"spate" poems
Dark clouds loomed over the horizon
They broke loose in unprecedented force
Nature’s wrath, sudden violence acquired
It rained down as if unleashing all her fury
It was a downpour without one equal
The heavens let down dark misery for days on end,
Water bodies swelled and hollows filled,
Land mass slipped and trees fell,
Rivers were in spate and dams were full
Waves surfed and waters roared,
Like mountains they rose over the land,
Men in throngs were evicted from their homes,
Hundreds died and livestock perished
Such violence, never ever imagined
Helter-skelter, people fled for life.
Lands inundated and folks marooned,
Homes washed away with all belongings
Power failed and life has come to a halt
Rescue operations go on in full swing
Still many, stranded and crying for help
“Water, water everywhere, nor even a drop to drink”
As Nature thus plays her perfidious trick,
We shall stay united and pool all our might,
To regain for our land what we have lost
When the Deluge chants the dirge of dying souls!
Aug 21, 2018
Aug 21, 2018 at 9:27 AM UTC
Silhouettes emerge from the night lunar tide
lives still wriggling in their net
ghostly figures from the sea silken wide
reaping riches from the waves in spate.
The night a luminous smile wears
the belly is fired up for a bite
dried leaves would burn under stars
brewing another day under moonlight.
Mariners when not venturing into deep sea
release passions on the shallow shelf
harvest hope though the catch is measly
breathing in the winds the aroma of kelp.
I feel having long belonged to this place
wading breakers in the phosphorus' glow
gathering in my net a strange happiness
craving home when the tide is low.
Jun 27, 2017
Jun 27, 2017 at 9:21 AM UTC
In the background as I walk
Her voice decorates the scene
The soft spate of her breath
In the background as I walk
All falls serene when she talks
‘Twas an honor unforeseen
In the background as I walk
Her voice decorates the scene
May 30, 2012
May 30, 2012 at 3:00 PM UTC
A figure of eight,
wonders through her mind,
accepts that through this spate
children are for all time.
a mum, a chef
a carer of children too
with love intense
brings light to all that do.
"Family before Friends"
This is the mantra
that she lives to.
Always makes amends
to the family
she has knew.
Her Husband, Her Sons,
Her Daughters, Her Love
All of this is summed up
in the quality of her stew.
Aug 23, 2012
Aug 23, 2012 at 1:15 PM UTC
Under the weeping willow tree,
I heard my swan sing one last time,
about truth and illusions,
that broke my heart in to pieces;
winging away from me for ever,
my broken heart repeatedly told,
**but, how could I stop, a river,
in spate, that won't stop, even if it wants.**
Nov 10, 2012
Nov 10, 2012 at 9:46 AM UTC
The Butler Model of Tourism
I come back year after year
cracked black valise, busted zipper
spring-shot lobby divans drained of color,
to press crisp bills into Monte’s hand
come up for air from the tortoise shell
of his thread bare uniform, ease myself
down on a sagging mattress
wait for the clatter of ancient bones
his creaking cart and shuffling feet
to recede into absolute silence down
the dimly lit hall, broken only by a spate
of conversation between the couple
I can just make out in the water
stained fresco above the bed
two of them lost in a heated row
as if I couldn’t hear their bald appraisals
shockingly frank in this flocked walled room
with musty corners and milky windows
disagreeing only on the degree of my
progression through the dismal stages of
“The Butler Model of Tourism”
him making a half-hearted case for
Rejuvenation, the woman straddling
the thin line between Stagnation and Decline.
Sep 24, 2016
Sep 24, 2016 at 9:47 AM UTC
Slightly built, yet robust,
not frail, a daily jogger by choice,
shape conscious, proud-
about keeping the weight
in check, all these years,
articulates her feelings well
but, not the argumentative type,
this facet endears her to all,
keeps her Indian mind agile,
which reflects in her awareness
of eternity than here and now.
Takes oil bath twice a day, in keeping with
the true Malayalee spirit,
never a river in spate, yet
forceful and gushing in making heard
her opinions for others to consider,
from the first day of marriage,
unlike the demure Indian women.
None would doubt her might
that transcends the limits of material and physical,
hidden power sources are tapped at will,
cites her matrilineal heritage, that
stems form a long line of matriarchal grandmothers.
I can't imagine a day passing our premises
without she giving permission,
putting her signature,
all over each passing hour,
though we never keep a formal register for that.
Aren't we three, auxiliaries, the boys and I
in the orchestra named after this inveterate conductor?
Sweet to the core, but if needed
could be pungent, never erupts or go wild,
Smile is disarmingly gentle, yet
that firm answer, needed at the right time,
is never delayed.
Two adoring eyes flutter,
pledging support,
they never let me down, day or night.
a hand that gently touches, me
with the fingers of reality.
when I dream in day or night.
Sep 6, 2013
Sep 6, 2013 at 9:54 AM UTC
*And suddenly he finds this--
the season of strange happenings
befall upon him.In Bangkok rains lashed
for three consecutive days without stop.
Huge pythons with strange markings
undulated over waves, that were roads
three days before.A stranger to the town
he feared the fury of river Chao Phraya
but this girl took care of him well,
and when rain paused slightly
she suggested they should eat out.
He left it to her choice, though never knew
much about her, say he was careless.
In that dim-lit restaurant, she said
most unexpected things happen certain days,
and what she said was really true.
She ate his past wholly, so quick
when no one noticed, it was truly smart an operation.
It tastes exactly like Thai cuisine she told him, as if pleased,
full of aromatic leaves of herbs.
He just sat like a zombie, would he understand
the meaning of that sabotage, ever?
As she whispered her words in his ears,
he wanted to contradict, tell her about
coconut milk, pepper and condiments
in which his memories of past were marinated,
like his mom's incredible curries
of fish from Kerala coast.
She pretended she didn't hear
all his memories of spice coast,
she had tactically usurped.
Then a doubt creeped in to his mind
"Is she a banshee, after me?"
She persuaded him to take a stroll
along the bank of Chao Phraya in spate
None would believe him later
his eye witness account of the girl
who ate all his spice land past
jumped in to Chao Phraya turning in to a big fish
and disappeared, never to reappear.*
Oct 28, 2013
Oct 28, 2013 at 1:49 PM UTC
I, too, saw God through mud, -
The mud that cracked on cheeks when wretches smiled.
War brought more glory to their eyes than blood,
And gave their laughs more glee than shakes a child.
Merry it was to laugh there -
Where death becomes absurd and life absurder.
For power was on us as we slashed bones bare
Not to feel sickness or remorse of ******
I, too, have dropped off Fear -
Behind the barrage, dead as my platoon,
And sailed my spirit surging light and clear
Past the entanglement where hopes lay strewn;
And witnessed exultation -
Faces that used to curse me, scowl for scowl,
Shine and lift up with passion of oblation,
Seraphic for an hour; though they were foul.
I have made fellowships -
Untold of happy lovers in old song.
For love is not the binding of fair lips
With the soft silk of eyes that look and long,
By Joy, whose ribbon slips, -
But wound with war's hard wire whose stakes are strong;
Bound with the bandage of the arm that drips;
Knit in the webbing of the rifle-thong.
I have perceived much beauty
In the hoarse oaths that kept our courage straight;
Heard music in the silentness of duty;
Found peace where shell-storms spouted reddest spate.
Nevertheless, except you share
With them in hell the sorrowful dark of hell,
Whose world is but the trembling of a flare
And heaven but as the highway for a shell,
You shall not hear their mirth:
You shall not come to think them well content
By any jest of mine. These men are worth
Your tears. You are not worth their merriment.
2.2k
Marooned in the island of loneliness
Shadows of delusion confront her
In a stormy sea, she got ship wrecked
And the sea had robbed everything from her
What unanticipated change comes over
When people let one down
What shocking realization it is
To know that there is nobody to care
She is now a drying brook
That has once been a river in spate
A deflated balloon, unable to soar high
A blind bird that cannot see a dawn
Nor sing a song to wake the sleeping world
She bears scars like deep cuts
On an ill maintained tarmac road
Vacantly she looks into the far horizon
When broken shards of moonlight
Paint pictures of dark demons around her
She screams in silence for someone
To come to her rescue, to lift her up
As a bird that with nightfall returns
To a tree to call out its solitude to the stars
She sits there alone, terribly alone,
Not knowing to whom she should call out!
Will the stars keep her company?
Tomorrow when another day of uncertainty breaks out
She wonders if she should wake up and greet the dawn
With the hope that her pain would go into remission
And her frozen inside would thaw by itself in time
Or end her life as soundless, as inconsequential
As a droplet let down from a blade of grass!
Dec 8, 2017
Dec 8, 2017 at 8:07 AM UTC
The great gaudy flage is screamin' blood in the streets
loose yawn of a gob on him
all bombast n' swagger
he makes a barrage of nuisance
channels through the public
and scatters a juggler's performance spot
lobs away his change hat
then, roughly over the cobbles
he hoicks a resuscitation doll
and stamps down a posing boot
on the 'defeated form'
an unprepared scoop of tourists
a pause for silence and begins a rant
a great performance
of well harassed combustion :
"i smear to god all the phalluses
[he roars, all saliva]
i smug to god
a full jug of uglies
tug on [makes the hand gesture for male ************
i **** off the forger
would slug it in the mug
if it ever did form a tissue oath
took a plug at some drunk straggler
called the baffled *** 'god-father'
and spate spume on his fallen anatomy
[with one hand he indicates the mannequin at his heel]
amen ************ !"
he bows
a long quiet
some people clap awkwardly
two police officers appear and hook him by the elbows
(it has been this show before)
Mar 11, 2022
Mar 11, 2022 at 11:38 AM UTC
On a rickety bridge,
across roaring Rubicon,
in spate, he stands,
holding on to a
Janus faced moment,
that will decide his fate,
once and for all.
He gazes at the rushing-
red waters, from the hills,
madly impatient to reach the sea,
at the earliest,
akin the ****** frenzy at the ******
or life racing towards death, to culminate, dissolve.
Some message, he has in it.He looks on, in silence.
*Two options, his mind discerns,
cross the river and trudge
to the rendezvous, where
the union has to take place,
with his sweet heart, of long years,
or jump in to the surging waters
that tempts, from the time of birth,
and submit oneself
to the hands of nature,
and thereby forget all tribulations.*
**He shuts his eyes and contemplates,
then, his moment of truth comes.**
Nov 21, 2012
Nov 21, 2012 at 10:09 AM UTC
I
Now the rain hammered down And the waters did rise
And the drunk at the Inn Looked his wife in the eyes
Then he looked at his boots Of soft leather so new
and he saw her strong back Then he chose what to do
"The river is deep and it's running in spate
I'll not get a dousing and I'll not be late
So you'll take me across woman just you alone
Or by God you will suffer when we both get home"
You're a cold-hearted ******* without any charm
You've broken my heart like you once broke my arm
But I'll carry you out through the deep and the flood
Thought the water is almost as cold as your blood
So they walked to the banks of the river so fast
And he clung to her shoulders a man foul and vast
She strode forward with dignity into the flow
Stopped sharp took a breath singing as she let go
"You're cold-hearted ******* your drunk breath on my neck
You've beaten me down to grey broken wreck
Now I'm stood in the river and I need a rest
So I'll stand here a while with both feet on your chest"
So he struggled a little and then he was still
While she sang with new freedom enjoying the thrill
She knows if the magistrate says she must swing
She will still feel the freedom and still she will sing
"You're a cold -hearted ******* without any charm
but I'll wear a smile now I've done you such harm
now you're dead in the river amongst the dark stones
and the trout and the weeds dance amongst your cold bones"
Jul 21, 2011
Jul 21, 2011 at 8:31 AM UTC
Dennis was a citizen
A denizen, a resident
Of somewhere near a motorway
A hideaway most opulent
Ensnared amid the railway
And trail ways for motorcars
A haven from the modern day
The takeaways and trendy bars
But shattered in the summer morn
His rest was torn by hammering
Invading what was once inert
So to his curtains clamouring
He banished each to either side
He threw them wide with knuckles white
And saw in front of his abode
Across the road, a building site
A certainty within his mind
Did slowly wind his purpose tight
And with a grim determined jaw
Across the floor he took to flight
Descending stairs without a care
His morning hair resembling
A dandelion set to seed
In need of disassembling
He strode across his dining room
And snatched a broom which lay by chance
Against the table by the door
And held before him like a lance
He mounted his beloved bike
A cycle like no other made
And on a builder set his sight
With all his might and unafraid
He charged his foe at quite a rush
And with his brush, the builder smote
And leaping from his trusty steed
He did proceed to stop and gloat
Before resuming in his spate
The builders mate did turn and run
To raise the dragon, JCB
It roared with glee and wheels spun
So Dennis, though his ears resound
With just the pound of noble heart
Did firmly stand and face the beast
His brow was creased and feet apart
He struck the creature savagely
And stubbornly with just his head
And that, according to the news
Was what the paramedics said
The End
Apr 5, 2013
Apr 5, 2013 at 6:30 AM UTC
The river, her vigor sublimated, is a thoughtful flow
after the daring dive head on from the pinnacle of the cliff,
madly arrogant roaring rush through the dense woods
in spate during torrential monsoons muddy red,
satiated now, at ease, meditative, inner currents subdued.
These planes are different, the river an uncanny imitation of a pond,
the white swan, she keeps still, unfazed by the pulls to four sides
falling in love with the enigmatic pink lotus, my witness
that blooms alone, in the marshy shallows, only for her to fall in love.
Amazing is the swan's prowess,she makes the mighty river
accept her ease, wise tranquil pace and brings to a slow down
little by little, listening to the inner music,which is oh! haunting
the river now comes to trance yogi like, in sync with the
foaming green waves of trees along both the banks,
the whisper of wind to coconut leaves,if you listen
is the mystic mantra, "Ï am that..I am that..I am that"
wisdom isn't alien, don't look for it atop only the mountains
it's in the wind's hands,on the lap of land and in water's prompt,
what space evokes when one merges seamlessly in nature's divine ,
the song one hears silent within, echoes aloud in nature's chant.
My heart is ruled only by her, the white swan.I realize.
May 5, 2015
May 5, 2015 at 10:14 AM UTC
I would dip in that spring,
never full, but in spate
at such moments
of deep engagement,
with the cryptic voices of nature.
In a rush of passion
I would reach for those
lovely peaks that shiver
as if by tremors
that rumble deep below.
With my trembling heart,
I would catch your broken song,
though out of tune,
thrills and urges me,
to do whatever pleases me.
**You are a cloud transparent,
that envelopes moon
with swift hands of wind,
the swirls, the twists and the turns
aren't us, but nature, in glorious motion,
dancing in tune with our essence.**
In effulgent moments, like sky birds,
when we transcend limits,
lips, parched leaves
quickly swell up like orange slices,
love in swift moves creates wonders
with its magic wand.
*Experience now,
the music of motion,
an explosion
in which we are thrown up,
to a state of timelessness,*
and at last hands entwined,
we walk in the garden
where wild orchids in bloom
paint our dream in vivid colors.
Jul 26, 2012
Jul 26, 2012 at 10:01 AM UTC
as their eyes met,
sparks of love
emitted
emotions swelled,
passions surged
like a well
full to the brim
a tear drop
glistened
in her eyes
cutting across
the borders,
it slithered down
her creamy cheek
as
a freshly formed
globule of dew,
cracking
into zillion
rays of light,
creating
a zillion wavelets
of joy
suddenly,
she turned
into a forest aflame
he,
a river in spate!
Jun 1, 2021
Jun 1, 2021 at 12:17 PM UTC
Whispers I sent out to dawn latched
on to the solitary sun to trail
the arc of a common time
in a sky the hue of gold in grass.
The land leans on the baobab
in a dust storm of wheels and lenses.
Wheels and lenses.
When the dust settles, I will dust
my shuka and the goats will return
home, to comfort my eyes that flow
the spate of the Great Ruaha,
seeping secretly into the baobab
I have chores to do, a shuka to ****
A shuka to ****
Will they buy the beads I strung
as I rocked Naeku on my back,
to make circles of day and circles
of night, as wide as the baobab,
in the colour of clouds, the colour of sky.
There's colour to stars in a darkened night.
A darkened night.
Killeleshua is fragrant in thousand leaves
Am I not worth more than thirteen Zebu?
The watering hole was flecked in hippos
and the firewood is the colour of dusk
abundantly generous as the baobab
Time, a viscous passing of the sweetest honey.
The sweetest honey.
Apr 22, 2021
Apr 22, 2021 at 11:35 AM UTC
#The quill's sodden ink evaporates
while this bell jar encapsulates
leaving these dreary words to permeate
only to rain back down and stagnate
this terrarium, my lonely estate
pickling eyes that spate
people peer through the glass only to deprecate
while I slowly start to acclimate
two horizons squint until light dissipates
allowing the darkness to overtake
monsters crawl out to dilapidate
snarls and growls devastate
this is fate this is fate this is fate this is fate
is it too late is it too late is it too late is it too late
echos verberate echos verberate echos verberate echos verberate
this is fate and it is too late these echos verberate and I ruminate
I ruminate and ruminate and ruminate and ruminate
with a languid gait
a countenance set straight
while I desperately try to create
a happy blissful sunny green free state
it's not too late it's not too late it's not too late
meditate meditate meditate meditate
don't let the glass alienate
pick up the hammer and swing
till the glass ***B E K
R A S.***#
Oct 1, 2018
Oct 1, 2018 at 10:09 AM UTC
Tree, Old Tree of the Triple Crook
And the rope of the Black Election,
'Tis the faith of the Fool that a race you rule
Can never achieve perfection:
So 'It's O, for the time of the new Sublime
And the better than human way,
When the Rat (poor beast) shall come to his own
And the Wolf shall have his day!'
For Tree, Old Tree of the Triple Beam
And the power of provocation,
You have cockered the Brute with your dreadful fruit
Till your fruit is mere stupration:
And 'It's how should we rise to be pure and wise,
And how can we choose but fall,
So long as the Hangman makes us dread,
And the Noose floats free for all?'
So Tree, Old Tree of the Triple Coign
And the trick there's no recalling,
They will haggle and hew till they hack you through
And at last they lay you sprawling:
When 'Hey! for the hour of the race in flower
And the long good-bye to sin!'
And for the lack the fires of Hell gone out
Of the fuel to keep them in!'
But Tree, Old Tree of the Triple Bough
And the ghastly Dreams that tend you,
Your growth began with the life of Man,
And only his death can end you.
They may tug in line at your hempen twine,
They may flourish with axe and saw;
But your taproot drinks of the Sacred Springs
In the living rock of Law.
And Tree, Old Tree of the Triple Fork,
When the spent sun reels and blunders
Down a welkin lit with the flare of the Pit
As it seethes in spate and thunders,
Stern on the glare of the tortured air
Your lines august shall gloom,
And your master-beam be the last thing whelmed
In the ruining roar of Doom.
1.5k
Forsaken customs of relations,
A spate of friendship disconnection,
And everyone is becoming judgemental,
Full of fear to let words through their dental,
My tongue in never afraid-my heart is never twitching,
I'll speak the truth even if you call it ********
These are the ruins of friendship,
Over there are the rubbles of patnership,
We have reached the extremities,
And we have paraded vanities,
All these hatred notions in your mind,
But I'm not moved, I'm one of a kind.
I won't bow down to correct things,
The discomfort lies within the beings,
You are the coffee in the cup I averted,
Staring you in contempt-cause I hated,
To drink that was never in my favorite,
So I'll lay on the ground just to fly a new kite.
Nov 15, 2013
Nov 15, 2013 at 5:35 AM UTC
the July sun stabs her cheeks pink rose.
where is that wooden bridge i ask her
some way more she says some way more
she never forgets.
the bridge was half finished the last time we came
left us longing what mysteries the other side held.
*i think the water has eaten it up
tides are so fatal you know*
no way she says only some way more.
then it shows up
six months of wooden planks
six months of waiting
now proudly hanging on the river in spate.
let's go on the other side she cries
in wind scattered voice
her hand upon my shoulder rests.
her way she never forgets.
Jul 13, 2015
Jul 13, 2015 at 1:34 PM UTC
Morphing Memory
I sit, and watch, and wait
For the time, the place, the date
In a tree by the whitewashed gate
The moment more than a minute late
Stuck in a horrific scatterbrained state
As if insisting an ingress interest rate
Risking return to a tabula rasa slate
No longer the proprietress of prized real estate
Solely searching for the squandered second to relocate
Eternal anticipation for a sudden soothing spate
Fluctuating failure that hopefully time can eliminate
Desire to keep things straight and communicate, lifting this worn weight
May 2, 2011
May 2, 2011 at 4:55 AM UTC
Nerves pulled taute at an alarming rate,
Sitting on the edge of too many choices, a spate,
Leading to indecision and dizziness, changed
From horizontal, too vertical, too fast, deranged
To be awake at such an hour,
As the body tries to tap into power,
But hears this " take warning early morning"
Ahead, and a head still fuzzy while scorning,
Is there really a reason to get out of bed
at 5:19?
There are chores,
There are meals to prepare,
There is reading and meditation,
There is the routine of a morning constitutional!
There is full time employ...ment.
But all of these wait in line,
As care of a friend o'mine
Comes first,
We burst,
Into the morning,
Despite weather warnings,
And on good days too,
In the early morning,
We walk the same route,
And the same distance,
We have our pace, for instance,
My two legs keep up with her four,
She is never more excited then before
We go out the door, this is not a chore,
She pulls, she stops and drop to ***
She is content and relaxed beside me,
She repeats as often as is necessary,
It all belongs, it is her territory,
In the early morning, I will, we will
Continue to walk, each and everyday,
We will arrive at three hundred and sixty five,
Morning jaunts
Again this year, it is a joy to move and be so alive,
With her, in the early morning,
We think not on, the mornings past,
nor, that the mornings won't last
forever,
We only think on the present, the one we share,
In the moments found only in the early morning.
While the world around us revs its engine to a roar,
All we hear are birds, paws with toenails on pavement or
Raindrops falling and wind calling us to stay longer, and more
Where there are no cares to wear on us,
We have each other, and it is early morning.
Jan 29, 2015
Jan 29, 2015 at 1:12 AM UTC
To be sung to ***** Laundry"
by Don Henley
We have a little story
That we could tell
We have a little poison
In our inkwell
Let's be a gossip
Let's be a shill
Give us the 'ol Pulp Bitchin'.
We peep through the windows
And listen at doors
We buy the "Enquirer"
And "The Star" at the stores
"She ***** herself"
And "She's a *****
***** little minds galore!
Give us the 'ol Pulp Bitchin'.
Have a li'l "lady"
Who's fast and free
I've heard she's been a prossy
That she's easy
Nothin' nice to say?
Come sit by me!
Give us the ol Pulp Bitchin'
Could have been emeritus
Could have been a great
But I pound out nothing
But dreck and spate
So what if it's full of hate?
You don't really want to know
If it's real or true.
It's not what they SAY
it's what you they DOO DOO
DON'T YOU WORRY WHAT
I THINK OF YOU
(THAT YOU ALL POO POO 💩)
Give us the old Pulp Bitchin'
Kick 'em while they're up
Kick 'em while they're down
(1, 000, 000, 000 000, 000 X)
🎯 Write of Passage
***** Laundry"
I make my living off the evening news
Just give me something
Something I can use
People love it when you lose
They love ***** laundry
Well, I coulda been an actor
But I wound up here
I just have to look good
I don't have to be clear
Come and whisper in my ear
Give us ***** laundry
Kick 'em when they're up
Kick 'em when they're down
Kick 'em when they're up
Kick 'em when they're down
Kick 'em when they're up
Kick 'em when they're down
Kick 'em when they're up
Kick 'em all around
We got the bubble headed
Bleached blonde
Comes on at five
She can tell you 'bout the plane crash
With a gleam in her eye
It's interesting when people die
Give us ***** laundry
Can we film the operation
Is the head dead yet
You know the boys in the newsroom
Got a running bet
Get the widow on the set
We need ***** laundry
You don't really need to find out
What's going on
You don't really want to know
Just how far it's gone
Just leave well enough alone
Eat your ***** laundry
Kick 'em when they're up
Kick 'em when they're down
Kick 'em when they're up
Kick 'em when they're down
Kick 'em when they're up
Kick 'em when they're down
Kick 'em when they're stiff
Kick 'em all around
(Kick 'em when they're up)
(Kick 'em when they're down)
(Kick 'em when they're up)
(Kick 'em when they're down)
(Kick 'em when they're up)
(Kick 'em when they're down)
(Kick 'em when they're stiff)
(Kick 'em all around)
***** little secrets
***** little lies
We got our ***** little fingers
In everybody's pie
We love to cut you down to size
We love ***** laundry
We can do the innuendo
We can dance and sing
When it's said and done
We haven't told you a thing
We all know that crap is king
Give us ***** laundry
Don Henley
If the shoe fits...
SoulSurvivor aka
Write of Passage
2022
Nov 22, 2023
Nov 22, 2023 at 10:24 AM UTC