"urinal" poems
Permanently fixed to the rest room wall,
waiting for the golden rain to fall,
oh you've many a tale to tell,
The stains on your sides, the distinctive smell,
That gum in the drain hole, spat out in haste,
The crown and glory ‘mongst the human waste.
All those members, large and small,
have hung over your orifice, you've seen them all,
Your starting to choke on the ***** hair,
While drunk men with whiskey breath, look down and stare,
no one seems to notice your vitreous gleam,
under the constant haze of the ***** stream,
you just suffer in silence and long for the day,
When you’re no longer needed and they take you away.
Oct 2, 2014
Oct 2, 2014 at 9:18 AM UTC
Flipping threw my old yearbook
I see girls who were once gorgeous
tooken my the devils hand
pregnant and life beaten now
horrendous
I remember seeing them
with there cheerleading outfits on
As I sat in a corner by myself
I here them laughing and chatting
about going to tonys house after school
I remember tony strong handsome captain of the highschool world
I saw him two weeks ago
With his hands covering his face
And a shot next to him
3 empty beers infront
He really let himself go I remember thinking
fat and forgotten about
still clinging to that highschool dream
I remember him saying I was a loser as he flipped my lunch tray
and humiliated me by reading my little notebook of writes
I remember saying to him
one day ill have the last laugh
one day ill see you down and out
and you'll ask me for a handout
going back to the bar I sit down
A couple stools down to see if he recognised me
He finished his 3 beers as I finished my long island ice tee
he said to the bar tender I gotta ***
be right back
I followed him to the restroom
and we were a ****** apart
I looked over and seen his small patheic *****
as I looked at my *****
I laughed
and I laughed
and I laughed
looked over at tony
and said see sir
I did get the last laugh
and I left
I hope he knows me now
I hope he knows me now
Jan 11, 2013
Jan 11, 2013 at 10:25 PM UTC
There is a fight
It is internal
There is a plight
It is infernal
There is no light
In this ******
There are many things people callously say
Like I'm the last person they'd expect to be gay
Delivered like a compliment
Burning like a sulfur vent
I have to remember not to say thank you
To save someone some discomfort down the line
When it's easy to let these sentiments internalize
You'll see this in the homosexual community
They don't face the hatred with impunity
Some call themselves masculine
And blame their plight on the effeminate
But no matter what
They'll still be called degenerate
So the community internalizes marginalization
Though this prejudiced stop is no original station
You'd think your own kind would allow vacations
From the population of an uncaring nation
That will never grant us any veneration
Because of the nature of our ***********
Yet we **** ourselves for their placation
There is hatred within
This hatred imprint
When we fractionalize marginalized groups
Into the "good" ones and "bad" ones
We say the bad ones are the reasons the good ones must be hated
Whether they're cops or criminals
Christian or Muslim
Gay or straight
We find reasons to hate
When we live our life in the grime
Of the negativity we've internalized
Nov 24, 2017
Nov 24, 2017 at 10:59 AM UTC
i live in a ******** so boring tractors roam the streets in the usual
traffic,
but i found that you can wizen up to a title of wizard
by finding inanimate things entertaining and thought provoking,
because the internet will not become
the next scapegoat of goldfish memory - not the next
box of entertainment - it will be what god’s green earth indented.
out here, where you’re far from trafalgar sq. you
get crows circling back to the origin of the woods with odin on the lyre
venting out against too much pigeon **** coo coo of the attired men and women marking karma with the no. 13 and being ******* on from on high,
you get seagulls, even, seagulls so far into dry land... imagine!
and you get the autistic zoning in of the cat’s eye,
those cats are very autistic, their eyes tell the sad sad story
of encapsulated solipsism - snap your fingers or meow
and they look at you passing you looking at some randomised
point of entering their sleeping pattern - very autistic those cats,
they look at you almost cross-eyed when you try to snap them out of it -
out of it being: ****** off at being awake.
very autistic those cats, those cats are very autistic, they look
at you looking past you, looking almost cross-eyed -
don’t blame me for the zigzag or the w!
so as i said, it’s so boring where i live you see tractors and crows,
and the only solidification of your presence is either provided for
by an addiction to television eager for the flicker -
or drinking... watching bricks, thinking bits and bobs out
for the torrent of slavic plumbers building the great ****** of london.
lo... upon the yonder... there it blooms *******
i like places where trees tower over man's handing man brick on brick -
makes the sky a bit bigger and less asthmatic.
Oct 6, 2015
Oct 6, 2015 at 10:29 AM UTC
Distasted disaster dooms
Truehoods falsely spoken
Falsehood & true galoshes
Numbrella mousetrap
****** void twice
And More And Morel eels
Mar 24, 2010
Mar 24, 2010 at 11:14 PM UTC
My bed is a mass grave
My toilet is a mass grave
My kitchen sink is a mass grave
Stretched out in lines of chrysalis coke, choking the evanescent life that could have been. Straight into the empty Coca Cola can you go. A litany of atrocity in every bed, futon, desks, truck stop bathroom, camera lens, attempting to capture the genocide on film.
Alas, the lens is Covered with white, bioluminescent death.
Choking the unborn in the ****** drain.
Coffee mug refill, for but a single dime,
sweaty palms connected to strained veins on wrists,
connected to thrusting elbows.
Firing wrist rocket, V2, V1, buzz bomb.
Unsuspecting future citizens, blocks of thousands at a time.
Tadpoles, rotting in murky basement suits the world over.
The war is on.
Auschwitz, Dachau, Sachsenhausen.
Arbeit Macht Frei.
Swim for dear life
Apr 29, 2014
Apr 29, 2014 at 11:54 PM UTC
Next time
you find yourself
standing in line
think a little differently
step sideways
or back
and commit a very small act of rebellion
but
not when queuing
at a supermarket checkout
if your hungry
and not
whilst waiting
at passport border control
as trigger fingers may start to twitch
and it would be best
to avoid doing so altogether
at a public ******
where stepping sideways
or back
can be a risky business
even with the place to yourself
on reflection it appears
there is a time
and a place
for everything
even
very small acts of rebellion
although
it ought to be said
a rebellion
that knows no hunger
a rebellion
that challenges neither borders
or control
a rebellion
that overly concerns itself with
******* in the designated area
has probably
entirely
missed the point.
May 27, 2014
May 27, 2014 at 4:29 PM UTC
tight are the waxers
with gelatin scrub
their alcove smiles paired
on a check-board slate
dive jackets
and coveralls
mark the blue persuaders
stuffed lockers
and lattice straps
for a cold
pilgrim's stare
cork boots
and poly rot
rest in the C block
rank and file
mask a heavily
worn charade
windows wide
and curtains
thread bare
greasers
and **** rats
pardoned
on principle
chain link and
tether held
firm in the grasp
bead bites and
castle tops
slip in the **** steam
chants and speakers
blast from the back wall
elements stacked wide
for tainted leaners
strummers and pickers
held high on the jimmy jack
a chilled base breeze
at the ****** hole
rogues and hatters
stir at the mixer
an imitation face
closing in on the feast
maiden hands clasp
hard at the inseam
scuffed heals shuffle
on the peripheral scene
a cloaked man scurries
(chilled in his double sock)
moonshine
and mickeys
turned up in the jar
light streams blind
the paranoid eyes
laggards peeled
from the wretched
framework
veneer shattered
on a point strip groove
an overwhelming trauma
from slaughter
harbor
Apr 18, 2019
Apr 18, 2019 at 3:16 PM UTC
The moon is a clock face
rushing through the sky,
night turns to day
as I slowly walk by
the piles of past mistakes.
Rubble crumbles and
time runs backwards,
I can fly here.
I can dance on the sun.
I reach out my palm
to catch a tooth falling from my mouth,
and try to push it back into my gums.
On the school bus again,
embarrassed and naive.
Turn around and everyone
is laughing at me.
Have to **** so bad,
finally a bathroom.
The ****** welcomes me,
I pull out my **** to ***
sweet release. Such relief,
but something is wrong
with my stream.
It's going everywhere,
spraying my hands and knees
and that's when I wake up.
****** the bed again, it seems.
Jun 26, 2025
Jun 26, 2025 at 9:19 AM UTC
My grade school
burned down
twice.
Once in the 1930's
then again in
the 50's.
They rebuilt,
there were two
large black and white
framed photographs
of the school houses
before both fires
hanging in the
main hallway.
At some point in
the reconstruction
someone had decided
on two boys
restrooms.
The one at ground level
was always clean.
There were small white
tiles and fresh blue paint.
It always smelled like
pine cleaner,
never ran out of
paper towels.
There was always
sweet smelling
liquid soap in the
shinny silver dispensers.
There were doors with
shinny silver
locks on the stalls.
It was a timeless
space,
pristine and somehow
preserved.
Free and unscathed
by the ugliness of
the world.
Then there was the other
one.
The restroom below
ground in the basement.
There were ground
level windows
with round wire cages
over them.
The view of the
***** untied
tennis shoes
attached to
saggy socks and
scabbed knees.
The children
ran about
with purpose
over every inch
of the playgrounds
hot black top
as I'd try
to guess who's
feet were who's.
There were no doors on
the stalls,
yellow stains beneath
every leaky
******
Smears of rust around the
faucets ,
a coarse hand soap
in the often broken
dispensers.
More fit for prisoners
than students.
It smelled like
**** and was always
cold.
I don't know why
one was always cleaner
than the other.
Maybe it was an
unwritten janitor
law.
Maybe they seen it
as somehow lower
than the other.
I always chose the
basement restroom.
It just seemed more
natural to me,
it made me feel strong,
made it all feel more real.
Now after so many
hardships as I sit with drink
in hand or lay down
while high on some drug
I can't seem to help
but look back and
remember.
Then ponder the question.
"Have I always been
meant to live in such a *****
harsh environment,
even way back then?"
May 2, 2013
May 2, 2013 at 8:49 PM UTC
Don’t know who writes or when
Just like cinema posters get changed according to times,
Misspelt swear words appeared on the wall of the ******
What was written using moss, coal and laterite was sometimes like this..
“The air is aromatic here. Rajiv + Sindhu
A picture of a heart with an arrow through it
Songs like “Rajan sir and Bhanu teacher are in love, man”
Walls got filled
In vengeance to the beatings and impositions.
Amidst the stench of **** and *****
Love blossomed between moss
The girl’s ****** stood like a temple
Aug 13, 2014
Aug 13, 2014 at 12:38 AM UTC
Farouche outline,
melting into the stool.
Slippery palms, flavoured beef and onion,
now it's 5 o'clock.
Hands turn.
Willing a pint to be half full, not half empty.
Slumped since 1978, timeless as the wallpaper.
Hands turn.
Mustard teeth to compliment his tongue.
Paralysed from his lifting elbow down.
Hands turn.
Jutting cigarette from blubber lips, burnt out.
Spitting in the ****** ritual, it's good luck.
Hands turn.
Lucky he's got time then,
Read behind bloodshot eyes.
Ice in the cider, it'll last longer than him.
Hands turn.
An echo, I think it's a bell.
You're out, he knows.
Hands turn.
Cold bites at the door, he huddles out.
A lighter lost, a bottle-top gained.
The wind taunts the black velvet sheet of white pin ******
Hands stop.
JWS
Mar 30, 2015
Mar 30, 2015 at 6:50 PM UTC
Gripping dripping smearing love.
Over your eyes!!!
Over your ovaries, where babies, your clutch.
There's no time to nest,
Resist!
Resist
,
be the diode, resistor to heart plunge.
Plug up the sewer.
(more like a catacomb)
My heart's in the ****** cake.
The smell, Cytotoxic invades chemical response conformation.
We; bitten, by fangs of silicon,
the world takes us away from ivy
grown homes,
torn then seamed up jack o' lanterns always smiling orange.
Have you ever grown up from being 11?
It's the saddest thing you've seen.
You see a fledgling,
altricial,
awkward,
gawk/cock,
turn from a boy
to a lady.
Plump. Or . Musculate.
Slowly they regenerate their lady parts.
Regardless of gender.
Have you seen them bleed?
Some bleed white tears that burn the urethra.
Some, never grow up.
Transmogrified they call it.
Never to be beautiful again.
Angst entangles, ensues, makes doubt
pubescence is for flowers and hairs.
Namesake.
5th Grade.
Curious formation, curious nature
It's as if we are stalagmites of the future,
We decorate walls or cave ceilings to perform our correct action.
Too bad our self image is always garbled, confused by our refraction.
NEVER GRADUATE COLLEGE.
Mar 31, 2013
Mar 31, 2013 at 5:25 PM UTC
Andy Murray lost in the final
Some said he lacked something spinal
That ****** Fed
I don't wish him dead
But I'd stick his head in a ******
Feb 9, 2010
Feb 9, 2010 at 10:40 PM UTC
My imagination is always there,
drawing pictures for other bits of my brain to see what it means
And what's gleaned helps me to think of things,
Like now, when I can't think of what to say
He'll think of something right
and I'll probably ignore it
Because I usually don't take advice,
Especially from you, you trickster
He's always making me laugh at the wrong times,
In the street replaying a youtube video
of a man accidentally washing his hands in a festival ******
"Don't think of it now you'll make me look homicidal"
And then my imagination would put it on
And my laugh became tidal,
trying not to laugh is the hardest thing to hide of all...
But he did come up with a way to make me look smooth instead
now if he makes me laugh he wraps an imaginary bluetooth to pretend to be on
round my head
I like it when you tell me stories when I go to
sleep,
sometimes they are too exciting and I can't sleep
but I like that too,
and when you make dreams
especially if they follow on from the previous stories,
I love sequels
it's funny how they never end
except with death,
and even then maybe
it's just that part's not been released yet
when I was younger
you used to scare me in the dark
With bit's of scary films
and in the sea with a shark
that you got from Jaws
(You were a bit of a ******* that way)
but often we would get on and we would play
war games and car racing
imagined killings and engines sounds
whilst chasing
in the playground,
We don't do that now
We've changed
there's stranger things
to be seen in the clouds
these days
I hope you don't mind
If we finish this rhyme
but I'm worried for the things you might say.
Sep 30, 2013
Sep 30, 2013 at 10:56 AM UTC
Oft do thoughts trickle through my idle mind.
These plays by the soul is what for it's designed.
Or so thought I. Entertaining the figments
Entertaining, remembering, my soul forments.
Stories I wish never were or at least never
Was ever a part of. But they're mine to keep forever.
Never cherished the light as I did the dark.
When puppies slept and the doggies would bark.
A mouse through the thickets, while she'd move,
Got swooped at once. Death from above.
It was an owl. It didn't hoot. It just killed a mother
But this was for her owlets so ... Necessary ******
The paradoxes that seem weirdly against what's moral.
Like the tale of the spider in the ******
I digress far, and the night is passing fast.
Pains of the future, which comes but never lasts.
Sprites from the past which stay and never die.
The long night puts many to sleep but keeps open my eyes.
As my thoughts dwell, the tears swell within my lids.
Intrepid imaginations assault my heart. Courage what it needs.
I think why it is that we hurt and we feel.
The scars asking me, do we ever heal?
Can't help the noise or the silence or the madness.
The grieving soul isn't oblivious of it's vastness.
The scars ask again. Did we ever feel?
The incomplete stories that my heartbeats seal.
Threatening to be revealed with every breath.
Too sharp to be left bare, like a sword in it's sheath.
The tales you sought for me to tell you.
Will only prove your fears come true.
Bones under putrid skin and open sores.
Maggots festering and oozing from the pores.
Dead ones in the open fields, vultures hovering.
Hyenas on the corpses, jeering, devouring.
Jackals eagerly waiting their turn. The aftermath of war.
Grey matter seeping through an eye the bird tore
Out. Dream of war, little soldier, and thus demystify
The mysteries of demise and my lullaby.
Nov 8, 2021
Nov 8, 2021 at 10:28 AM UTC
Carmen's legs
are pixilated cerulean.
Rubbing beasts
that itch at untouchable
bruises beneath her skin.
Her computer is on.
She rests crossed legs
on its desk.
There's something sticky about her skin.
Carmen's date is calling,
her speakers make a sound
like **** plopping in a toilet.
The webcam blinks
like Sauron's eye.
Carmen has never had
any of the cards
in her hands.
Not a whiff of a queen of hearts
or a jack
of all trades.
It seems she's been slipping for awhile now,
in her black room, colored
by the glow of some
techni-cyclops'
cavernous mouth,
crimson, heart-shaped teeth,
and scythe tongue.
She has never known the war machine
of love,
or the war machine of self-determinism.
Now she does,
her compudate buzzes on-screen.
Tiny sprouted pixels
jump into a constantly
buzzing whole.
He's got a bored face,
and Carmen knows this is the look
of the generation.
Carmen lifts her legs from the desk.
Puts her hands on her lap.
Licks her lips.
She wants to know
what lowered human beings
do when they are restless.
She is seeking something
moreso
philosophical
than
******
"Bored, much?"
Carmen asks sardonically.
He took it literally.
He jumped at attention.
"Oh, no,
now that I've seen you."
"How do these things work?"
"Well, I guess we talk to each other,
and if you like me
then we go from there."
And to Carmen this was reticence,
this was blasphemy.
She had the cards in her hands,
finally.
Carmen's legs are pixilated high cerulean.
Cerulean the color of
a tiger ocean,
****** cakes,
slushies,
a sun-fucked sky,
a corpse. Skin against a computer screen.
Jun 28, 2012
Jun 28, 2012 at 12:26 AM UTC
translation from russian by rolanda
E.К
I write you from ex-colonia
grounded twenty centuries ago
by romans-sounds like a symphony
for hyperborean ear, hundred time
increased distance till addressee.
Looks like Agrippa knew what she did
the sister, worth by her madness of her brother.
Further cinematograph-nude body
bent and etc..accordingly screenplay
maid lapping in marble bathtube
horns leads triumphal aria
with a long sound. On the backstage
usual complaining on the fate,
tangent glance to the east,
muscle of cease walk
the female wolf her concrete ******
snapping, moving back to the building of arsenale
lost fatten twins.
I recollect what you didnt finish to say me
closing second door on the bolt,
on same spot there is a snow, cover up Prachechnij bridge
panorama of river, filled up by ice,
something with tear through two thousand miles
or old age with saged belly.
In our age, verticals are
soaring unreachable, slipping to result
of life, just right to dress on sandals
but hardly happens to slip into toga.
Invariable law of falling drops
down, no matter- fontain, rain, ******
Harbour of postscript...rats storm the ship.
Funeral office offers moire
from spring collection for upholstery of
coffins, grief on the faces of personals,
just in time served coffee with cream
soften disaster of final account.
I write you, for what? - after victory
of foreign football team
from the closeness of prosperous summer,
connected Alps and Andes
by wave of psychose from tv,
inflicted by joy of superiority
above..(not clear what of), and their poses
of victors is sign of ugliness
from point of view of observer-
old neurasthenic and misantrope.
Contemplating fly of pterodactyl
by eye of stamped cyclop,
gilded **** on short spike of chirch
scream by voice of Luter:
"Be blessed folks cars!",
and morning flow down by sunrise on wood
by Dmitrij Poparev
Jan 15, 2014
Jan 15, 2014 at 10:27 AM UTC
the view
stands beneath
the carousel efforts
to blast through
impregnancy aBLOOM!!!!
(w)ith feral legacies
aligned intimately ornately
posthumous adulterer
awakens in need
of
****** corrective agency
towards Fenitbow
and Glightrovee ab-surd as
qua as qua
asqua aqua qua
a^s is trite melody infer[no]
t a x i yellowing each pavement
by truth in yo ' fa ' ' lo ((lo))
i by horns and turns
in plyable waves arrest
what justice juices
freel_y
obligatory
antecedent
quai noyh thlume
ye
HEaVY
Sep 26, 2020
Sep 26, 2020 at 6:17 AM UTC
Her bones sound like the shaky clink of a glass teacup
On a glass plate
And she’s trying to keep it all steady
Her eyes are blue and huge inside her glasses which
I hope make me look as larger than life as she pretends I am
As I pretend to be
Even though it’s against protocol
I hold her hand as we walk through the aisles
And it feels like that one time paper became human
And asked you to pretend it was
Just long enough to know what love felt like
I wanted to tell her I love her
“You’re so sweet,” she said
“So handsome”
“Such a nice smile” she said
I wanted to push the red beaming sun of my face to her cheek
so she could feel me blush
First we looked for hair spray
And then we looked for lipstick
Her favorite chocolate
Which she confided tasted like ****
But she had to stick to sugar free now
And then we looked for her arthritis medicine
Adult diapers
A bedside ******
Please take the years I am not using
I’d die young to keep you here a little longer
To fight back the dust in your bones
And the paper of your skin
I want you to wake up every morning
So when I ask you how your day has been
You can say more than
“Well
I woke up again”
********* lady
If you knew what I would do to stop this
Her smile never fades
No shame hidden in the wrinkles of her face
I let her out the back so she can get to the street corner faster
“Such a nice young boy” She says
And I just want to tell her
I love her
Jul 19, 2011
Jul 19, 2011 at 12:19 AM UTC
There’s a street that I drive on daily
I’ve driven on it since I was a kid
When it rains the gap gets flooded
and a slice of Oregon seems to seep in
at the top of the slope there’s a cross
For those that could not wait,
a life is now lost and the spirit dwells
where the nocturnal God creeps from fence to fence
There’s a street that I drive on daily
I’ve driven on it since i was a kid
Children hike it in search of school with no parent in sight yet-
The plight of a wingless bird would be worthless without,
A drowning fish
Mislead youth graffiti the signs marking their grounds like a dog
A ****** infection
A dimensional problem three generations passed
No cure no amount of affection
There’s a street that I drove on daily
I have driven on it since I was a kid
The fog is thickest down the slope
And the crow gazes down the passerby’s soul
To understand it, you would have to be insane
for the man is not crazy until he seems deranged
Fine malt liquor 40s, the fuel for the hood
becomes a constant struggle and the rock is now a feud
there is a street that I drive through daily
I’ve driven on it since I was a kid
One day I will use it to leave and heave this troubled past
but for now I return and speed through it-
in this labyrinth lies a monster—one you cannot see
It reaches in your pockets and forces you to bleed.
Grab another and one more! it feels good. while. it. lasts
For there’s a street that I drive daily
I’ve driven on it since I was a kid…
May 15, 2013
May 15, 2013 at 7:31 PM UTC
The meta-critical physicist ****** a
****** cyst over in a Starbucks bathroom,
only the prickly ***** picked
a ****** to do it in,
leaving in his wake beside the cake
floating in a rancid lake
What looked to be a
Big Mistake
May 26, 2014
May 26, 2014 at 9:57 AM UTC
I'm trying to focus
On subtle ****** propriety,
While having to resist
Challenges to paternity,
Questioning my certainty,
Seeding suggestions of ****** flaccidity.
And all I want
is to *** with credibility.
-
Five 7s are 35
Six 7s are 42
Seven 7s are 49
Eight 7s are.....
(Contented sigh)
Sep 5, 2016
Sep 5, 2016 at 3:45 PM UTC
"no, it's just funny you should say that."
"why?"
"because I work at the capitol."
"oh yeah? what's the most interesting thing about it?"
"i don't know, it's ******* boring."
"nah, there's gotta' be something."
"not really, man. i mean, i guess the toilets are the busiest i've ever seen....nah, nah i'm serious, man. you know how most fellas use the ****** not at the ******* capitol."
"you know why that is, right?"
"why's that?"
"'cause politicians are full of ****
Jul 21, 2010
Jul 21, 2010 at 10:23 PM UTC
read his stuff
https://hellopoetry.com/r-2/
n.b. nowadays I write here only in praise of others,
as the rewards are far greater than any of the meager
stuff I got laying around.
a poem for his summer soul-stice
<>
self-confessed to the priest, we us, both, meeting
in the confess-urinal, wee needy for a solid projectile
purging, me, cause, I’m a plagiarist of inspiration
**** it every time a ce r tain poet writes,
its a sock to my multi faceted square sided~head,
discoloring my eye shadow, my maskara crazy running,
frustration, admiration, mortar and pestle pounded
into a white powder of unadulterated adultery with a
frothy topping of a jealousy muse laughing face, at me,
cappuccino made from bitter herbs and pink sea salt.
in eight lines the man accomplishes
what would take me eight, eight full
poems, even then, not coming close
still failing to retake his brevity skills,
his summer solstice way of seeing,
by keeping the dark away,
by inviting the dark in,
making it under duress,
spill the beans of his life’s
ironies, some hellish,
some not, all well kept,
in Georgia granite stoney face.
the softest steeling of words that irritates
me into a fine frenzy... what’s the use,
point made, in how he undresses
the eyes
into just outright gasping,
and that is the only
permissible comment emoji.
______________________
r
Her verse
I need to taste the salt
of her soliloquy
be drunk on the sobriety
of her verse
those words she writes
behind my eyelids
makes me want
to crawl inside her skin
and listen to her heartbeat.
Jun 23, 2020
Jun 23, 2020 at 8:22 AM UTC