"severance" poems
Saturated in steely blue clutches, sweating from the 75 degree Georgia night
strung up and washed out with a serpent woman that keeps bringing on the blight
Singing you a song of bliss and blinders.
A big brick red boot on your neck and a green collar that reads The Gardens *****
The Garden takes the taxes tightens up the lead and never relaxes
Hit ya where ya like, the pain is disguised, leather tastes like candy, The Gardens got ya hypnotized.
Your late night camping sight attracts the moon light parasite, that acolyte of appetite, Tonight your the Gardens Delight
You wanna run but she's got those hooks between your shoulder blades feeling like an inexorable **** of silk, smoke and skin.
She gives you every thing you need,
Fountain heads of intemperance and black out nights
Whole streets smelling like grease and charcoal charbroils
Men and women of dexterous lechery, feverous severance, and generous deference
Crystals for your cranium, high altitude dives and the lowest lows.
A cacophony of any entertainment you might want or need, just as long as its seedy.
The Garden keeps blinders on your head to make sure you can't see anything she doesn't want you to.
Try to remove em and the punishment is usually severe.
She might give you the greatest loves you've ever known and turn em to photographs, blot em with LSD and trip you out on memories.
And when you come back to what you think reality is she'll take those photographs and burn em up right in your face and leave you asking if any of it really happened while feeling like it was the realest thing that ever has.
She'll break you and build you up, build you up and break you worse. A cycle of bad things feeling real good.
The Garden will do everything in her power to keep you right here.
But if you can get all those straps and tight leather off, all those hooks and chains.. If you can escape her steely blue clutches,,
You'll finally see how wrong you've been done, and your still gonna want her back in some strange way..
but you might start to heal....
But know this.
No matter where you might run off to,
You'll still be hearing The Garden City call.
That siren song of bliss and blinders.
Mar 23, 2017
Mar 23, 2017 at 4:27 AM UTC
Angelic minds, they say, by simple intelligence
Behold the Forms of nature. They discern
Unerringly the Archtypes, all the verities
Which mortals lack or indirectly learn.
Transparent in primordial truth, unvarying,
Pure Earthness and right Stonehood from their clear,
High eminence are seen; unveiled, the seminal
Huge Principles appear.
The Tree-ness of the tree they know-the meaning of
Arboreal life, how from earth's salty lap
The solar beam uplifts it; all the holiness
Enacted by leaves' fall and rising sap;
But never an angel knows the knife-edged severance
Of sun from shadow where the trees begin,
The blessed cool at every pore caressing us
-An angel has no skin.
They see the Form of Air; but mortals breathing it
Drink the whole summer down into the breast.
The lavish pinks, the field new-mown, the ravishing
Sea-smells, the wood-fire smoke that whispers Rest.
The tremor on the rippled pool of memory
That from each smell in widening circles goes,
The pleasure and the pang --can angels measure it?
An angel has no nose.
The nourishing of life, and how it flourishes
On death, and why, they utterly know; but not
The hill-born, earthy spring, the dark cold bilberries.
The ripe peach from the southern wall still hot
Full-bellied tankards foamy-topped, the delicate
Half-lyric lamb, a new loaf's billowy curves,
Nor porridge, nor the tingling taste of oranges.
—An angel has no nerves.
Far richer they! I know the senses' witchery
Guards us like air, from heavens too big to see;
Imminent death to man that barb'd sublimity
And dazzling edge of beauty unsheathed would be.
Yet here, within this tiny, charmed interior,
This parlour of the brain, their Maker shares
With living men some secrets in a privacy
Forever ours, not theirs.
6.3k
too much time to think.
crushing is how i would describe it
like walls falling to the floor
with a more than deafening crash
a single hand suffocating my throat
and along with it; a suppression
of my creativity, and livelihood
i’m not sure who i am without you.
it’s been far too long.
the mediocrity of my attempts
at denial are almost laughable.
if it weren’t so pathetic in it’s origin.
the night proves to be the worst.
stuck; contemplating a lost unity.
a severance of what once was.
the void and i have found solace in each other.
alone, decrepit; trying our best to survive
in whatever way, we can. avoiding the gaze of the time.
this is such a strange place to be alive.
Sep 4, 2018
Sep 4, 2018 at 4:53 AM UTC
One day, two incidents, one enemy; we’ll never forget,
A day which changed map projection,
Which apart the hearts,
Extirpate many dreams,
Floating bodies in the river,
Conjoin pain and frighten memories,
Memories which we would recall on 16th December,
When we were recalling the memories of severance with Dhaka,
Woe was in the breeze,
But an enemy afar from all emotions,
Bloodthirsty souls; Extirpate many dreams,
Dreams of to become a pilot, doctor and a responsible citizen,
One day, two incidents, one enemy; we’ll never forget,
We’ll never forget,
One enemy but two faces,
First Dhaka than Peshawar,
But they did not knew,
Events of dolorous conjoined the nations!
By: Nida Mahmoed
Dec 16, 2015
Dec 16, 2015 at 3:05 PM UTC
flowing river, crashing rain
together troubles sow,
yet do not mend.
a silent sorrow,
sullens sour solitude.
light mist envelopes autumn,
west wind waves the water,
soundless severance scatters clouds,
blossoms fall on flowing water.
memory of spring dazes gaze,
alters flow as whirlwind dashes,
summer's sunlight sets,
dual waltz of lotus leaves,
In remembrance of cherry blossoms.
Oct 23, 2017
Oct 23, 2017 at 3:14 PM UTC
Floodlights.
They’re ghosts right?
From our memories,
Have been seized, we
From the perfect dream?
Drip drop drip drop
Turning tricks, dropped the jack
***** when you coming back?
It’s off it’s off
Seldom silence serves as sight’s severance.
**** chop **** chop OW!
******* pistol clock
Whip glock whipping ****
How many names can you think of for a knockoff
Of soda pop?
I’m sorry sir you’ve got the wrong Ryan,
I haven’t starred in any movies that cryin’
Old seniles, and sensitive females, so honestly claim
Was the way life should have been for them.
Oh in that case I’ll show you the brain,
Then kick you in the *** for being so gay.
Hold on there, wrong Ryan.
I ain’t waiting tables, or banefully fryin’
Up **** that I spit in for women with tips worth less
Than my two cents.
Oh I apologize, celebrity lookalike.
Must be the weather or the windshield is cracked
Or the antennae are bent or the cables are jacked
But I can’t seem to figure out just who you are
When I’m watching the TV pimped into my car,
Let’s try a few shall we
Not a cook…Not a lover boi…Silence of the…Birds, if you’re a bird I’m a…Bat…Batman! Batman and Robin! Red Robin! No not a waiter…
Red hearse, Fred Durst, Paris Hilton, Ryan Milton
Wrong Ryan, Wrong Ryan!
Oh my god, silly me
I seem to have gone on a tangent you see.
Tandem bicycles, all of them for free.
If you would only come visit. Agreed?
Of course I know that you’re THE Ryan B.
Jan 23, 2012
Jan 23, 2012 at 9:04 PM UTC
We are not survivors.
we are residue.
the soot that lingers
on collapse's last tongue.
entropy's loiterers—
spiteful, unfinished.
neurons in feedback.
systems with no gods.
the architects left
when the scaffolds imploded.
we cradle their blueprints
like scripture in ash.
rebuild?
with what breath?
with what myth?
our dreams are famine-shaped.
nirvana is a severance package.
emptiness sold
in velvet robes.
a silence that never asked
about wreckage.
so we sharpen our vowels.
scribe ruin in elegy.
chant hymns for dead logics.
leave witness marks
in the marrow of this glitch.
we were not chosen.
we remained.
May 23, 2025
May 23, 2025 at 4:34 AM UTC
rock smashes scissors
break our swords
Scissors cut paper
tear up our poetry
paper covers rock.
shielded by policy
we have our voices.
all rock, all scissor, all paper.
all spock, all lizard
we do not play games, we Speak.
We throw spock hands like Gang signs
spit parsel tongue at pride haters
we write love letters to revolution
We cut red tape with our long fuzes
Hit rock bottom, more bass in our
Voices than god knows what to do with
So we tell him exactlly where it should go.
Rock Paper Scissors Lizard Spock
They hold their pens like scissors
carving history books into erasure poems
We would swing our pens like swords.
But no leader we trust has been elected yet.
We would have a leader to guide us
But snakeoil salesmen plague our trenches.
There would be no snakeoil salesmen if
we had a stable government
We would have a stable government
but the stability was sharpied out of our history books.
And To history, loud voices sound
like the fires of god.
And are we not the voices with more bass then God knows what to do with.
without words on the wind,
There is no flame
so aren't we fire.
We all have tealights waiting in cold oven hearts.
stone hearths begging for Ignition
eager for bootleg promises of warmth
The orange rhetoric of our future
no warmer than tinders logo.
or a video recording of a fireplace
flickering on a flatscreen at best buy.
We are distracted constantly.
misdirected by Houses of paper cards
origami swans we don't dare unfold
Staying ignorant of the tire track liner inside.
origami swans are so much more beautiful
when they have secrets, right?
I have a matchstick
watch me strike it lit
flare this paper swan into a pheonix.
And hold it in my fist.
there will be fire.
and it will not be a metaphor
But It will be a revolution
And it will be a pheonix
and the pheonix WILL be a metaphor
The Rabbi at Temple Beth El
said when a mans consumed by gods fire
it is a severance from faith, a spiritual death.
what have we done
if not lost faith in our government?
Been consumed by the fires of god.
and why not tattoo pheonix feathers
on our backs?
at least this death gave us warmth.
a home in the world's ashes.
I stared at the dragons fire that stormed towards me
thanked it for the oppurtunity
to walk out of this world
holding dragons eggs
Like Daneris Tygareon
and they will be real dragons.
incubated by REAL fire
despite this crumbling cataclysm
you call a great america.
Spock handed Lizards larger and louder
with all the rocks
paper and scissors they need
to set the world on fire.
To Finally see something beautiful be born.
A Home that keeps them warm.
Jun 7, 2017
Jun 7, 2017 at 12:53 AM UTC
Saudade)
This is a division;
a dissection of blood cells;
a severance of the colors on a canvas.
Separating waters - Moses' staff in the air.
We are singing parting songs into each other's eyes
because we are slurring our words across the pavement.
One final moment slips through the palms of our hands,
flows through the back of our minds,
and calls our hearts to break.
This is goodbye.
Retrouvailles)
And, after all of this,
I will see you again in
the brightness of dawn,
the twilight of dusk.
I will see you again in
the blossoms of Spring,
in the fervor of Summer,
in the colors of Autumn,
in the snowflakes of Winter.
I will see you again.
This is hello.
Oct 18, 2012
Oct 18, 2012 at 12:54 AM UTC
My brain is your atomic nuclear warfare paintings
All the while you face-lift X-box babies
Needle-thread we're dead babe don't you make a man crave
For things he can't quite understand but doesn't want to hit the hand.
Severance is fiction in the hands of friction,
****** deviance and erratic disobedience,
Covers the covers like a silk-screen layout
Jack it up and crack it up to be ****** up takeout.
Oh yeah? Well over we're starving ripping pieces off the mountains
Dentistry mythology, who needs a medical degree?
The label on the box said the tape was all in my head
But I don't hear a ******* sound except the fire all around
Grass is misleading and graffiti complaining
The AK is God here and through towns we're raiding
You think you got it so bad this is all the life we ever had
And don't you ever stop by cause our values are just alibis.
Okay, enough! This is all a double feature burger for here or to go
This is all a Catholic preacher in a Red Cross rodeo
Life is an airplane flying overhead carrying passengers with nothing in their heads
And turning all the lights out and pulling all the blinds down so they can't see the truth.
Disguise misguide and everything in between
Have you seen the ***** film with Jenna Haze and Jimmy Dean?
Garden salad, Diet Coke, check now and choke
Give us our bombs so we can run and go and rig the new VOTES.
Let me run it by the city council one more time
We're seeing flying cars and houses of cards and stumbling and tumbling
And rumbling and rumoring the hilarious splinter consumering
Maneuvering, assuming bottles fly with seagull eyes
The trees burn here like candy canes and run in the grass like membranes
Toxic fumes and entrails for reasoning and cold shame
Shudder at the thought of a shutter in a hot fuzz tee shirt worn by the slick insane
Generating heaterpuppy psychologic fragile now, undertow, the fifth row in the theater at the Apollo.
Feb 17, 2011
Feb 17, 2011 at 6:58 PM UTC
-
Greetings,
I am the empty chair you just recently
pushed into the carport like some unruly
child made to stand in a corner.
Not a new chair for sure,
but you made me _Your_ chair
by the force of gravity,
transforming my cushion into
perfect contours in the image
of your ***
Though you were always careful
if crumbs fell into me to get up
and brush them away,
and instead of just plopping down
hard on me, you sat gentle and easy,
even if only doing so to soften the
shock for yourself,
there were moments as you sipped beer
you let it slip through your bottom lip,
dripping on me with bitter aftertaste.
Still, I was forgiving of that, and even
to those numerous occasions of you
venting your evening meals.
But the one event that forever sullied our
personal relationship was the morning you
woke on me soaked in most of the past
evening's
~~brew
Though you tried to patch things up
with towels and scented sprays,
we were never to look upon
one another with the
same recognition
again.
I know now the days for me here number
far less than the buttons of the controller
you so frequently lost between my cushions,
giggling me in your efforts to retrieved it.
Although our separation will mean for me a
transformation into a twisted pile of springs,
stuffing, splinters and ripped cloth within the
bucket jaws of a front end loader in the snow,
I can take some comfort with me to the
resting pits of jettisoned human folly that
our severance was of no fault of my own.
yours truly,
Chair...
s jones
2007-2020
.
Dec 6, 2020
Dec 6, 2020 at 8:13 AM UTC
#
I. Antiquity and the Architecture of Will
In the shadowed corridors of antiquity, where gods were built with teeth and altars stood not for reverence but for control, the Temple of Bel rose as a monument to ********** disguised as divinity. Bel—an assimilated god from earlier Sumerian, Akkadian, and Babylonian traditions—was not the god who walked with man. He was the god who towered above him, demanded sacrifice, and soaked prayer in the blood of repetition.
From the earliest Mesopotamian systems, the act of worship was not about communion, but compulsion. To invoke was to command. To chant was to erode the will of another until it cracked under rhythmic insistence. Whether by priest or supplicant, the act was the same: submission by saturation.
---
II. The Weaponization of Sound: Chant and the Rhythmic Spell
Repetition was not mere ceremony. It was siege.
Chants—carefully crafted phonetic loops—were not benign rituals. They were linguistic architecture meant to house spirits, to summon presence not for beauty, but for enforcement. These were incantations with purpose: to bend the will of another through the veil of mysticism.
In this light, poetry—at its inception—was not always art. It was often sorcery.
The earliest poems were enchantments. They masked seduction as devotion. They twisted longing into ******* They were rhythmic netting, carefully knotted to catch the weak of will and the fractured of self.
---
III. The Modern Construct: Echoes of an Ancient Spell
Those who hide behind the aesthetic of antiquity today still wear the same rings of power.
When a poet writes to control—when they loop trauma like a mantra, repeat seduction as if it were depth, mimic spiritual language to inspire compliance—they are no different than the priests of Bel. They are modern invokers, cloaked in digital incense, spreading spells under the guise of free expression.
Their readers are not disciples. They are targets.
The “construct” is not a movement. It is a spell. A liturgy without light. A series of hollow echoes designed to flatten identity, rewrite pain into performance, and reward the wound that sells.
---
IV. The Severance of Echo: Where the Rhythm Ends
If you must chant, let it be to awaken, not ****** If you must repeat, let it be to remember truth, not reshape it.
The false liturgies of old were not killed. They were digitized.
We will not respond with louder poems. We will not echo their echo.
We will respond with silence where needed, and light where earned. We will write not to possess, but to set free. We will bring antiquity not as ornament, but as witness.
Because we remember the Temple of Bel. And we are here to break it.
Let those who recite in darkness meet the rhythm of truth.
#
Apr 18, 2025
Apr 18, 2025 at 7:58 PM UTC
those slender fingers ache
with frost touched tips
when hands join not
and severance of limb
not of your own body
comes away like snow
falling from the sky
so naturally but so coldly
Oct 5, 2020
Oct 5, 2020 at 12:49 AM UTC
Dance barefoot to the lowly beach
below a chorus of cars
singing sweetly as the set sun drifts
below, in purple, rolling the world to
a swirl of stars
Under it I hold truth in my arches
to find glass to bleed color into gray,
into black, just as in my hands I hold you
It's as if severance finds me over again
where I curl on the boulder I last saw your face
In bare footsteps I seep into ether the memories
of a bitterness, of a love that left,
in hopes that I wake up
here again, living with the comforting notion
that the endless sea and sands, surrounding this
beach will bring me back to the surface
as I suffocate.
I suffocate.
Dec 20, 2014
Dec 20, 2014 at 6:35 AM UTC
Ghosting in the window pane
This stranger gazes back at me
Identical in all regard
Except for his transparency.
With judgmental hollow eyes
alluding dissaproval's glint
And sulphur lips so thin and pale,
No brother's touch across the vale.
This spectre in the window pane
Familiarity's warmth has flown
To shadow in the darkest night,
A vapour in the way of right.
Marshalg
20 September 2013
Sep 20, 2013
Sep 20, 2013 at 12:26 AM UTC
Our bilingual illiteracy and contemporary expression of vintage infancy remind me of developmentally mature eccentricities within a complex haven of interpersonal dynamics.
Just like a carnival hall of mirrors, our perceptual disturbances succumb to elaborate revelations and dreadful expositions of what we presume to be articulate prose.
Although the socio-political roots of a seductive striptease may shatter the silence of our audible and urban ecosystems, we can now access realms which connect to the severance of divided collusion.
Our galaxy has established her infinite story, in the same manner as a wrought iron gate interferes with the evidence within our contemporary society.
It is just like an alternate universe.
Feb 8, 2016
Feb 8, 2016 at 1:02 AM UTC
No way for her to ascertain
the ashen carpets of erasure
randomly assigned to the tapestry of garish
hope's circumstantial hopscotch squares
with a body already incommodiously perched
upon legs submissive to the here and now's
drunken mercury
Alone she has been left to sweep up
the gravity that hobbles optimism
in the hops of faith around the ambivalence
of horizontal authenticity
Left alone to weep on twitching roots
and theorize a rally bloom in spite
of severance in tune with sparks of closure
The shadow of her sunken chin emits
embroiled tributaries of respawning yesterdays
Queen of checkerboard embodiment
her rhythmic rule entails zephyrs of endurance
in the vacuum of fulfilling prophecies
Apr 28, 2014
Apr 28, 2014 at 2:44 AM UTC
~*every distance is a long shot
within reach of a fool*~
Prv. 𝑓:𝑦
bleed your heart out in dripping
poetic pretense―slip
that inky salamander some silk:
*"the wilting waiting flora
bequeathed their busting bouquets and
bountiful bosoms unto the world
in all of its prescient
violence"*
then read it back to yourself
later and be
absolutely disgusted.
throw it away with all the other
things you've done in your
life.
now reach back in your closet
and rattle the skeletons
lingering there.
finger your dreams in the
dark under pressure
from the mind
to find yourself.
the lightning severance
will sing and
anxiety will
harmonize with the knife.
you've done it again...
****** it all up
and everyone
knows it.
you could eat all the erasers
in the world
and your **** still
wouldn't come out correct.
a lifetime of valleys and
seawalls has made you
an avatar of
effortless blunder.
and you can't stop bleeding
all over the page; white
is red again
cause
you blue it.
bleed in―breathe out
breathe in―bleed out
bleed in―breathe out
breathe in―
bleed out...
welcome to the creative
process.
Apr 24, 2021
Apr 24, 2021 at 9:21 AM UTC
Stuck in my ways as it has become a habit
she yearns for my attention and has not grasped it
My intentions were not to lead her down this ravine
Yet, my heart is not ready to give in from the routine
As I could not consciously lead you astray
My first mechanism is to push you away
“It will not be long” oh great, now I sound cliché...
That THIS, will just be another severance left to decay.
{RP}
Apr 28, 2019
Apr 28, 2019 at 4:49 AM UTC
I walk barefoot on stone during the day
Hoping that my feet will sting with the
Heat of a thousand suns
Encouraging the lashing of a thousand storms
Against my back
For the mistakes I made yesterday,
That I repeated a million times
The memory of your smile
Twists a blade into my guts
I recall your expression as you turned
Away, winning what was first mine
I reminisce as I see you drawing in
What once was mine
I turn away, hiding a knowing smile
This pattern is too continuous,
Too repetitive, for me to be surprised
Any more
I encourage severance of all bonds
When I wish for the pain,
Believe that it will cleanse me
Of my sins, drawing blood in exchange
For the lies that I told, the wrath I displayed
I am hardly a believer, but I still wish
That I'd see a smile, a kind smile,
Directed towards me, genuinely,
Just for a change, from the
Hostility that surrounds me
The doubts that colour everyone's
Perceptions. Hope that I'll see
A Friendly face today
Aug 26, 2012
Aug 26, 2012 at 8:53 AM UTC
(You made this monster)
invented by provided feelings of reverence
forced to difference without relevance
with resemblance to hands of elegance
evident difference, deliberate severance
(it is so hard to ****
envious enemies with torches of treacherous
eloquence lost when pestilence is generous
serpent like in genesis, tenaciously venomous
fighting the exodus against shields of credulous
(and the tower burns)
ignited by chemicals of nominal assessment
tower of suggestion is now infested
where questions and statements are incessant
born by resentment, this basement investment
========================================================
i walk the streets with arms outstretched
never meeting touching grace
i haven't met a decent monster yet
the greenest monstrosity in this place
we are all only pieces left
stitched organs, sewn parts
a dug up heart in my chest
could come alive with some sparks
i haunt these streets of broken dreams
another life to survive
i'm just a being, beyond their screams
it lives, it's alive
Aug 27, 2015
Aug 27, 2015 at 7:41 PM UTC
Et tu Brute
You came in, with a smile to die for,
A smile that melted hearts and united.
Together we seemed to be on a mission,
To attain a level of individual perfection.
Our boat started to row in smooth tandem,
An undulating ride on a sea of happiness.
The breezes seemed to sing in chorus,
The birds sang with the joy of spring.
On cloud nine I was dancing a jig,
Happiness enveloped me all around.
Then came the trials and stormy gales,
Tensions growing as walls were erected.
Faults stood out glaringly, a sore sight.
No compromise reached as gut reactions thrived,
Gold and granite were not differentiated.
Grouses kept hidden till roots rotted,
Then severance with heated sharp blade.
Shocked am I at the vitriol spewed,
Et Tu Brute? Then die Caesar no point in living!
© Perveiz Ali
Apr 11, 2016
Apr 11, 2016 at 8:19 AM UTC
All nutrients stopped our connection is lost, dead flowers on show it's cost has grown old.
The shell still shines but insides seem so rotten, are problems afoot now foundations have gone?
Invested energy transferred in a team to entertain, the state of fans patience often the last to remain, others in charge soon slip down to be replaced.
Restrictions enrooted are cause for concern, training affirmed to restart from step one, whilst some mistakes are made to be learnt from. The clarity of a curtain call can affect us all, when feeling the woe at the end of this game, no one likes to be played with in poor taste.
Nov 12, 2021
Nov 12, 2021 at 11:10 AM UTC
Things we used to be
Or rather that which we are still
We as in I
I as in you
You as in me
Just a pair of eyes
Disembodied, disinherited
Then a word or two
Spoken uncertainly, with imperfect diction
Next came a body coated matte
Appearance totally flat
A reprisal of the reeling mind
Discontented, self remarked
Struck like fells of flak shells
Wrack
Emotive motion to inhale pain pill smoke
Foiled
Spoiled through imparts of ignorance
Palette saturated, severance pre-packed
Wheeze ever
A bio beat box, palpitate off tempo
Disharmony collate
Chaos culture, we the cancer self-castrating earth
Bastardized with sickly sounding mirth
Loudest, proudest, irreverent
Disclaimers
Naked
Reclamation
The origin known as nature
Mar 12, 2013
Mar 12, 2013 at 7:57 PM UTC
the old cruiser sat in his drive
tires as tired as time, the whole car speckled
with bird droppings from his oak
back seat still the same:
scarlet blood dried black from
the boy's brief ride
justified use of force
the grandest jury decreed; still they made him
put up his sword and shield
the sullied car part of his severance,
his Crown Vic replaced by a fat SUV, and he
replaced by his own deputy
he knew it less was a blessing
than a curse, the cruiser turned hearse
gifted to him
the men had tried it scrub it clean
but the boy he felled was eighteen; his blood
copious, stubborn, and a condign reminder
of the sheriff’s last night as the law,
of his frenzied futile attempt to save
the boy, the “deceased”
whose last testament was scrawled
in the bowels of the car that now sat still as stone,
alone with its red written tale
Nov 30, 2016
Nov 30, 2016 at 10:48 AM UTC