop circle -
this one in a sunflower field:
she’s a wheel of limbs,
some sort of a ********
lusted after by the seed heavy
flowers bowing to her curves
like drooling surgeons.
*
She’s finished with running,
waiting for the fading light
to join the last of her loves,
faded with processed proclamations
of undying certainty
which were a little worse for wear
after courting
and checked into intensive care
soon after.
*
Love thought it had
ducked its obligations,
passed again
like a heavy goods train in the night,
shunted across the border
while guards waved it on;
interested only in sleep or beer.
*
But this time she’s making sure
love returns,
pays its duty and dues
and hits its target.
*
So, splayed
aryan and vigorous,
apeing a pagan
resurrection,
she waits
for the skydiver
who – with precision
confidence – happens
to be bearing down
on her charity target,
slowly filling her
with his ***** shadow.
*
She sunbathes under mirrors,
she’s a real
tough nut to crack.
I repeat myself into her.
Aug 29, 2012
Aug 29, 2012 at 11:09 AM UTC
I believe that we are the church, in the ways that we worship, love, and give praise.
As a community, and as individuals throughout years, within days.
With a roof over our heads and walls surrounding, or within the open air, creation abounding.
I believe that the church is embodied within the proclamations that are preached.
Within the prayers and the praises, sufferings and healings that are reached.
I believe faith resides in the church.
Most importantly, as people are tested by God, but also in the ways that Christ is searched.
As love is spread and salvation proclaimed,
grace given, as Christians are no longer ashamed.
The church is upstanding, high on a hill.
In every way, shape, and form, Christ has come to fill.
Within every heart that is burdened, the gospel rings true.
I know of the church, because the church is in you.
Jan 10, 2016
Jan 10, 2016 at 11:08 PM UTC
when the sun shines,my mind finds, inspiration as I look upon a nation with untapped potential and a need for influential ****** such as myself.
I do not brag or boast, I am just a sand peckle laying in the coast, but I refuse to be tossed and bossed around by the waves of social expectations and wicked ways of a nation just so one day I can hope to be found.
the tongue is powerful so I watch what I say, I believe in self motivation just incase friends slowly start pushing away, I believe in being morally upright and refusing discrimination upon Gods creations, communications without conflicts having good public relations.
I would not go so far as to call myself a king for motivation,
I would only say that I am a man that brings comfortation,
don't cling to observations,
just sing and make proclamations,
that people aren't actually free. I mean they are but don't act like it, matter of fact they don't like it when you tell them they are stuck to routines.
people are so busy trying to make a living but forget to make a life for themselves.
my mind is an attic, filled with the old and the New coz it's dynamic, I am also an addict, to a tragic free life.
so when you say life's a ***** just know your the snitch that let life dig a ditch and placed you in it, now stop for a minute and think about it and try admit it, most of us don't get in it, we were just born in it. we woke up to walls around us, limitations.life is for the living, get out there and breathe in the fresh air, believe in something but beware, have good desires, coz if not you end up in the ditch this time burning with fire.
May 27, 2014
May 27, 2014 at 10:13 AM UTC
. To seek out love
is a letdown in the making.
They feed your heart with all the
false words, but the moment you try to
grasp on to that love it turns out they were
just using an accumulation of sounds that do
nothing but disguise their lust. For that's all it
is underneath. Peel back the proclamations
of love and adoration, seek out the truth,
the purpose of the utterances, and
maybe you'll be able to peek a
glimpse at the truth within.
They say they love you,
******** they just
want to ****
you.
Mar 24, 2015
Mar 24, 2015 at 2:29 PM UTC
your imperfections
are not testaments
to your lack of existence
they are proclamations
of your absolute reality
Jun 21, 2016
Jun 21, 2016 at 9:05 PM UTC
I am circumcised, therefore, I enunciate...
circumcised: to purify spiritually
On the eighth day,
from my nativity,
circumcised,
as is the custom of my
wandering tribe.
marked thusly,
perma-identity carded,
thusly begins the path,
a pink-bricked road this one,
not to the Mighty Oz,
no phony curtain pulled aside,
where anyone goes to get
spiritual purification
for a price
Ah, you suspected something else,
something explicit,
not me~style,
give you honey,
road provisions,
come along for the observing his
clickety clackty clock
Ready?
For where we venture there is only
one exit,
And you are so not ready - I am who I am and I am
not ready too...
every line an enunciation,
every stanza an annunciation,
Angel Gabriel, a solo duo, unlike
Beyoncé and Jesus
we be on our way to any kind of purity,
poetry can buy
who knows what awaits us,
could be catholic, universal,
even the uncircumcised
get a chance to enunciate.
let me offer a clarification.
proclamations and sensations,
conditions and exploitations,
brown eyed girls, and surfer boys,
functions and malfunctions too,
abbreviations or adjudications,
conjugations in the congregation,
exhumation, the final excommunication,
I shun none,
I enunciate this:
false starts and junction boxes,
too many so so tired,
when can I lay down my shovel
and cease the decreasing deceasing of the body
this day nears complete,
and soon to eat
the last meal,
and still I ask
when can I lay down my shovel,
when will purity be mine,
my spirit's circumstances
repeat the commercial,
I am circumcised, therefore, I enunciate...
forgive my abstrusion,
my metaphors always offer perfect laxity,
choose the interpretation that pleases most
and my drift is toward the end of days,
when will my brow be a motif of
anointment and crowning head birth?
This is my Enunciation.
I cannot yet lay down the shovel,
and this writ is as of yet, still uncircumcised -
completely incomplete, it will be finished
when the spirit says
you are the purity,
the trinity of two hands holding two others holding two others holding two others and the chain is perfect because
it is broken perfectly, a forever repetitive respective handle with care
process
Forgive my visionary words that
give little clarity,
so summary due you,
This is my
Pronoun citation
I am
I am circumcised, therefore, I enunciate
on my way to the purity of spirit.
Jan 30, 2014
Jan 30, 2014 at 9:19 PM UTC
I chased the first rays
of an autumn morning
but to my sorrow
when I arrived at
the urgent place
the sun had
already
risen
breathing a
crowning glory of a
seasons brilliant
splendor
alighting
the glowing amber
of golden woods
shining like gleaming
constellations of
dazzling morning
stars...
though I
desired to find
ascendent beauty
the ubiquitous glow of
transfigured leaves
immersed me in
a divine chrome...
as I traversed
the woods, my
solitary steps found
companionship
with a sullen
mistress singing
a sad rustle
of dry fallen leaves
and as the drone
of cars faded from the
receding road
I searched myself
for courage and
found resolve
I pondered truth
and discovered
the wisdom
of resolution...
yearning to
realize a
deeper faith
I hiked
further up
the wooded hill,
visiting the gay
playfields
of my youth
and received
an epiphany
of wholesome
closure
opening
new
timeless
doors...
still questing
for more light
a prophetic wren
whirred a pliant
secret into my ear
she bespoke
a symphony
of avian
improvisations
conversing in
a thousand
luminous tongues,
relating a sonorous
elegy teaming with
the brightest
joys of life
raising bold
proclamations
celebrating a
seasons radiance
imploring me
to join the chorus...
though the canopy
of the woods still
boasted boughs
of green
the
infant hues
of spring had
run its course
the glory of an
expiring season
strewn on the
forest floor
covering the
mouldering stags
inching back into
the compost of life
breeding blankets
of furry moss
feeding on the
primal organica
of seemingly
expired flora
here, in this
darkened moment
I realized
the transcendent
miracle
the loam of life
incubating
churning
in concert with
the turn of
seasons...
to my sorrow
I missed the first
rays of the morning
the first
peeks of light
a breaking day
gracefully bespeaks
upon a sleeping earth
awoken in new light
yet I am filled
I am transcendent
I am the first ray
of an eternal light
I am the first ray
of my earthen
gloaming...
on the morrow
the best of me
is in the marrow
of all who loved me
and all whom I loved
these rays of me
will forever rise
in an eternity
of dawnings
For Joey
Godspeed Beloved
Vaughan Williams:
Lark Ascending
Oakland
101313
jbm
Oct 14, 2013
Oct 14, 2013 at 12:13 AM UTC
and in a single look
with no words spoken
more was said
than in an eternity of conversation
and whispered proclamations
Sep 30, 2015
Sep 30, 2015 at 10:51 AM UTC
I thought your poem was really sweet,
but
I just don’t think of you that way.
Honestly, sometimes it’s too much:
the endless proclamations,
and the incessant compliments.
Maybe if you were more like Paul --
We got dinner the other night,
Applebees’ Ultimate Trio.
Not once did he
hold a door
or offer to pay.
He didn’t compare me
to the sun,
or the stars,
or anything else for that matter.
He just said,
“You’re ******* hot.”
So we went to his place.
Sep 25, 2010
Sep 25, 2010 at 6:15 PM UTC
I am trying to forget you
Really,
I am
I have been drugging my memory
Repeatedly
Every night
Drinking from bottles
Filled with liquid strong enough
For me to untaste you
I still do
It's funny how
Nobody mentions touch
As the most important sense
Associated with memory
I still feel you everywhere
Your hands on my skin
I am trying to erase them
Your fingerprints must be
Permanent ink
They are no longer visible
But I can still see them
I tie my tongue in knots
So that when I choke
On words
It will be on my own terms
I still cough up yours
I am trying to forget you
The way your voice sounded in my ear
Breathless and humming
I can still hear the ringing
You are the melody
I cannot get out of my head
The music that I cannot stop singing
I am trying to erase
The parts of you drawn onto me
I have gotten four tattoos
In the past three months
And two of them remind me of you
I am trying to forget you
But I purposely don't try
Hard enough
If I really wanted to
I would destroy the proclamations of passion
I once wrote to you
If I really wanted to
I would delete the pictures sent back and forth
Like ransom letters
Thinking my body could force you
To surrender your heart
I used to consider swearing
To be a holy thing
You swore on so much
That it is no longer sacred
Humans are incapable of certainty
I have bent my pinky fingers in half
Just to come close
To believing promises
But people
Always let you down
And disappointment
Is inevitable
Your salt lips
And iodine mouth
Left a burning sensation
From every cut that you made
In mine
I am trying to forget you
And the way you said my name
How you only said it
Quietly through phone calls
Directly into my ear
As if you didn’t want anyone else
To hear you say it aloud
I am trying to forget you
But it is not easy
The moving on
Is a crossword puzzle
I do not know the last answer to
There are fifteen spaces left
That I don't know how to
Fill
With anything other than you
There is so much empty
Left over
It is much easier to hold on
To memories
And remnants
Of what could’ve been
Than it is to accept
A definite ending
Our future
May be dead
But you are still
Very much alive in me
If I really tried
I bet I could forget you
But I don't think I want to.
Nov 17, 2014
Nov 17, 2014 at 2:19 PM UTC
____ Little leonard Lion, decided to attend the Upcoming Town meeting with an Open mind about the Subjects that were to be Discussed. Many Times in the Past, Little Leonard along with others of his Thinking, Especially, Anthony Ant and Roxanne Roach, Went to the Town Meetings with the Attitude of "Cautious-Listening".. MANY Times the Town Meetings, conducted by the Town Upper-Layers and their *Chief, Wendall Waglips, had NOT stuck entirely to issues , BUT rather Modified them. SO, that the Credits due to the *Proper Provider, were Instead directed to Themselves ! Waglips and his Upper Layers had announced the Upcoming meeting would be a *Revelation of NEW Ideas and Plans ! Needles to say, Leonard Lion, Anthony Ant and Roxanne Roach Could Hardly wait ! As they sat on the edges of their seats, to hear the Proclamations that Wendall and the Upper Layers would be SWEETLY offering up to the Audience of " Fully Attentive" Listeners . Waglips approached the Podium of Announcement, Stood behind it, Grabbed both sides at the top, Leaned forward toward the microphone,____With a Self made Smile and his Attitudinal Voice, Began the Ritual of Proclamations; #1= A Decree you will accept with Glee. #2= When I Condone and accept it as the Known. #3= Should you disagree, DON'T bring it to me ! #4= What is Laid out, ACCEPT it or get Out. #5= The LAWS are on the Walls in the Halls,,BUT__DON'T Loiter in the Halls. Waglips continued His Finale , "These are for Your benefit and I am sure You agree, That each of you they will fit ! These NEW rules we've SPOKEN for your Wellbeing for the Residents of this Town ! _____Leonard, Anthony and Roxanne Looked at each other and glanced around at the 2500 attendees ! As a Megaphone was Placed in Leonards hand! He Repeatedly Shouted out ! "JOIN ME IN THE HALLS "... So, whats in store for those who stayed in their seat and "DID-NOT" heed the Boldness of the VOICE ,calling them to the Halls ?
Jan 20, 2011
Jan 20, 2011 at 3:35 AM UTC
Heed this warning: Beware the Antichrist!
We know from Christ’s revelation to Man,
that the ‘End Times’ officially began in 1948
with Israel reclaiming their ancestral land.
Be aware and be not deceived.
For this evil soul shall rise up - from obscurity.
Out from the descendants of Dan
the World will take notice of Satan’s emissary.
Although the Antichrist should be easy to spot,
this individual will be viewed as ‘Heaven sent’;
for his initial proclamations of false peace
will be supported by a one-world government.
Napoleon and ****** would have been impressed,
for his lavish promises are lies - full of finesse.
He will have no time or regard for women;
power ultimately will be his true mistress.
Eventually he’ll claim to be ‘God’
while appearing to survive a fatal injury.
From only the Devil himself,
the Antichrist received his earthly authority.
Yes, he will be voted into power
and will place the ‘Mark of the Beast’ upon thee.
So don’t be surprised when he demands…
worship from thee, upon your bended knee.
His reign of terror will be spectacular
and will probably lead us into World War III -
culminating in the ‘Battle of Armageddon’
and another ungodly event in Man’s brief history.
Will we face our ultimate destruction
from our earthly lust for power and authority?
Will mankind’s existence end from us forgetting
‘that absolute power corrupts absolutely’?
Author Notes:
Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://www.squidoo.com/book-isbn-1419650513/
By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2010, All rights reserved.
Jan 31, 2013
Jan 31, 2013 at 7:51 AM UTC
Three years ago I was just writing simple lyrics
I was a angst ridden teenage cynic
Now I write of things with meaning
I try to create poems that are teeming
With thing that will live on for centuries
Something more than sensitive journal entries
Death to convention
Watch the empty words waste away from an unwashed window
And meaningful proclamations grow
I aim to disappoint those looking for the "ABAB"rhyme scheme
And to excite the ones who question their reality and give them wet dreams
My dry nightmare is to see the world cease to progress
And become a giant ball of ignorant **** more or less
Words can be visible but unseen or forgotten
But nothing is mightier than someone with a pencil and an opinion
Give life to new ideas
Feel the words, put yourself in all you create
Life's a wasted ticket if you're not insane
Jun 14, 2014
Jun 14, 2014 at 9:58 PM UTC
Hesitant hands and
a lover who doesn't want
to love.
Momentary bliss with
someone who is terrified of
future.
Another saturday together,
back scratching,
arms holding,
reciprocated wanting,
and a kiss on the cheek in the morning.
I know he'll miss me
but
only in retrospect.
I say,
this feeling,
is the closest thing to god I know.
I think,
I will never let myself
admit it.
He thinks but says
nothing of
importance.
I, with a need for conversation,
am always the first
to initiate it.
Speaking of the weekends and
our time together and when
it will be the next already.
Professing my care and
how much I do and
how I don't know exactly why.
I tighten the knot around
my tongue and swallow
the proclamations as they come.
I decide to save them for
another who I know
I'll have to find eventually,
when the comfort has
settled and the strive
has grown tired,
when there is
not much left of
what barely ever was.
This is,
at most,
one of those routines that just sort of happened.
This is
hardly something
you could call romance.
I wonder,
how do you invest yourself
in a broken bank?
How do you share passion with
a person who doesn't have any?
How do you stop giving away too much
before you empty out again?
Why talk about tomorrow when
it is only today
and why is that still not enough
to be satisfied?
Oct 20, 2015
Oct 20, 2015 at 1:57 PM UTC
Bring victory, the winged harbinger of the conquest,
Beg for tyrannical proclamations: the end of man, the end of men,
By now, the greater of the concepts is lost to its own devices, devices,
Belching out smoke, that bend the corpses upon their backs.
By wrenching from their life a sense of purpose,
Byproductively, they feed heroic romanticisms of combat.
Brought yet upon these fields, there lies no stranger enemy
But that of the tide
Being self-effacing, masochistic,
Belittling, She breaks herself upon the shore, ravaging the bodies of
Both, Playing as ********** and as subservient
May 6, 2012
May 6, 2012 at 11:27 PM UTC
I grew up around men
I grew up wanting to be one of them
That in their love and admiration
I'd find affirmation
I grew up with big brothers and cousins
Who's approval I'd seek
Don't think "just cause I'm a girl"
that I'm weak
I'll climb that tree with you
I'll go one branch higher
Whilst you try to put me down
I remember being left out whilst
The boys were on adventures
Because I was "little"
But really cause I was a "girl"
Why can't I go and play football?
Go fish in the crab pool?
Be split into gender roles in p.e in school?
I don't even have ****
I'm terrible at gymnastics
I hate netball
Forcing me to stand still
Whilst the Guys can dribble their way forward to success playing basketball.
Equal rights?
You must think I'm a fool.
I grew up with a resentment towards girls
I grew up disliking myself
Having to be the smartest and wittiest
The kindest and prettiest
When my brother said
you have "queen bee syndrome"
It hit home
Cause I grew up with a love for women
The comfort they bring
But a dislike that I felt reliant on them
Often the ones that would listen
It's tiring to constantly feel like
you're in competition
That for me their strength
seems to threaten
When really it should be inspiration...
So I grow now with a vision
That equality will be achieved
Bit by bit and I'll start with me,
My own mentality
And I don't believe
That put downs are necessary
No hate, no proclamations
Of unshifting patriarchy
This will be done.
If I ever have children
They will each get every opportunity
To be what it is they want to be
I will see to that personally
Cause all these boundaries
just deny possibility
Just think of the world it could be
Cause what lies between your legs
Does NOT determine ability
Mar 29, 2015
Mar 29, 2015 at 11:09 PM UTC
Hope serves the watchful eyes of the tireless observer.
Freight trains of predacious signals burn through the Western hemisphere, misfiring the neurons of walking creativity. Authenticity belongs in the unknown showers of passion. Growing out in billows of lover’s hair. Lost in translation, victories will be claimed in earnest. To failures be honest exploration.
Ignorance will not bind the bees of new springs or the birds of southern departure. I contend for further marching. Bring about the movement. Action stems from desire. To knowledge I lend my contribution, through passion we make this in-land testimony. Behold the passing of butterflies. Many ponder these chances of fate. Decisive will the what-if tragedies be if one could see the reversal of choice, but rain still falls. Events unfold with the consequences of existence.
Knowing the truthful selves of East and West comes at the even pace of diversity. Personality differs as peaceful individuals of preferable serenity work inwardly as the proclamations of the lively bodies of social intrigue light their torches. Jugs of withered grape inebriate the tongues of their mood. Unifying the tangible honesty of exuberated calm. Flows, flowing in rhymes of poetry.
Sep 18, 2012
Sep 18, 2012 at 1:17 AM UTC
Through the centuries, ecclesiastical types have called poets deviants and inferred we would burn in Hell for our heresy. I've often wondered what the rhymes of a condemned poet might look like...
#1
The serpent got
a ***** wrap
as well as did
the Jews
And if you read
between the lines
you won't believe
The news
#2
As I'm not
a Christian
I think it
quite odd
That I should
be punished
by a biblical
God
#3
God the father
and his boy
appear to find
the greatest joy
deciding who
will sing or fry
in pits of Hell
or Heaven’s sky
Me thinks I’d
rather burn in Hell
for truth be told
I don't sing well
Besides in Heaven’s
realm I hear they’ve
put a ban on wine
and beer
#4
Scribbled notes
on wrinkled pages
offer up my
rants and rages
To the gods
both big
and small
who really
don't exist
at all
#5
Going to Hell
is not my intention
For Hell I believe
is your little
invention
Ingeniously
Crafted for
scaring the
masses
By threatening
Flame if they
don't kiss your
*****
#6
Such a simple
happenstance
No books to
study true
No condemning
sermons from
the everlasting
Jew
And since
His love
is only for
the chosen
and the few
I think I'll pass
on Sunday Mass
I've better things
to do
#7
Galileo’s castrated
brilliance shackled
to an empty cross
as demonic paramours
burn in the city square
#8
Rest assured
the herd will
follow the absurd
proclamations’
and the institution's
philosophical solution
to the daily grind
that binds us all
to this stalled
morality we
have mistaken
for God
#9
'Peace on earth
and love thy neighbor'
Cried the man with
cross and saber
Even as he slaughtered
millions for the crime
of pagan birth
#10
Cups and saucers
filled with gold
but not a cent
may we behold
for we are not
among the few
selected by the
ancient Jew
Apr 24, 2013
Apr 24, 2013 at 11:20 AM UTC
Hope serves the watchful eyes of the tireless observer.
Freight trains of predacious signals burn through the Western hemisphere, misfiring the neurons of walking creativity. Authenticity belongs in the unknown showers of passion. Growing out in billows of lover’s hair. Lost in translation, victories will be claimed in earnest. To failures be honest exploration.
Ignorance will not bind the bees of new springs or the birds of southern departure. I contend for further marching. Bring about the movement. Action stems from desire. To knowledge I lend my contribution, through passion we make this in-land testimony. Behold the passing of butterflies. Many ponder these chances of fate. Decisive will the what-if tragedies be if one could see the reversal of choice, but rain still falls. Events unfold with the consequences of existence.
Knowing the truthful selves of East and West comes at the even pace of diversity. Personality differs as peaceful individuals of preferable serenity work inwardly as the proclamations of the lively bodies of social intrigue light their torches. Jugs of withered grape inebriate the tongues of their mood. Unifying the tangible honesty of exuberated calm. Flows, flowing in rhymes of poetry.
Sep 18, 2012
Sep 18, 2012 at 1:17 AM UTC
Living in a city where the trees have names
And blank walls and bus stop benches
Have a language of their own,
I wonder who I am
And wonder who will read the lines I pen
And if I'm writing in an unknown tongue.
Wandering among the spray paint
proclamations
That declare existence
And 'my gang can beat up your gang'
I try to fathom the kind of emptiness
That only tagging can implete,
But I was never, at my worst, so hollow
Jan 26, 2017
Jan 26, 2017 at 11:21 AM UTC