"vicarious" poems
You thought I was that type:
That you could forget me,
And that I'd plead and weep
And throw myself under the hooves of a bay mare,
Or that I'd ask the sorcerers
For some magic potion made from roots and send you a terrible gift:
My precious perfumed handkerchief.
**** you! I will not grant your cursed soul
Vicarious tears or a single glance.
And I swear to you by the garden of the angels,
I swear by the miracle-working icon,
And by the fire and smoke of our nights:
I will never come back to you.
19.5k
Selfies,
I can smell the desperation,
from here.
odors of worry;
rippling anxities of uncertainity.
two dimensional,
instantaneous impressions,
pixelated presentations,
and
Teenage frustrations.
up tilted camera.
held against the light,
Illuminating eyes ,
and eradicating spots.
that looks like a good one.
Vicarious representation;
of how good
one could look,
fallible and hopeful.
big bosomed dame
showcasing blessed cleavage,
pulsating the adolescent
bulges.
delivered to
metal passenger,
thereafter shown
among peers.
networked to unknown.
Friends who'd never
met eye,
or
touched skin,
or
even spoke.
self conscious
cropping of images.
fat and fearful.
wasted hours,
dying for love.
False dream of
captivating the messes with her selfie.
The very ugliness
of impressions.
Oh, how shallow we've became.
The denial
of the impact of aesthetics.
laughable,
torrents of judgement
Skinny,
fat,
ugly,
behold their desperate eyes behind the selfie.
Jul 14, 2014
Jul 14, 2014 at 4:35 PM UTC
You're all bark and no bite
How could something wrong feel so right
Wish we could've had just one night
But it wasn't in the cards
I'm alone here while you need space
Stuck between a rock and a hard place
It's the closest thing to any embrace
That I'll ever feel
Whether mountain or molehill
Tears are falling in my milk spill
I swallow down another hard pill
From my half empty glass
Vicarious atonement
Another happiness postponement
Damaged heart and stolen moments
Back to square one
Jun 4, 2014
Jun 4, 2014 at 5:13 PM UTC
You have two choices:
Learn from your parents mistakes
Or to become them
Nov 7, 2018
Nov 7, 2018 at 11:07 PM UTC
My lips can no longer hold back.
The muted tones cannot bring out the infinity that hides
discretely
points
to an exit sign.
Certainty waves goodbye. My only function now is to collapse it.
To put the past behind.
The barred doors allow the bottleneck to tighten for a few hours,
but memory has a way of sounding the alarm in the morning
when the early birds rise,
armed with ancient lessons
that remind me they're the ones who are eating well.
I want to come up from the dirt and drink from the well.
My low-life self can no longer heed the worm's advice:
"Sleep all day and you won't get eaten."
Out.
Out with your tepid voice and halfway disposition.
Out with your elevated mind, your profound commitment to the mediocre task
of enlightening the little people.
The empire you fabricate may stay stitched for a while.
But the clothes of emperors always burst at the seams.
A workaholic, addicted to the common
you're winning your converts with tired dreams, vicarious imaginings of those finer roads, well tread by shoes that are not your own.
You don't believe in the masses. Fine. But get the **** off
your throne.
Reciting badly drawn poems at four in the morning
(it could have been worse e.g. I could have wrote "mourning")
looking to insight myself,
not into a passionate frenzy
like Bacchae drunk on the moonlight.
No -- I want piercing red. That's what I want to be.
Want to show the heavens how I use the precious wine.
Sip it.
Out the undulations go.
Sweating out the great myth that time forgets when it flows.
My pagan-witch ego has put me on the hunt for blood tonight,
and the full moon is giving rise to ****** undulations,
washing up teeny-book explanations
of loves once lost.
But I'm far from my being,
and from the infinite ocean.
And the only sound I can hear right now is my one hand clapping at the curtain call,
retiring my broom,
bowing goodbye.
Sep 25, 2014
Sep 25, 2014 at 12:23 AM UTC
Your life sounds hard,
difficult, sad,
and
I wonder,
can you, do you,
set limits with your family?
Not sure,
it’s okay to set limits
when you must always
do the "right thing"
even when,
even when,
it feels dishonest.
Be assured, your unnecessary shame
is safe here because it’s inaccurate
because you deserve a place,
to tell your side of the things,
you need someone with whom
you can be honest,
to share aloud
how you were trained
to do the "right thing"
when not once,
not once,
did doing the
"right thing"
ever feel right.
Sep 29, 2012
Sep 29, 2012 at 3:53 PM UTC
357
God is a distant—stately Lover—
Woos, as He states us—by His Son—
Verily, a Vicarious Courtship—
“Miles”, and “Priscilla”, were such an One—
But, lest the Soul—like fair “Priscilla”
Choose the Envoy—and spurn the Groom—
Vouches, with hyperbolic archness—
“Miles”, and “John Alden” were Synonym—
4.3k
I don’t understand
****** for power
I don’t understand
Complaint without solution
I don’t understand
Ego without accomplishment
I don’t understand
Action without reason
I don’t understand
Judgment without experience
I don’t understand
Advancement without merit
I don’t understand
Worship without thought
I don’t understand
Belief without proof
I don’t understand
Love without kindness
I don’t understand
Want without need
I don’t understand
Talk without meaning
I don’t understand
Celebrity without talent
I don’t understand
A white lie
I don’t understand
Falsehood without challenge
I don’t understand
Might over right
I don’t understand
Beauty without soul
I don’t understand
Law from faith
I don’t understand
Victory at all costs
I don’t understand
An end by any means
I don't understand
Commerce over spirituality
I don't understand
Greed over giving
I don’t understand
Hurting a child
I don’t understand
Reward for failure
I don’t understand
Too big to fail
I don’t understand
The Virtue of Selfishness
I don’t understand
Too powerful to question
I don’t understand
Arrogance from vicarious pleasure
I don’t understand
Ambition without empathy
I don’t understand
The sale of loyalty
I don’t understand
Money over honor
I don't understand
Ignorance over education
I don't understand
Cheating
I don’t understand
Hate
I don't understand
Why the good die young
I don't understand
Do you?
Mar 16, 2012
Mar 16, 2012 at 11:43 PM UTC
People regard *** differently:
Some see *** as a commodity; to be exchanged for favors and things.
Some see *** as a medium for emotive and spiritual expression.
Some see *** as merely a means to a purely biological end.
Some see *** as a good time and not much else.
Some see *** as a set of diminishing returns.
Some see *** as an escape from themselves.
Some see *** with a keyboard and mouse.
Some see *** as a communion of Temples.
Some see *** as something not to discuss.
Some see *** as just another thing to do.
Some see *** as a battleground for Lust.
Some see *** as an extra long shower.
Some see *** as profane and obscene.
Some see *** an personal preference.
Some see *** as ages-old Dogma.
Some see *** as Heterosexuality.
Some see *** as all that there is.
Some see *** as uncomfortable.
Some see *** philosophically.
Some see *** as a distraction.
Some see *** as meaningless.
Some see *** as a way of life.
Some see *** as a good time.
Some see *** as metaphor.
Some see *** as necessity.
Some see *** as a luxury.
Some see *** as a game.
Some see *** as Mythic.
Some see *** as a drug.
Some see *** as Virtue.
Some see *** as Logic.
Some see *** as Good.
Some see *** as Love.
Some see *** as Lust.
Some see *** as Evil.
Some see *** as Sin.
Few see *** the same way:
How do you see ***
The only right answers for you are yours.
How do you see ***
From the first person, or perhaps third?
Is *** a vicarious thing, or is it personal?
How do you see ***
Is promiscuity absurd?
How do you see ***
Can your ****** life affect others?
How do you see ***
Does it matter who it's with?
Does it matter with how many?
Does it matter how rapidly?
Does it matter why?
It sure does to me.
Does it matter for how long?
Does it matter how often?
Does it matter where?
Does it matter when?
Not with the right person.*
Jul 3, 2013
Jul 3, 2013 at 8:50 AM UTC
The sun shines, the sea sparkles,
Laughter fills the air, delighted chuckles
Bubble from cavorting cupids,
This is their time, memories built
On a sweet summer day,
Happiness founded on laughter and play.
This languid Aphrodite, though
Must be content with vicarious joy,
Seeking balm in the salt sea,
Soaking invisible wounds, savouring the sting.
Far away, Adonis waits, and waits,
To bathe with her once more.
Jul 12, 2015
Jul 12, 2015 at 8:14 AM UTC
A true American icon, a hero.
Helped guide millions in crises,
From World War 2 to today.
Allowing people to be vicarious,
He gave the nation hope,
At a time when they needed it most.
He changed America and has saved lives.
Comics can impact people like church.
Nov 26, 2011
Nov 26, 2011 at 6:59 PM UTC
We slump on the couch when we return like lifetimes
have passed before us.
We have to, even though it was only a seven minute walk
to the dining hall, because 1) the food was just
“weird consistency”
(which we tend to say regardless), 2) the light
in there yawned indifferently to us (when does it not?), and
3) the reassuring clink of our forks on our
plates wasn’t even there this time it was
hiding underneath slop
and smothered on top by the intruding sound waves
(who asked?)
of our next-table neighbors’ lives.
You made a sly remark about seconds to catch
a glimpse of youthful ****
She’d gone to get some more baby carrots and cucumber slices
to put in her salad maybe
(who knows? who cares?)
Either way, her youthful **** would make the food taste like
something to you. And you
described them to us when you sat down again so
the slop would taste like something to us
(there’s pride in that type of generosity, don’t forget) and
(congratulations)
we had the faint impression of
some sort of
****** there, but
we didn’t tell you
(it’s easier that way).
A cup, a squeeze, a kiss on her ******* yes that could feed
our hunger for a night. And tonight was a night
like any, so her ******* led us to talk
of women, and women led us to talk of
love
(and the blooming one for the poor *******
as we who lost withstood the vicarious twinge of
an addling ****** very different from
the first.
This one led us to pine for sweets, but the ones we found
were dry, so we left the table, left the dining hall, looking around at
the others: the lonely, the couples, the blessed
lonely couples, and the fortunate friends
huddled against everything with open laughter, enjoying
the weird consistency like drunk theoretical physicists before
they discovered bubbles and inflated eternally meaning
when they safeguarded a
zoo with a pistol they didn’t know how to
use, in Soviet Russia.
(So you see?) We have to slump on the couch
when we return like lifetimes
have passed before us.
No one even bothers to pick up a guitar, we leave all four of them
strewn on the floor like
dead wooden boxes because
Dylan or Young or Cash (or whoever)
is already in the living
room. Any
bubbling, inflating, theoretical physicist
(any drunk, pistol-packing zookeeper, for that matter) will
tell you that.
So we slump, comfortably uncomfortable,
(at least we’re trying!)
feeling their (our) strings plucking. No sounds, no voices.
Because we don’t need
to hear this that.
Not right
now. (Not right
now).
Mar 27, 2012
Mar 27, 2012 at 7:33 PM UTC
What happens
____ to space______
between us
This is the
human race
Ah, Vey?
Just pray
Overly smitten
But not seeing
clearly picture-prey
He or she runs!!
Little darlings
here comes the sun*
The lime doing the time
Falling trees of coconut
Feeling- overloved
Deviant artist
splat coconut milk
No Security Cat
comfort box
So out of recession
Killer fox______
Chocolatey coconut
Cleanse my mind detox
Almond Joy concession
Rise up Face Botox
He cannot
read you
Haywire always
wired up his words
Hurried Hazelnut
coffee if you mind
Over-sugared
Increased brain
functions bitter rinds
So commercialized
The Cocoa Puffs
Going bananas
monkey ***
Lexie Vamp Vex
Mr. Ed overload
of Oz colors baboon
Going up Air Balloon
So many airheads
The Rainforest
GQ he's gone IQ
((Quarterly Neck of the woods))
Not orderly Outback
Steakhouse
Dinosaurs
******
Vicarious
No shortcut
The nervous system
The fast have a drink
furious
Cracking a coconut
Her Safe______**
6-6-6 combinations
Could crack her
Coconut oil neck her
City Girl call her
Intellectual brain
Singing
Gene Kelly
umbrella
Raining coconuts
(On Overload)
Strawberry Fields
This will be short
Yeah right forever
shortcake, not any sort
The trend of
coconut
Nearer because
of you I am
further
She was the
Brazilian Nut
With her
blind gut
((Coconut Houdini))
Island of Bali
Beauty of Judy
Somewhere so over it
rainbow
King Kong
Hairy chest banging
coconut drink slurping
Of girl talk
Strong New Jersey
Stamina
***** of Venezuela
Overload of
Prima, Donna's
Instant Karma
going to get them
Knocked them off
there feet
Where is my
John Lennon
He has the best beat
May 21, 2018
May 21, 2018 at 6:58 AM UTC
Edifice erections surreal mistic heights
Wayward excursions and catenary's bight
Communal collusions of harmonies site
Ethereal subsistence on exsertion's light
Lingam and yoni are indefatigably tight
Exponential overload was communities plight
Semantic regalia is myriad temptation
Finite being a mutual oblation
Vicarious recalcitrance an obeisant sensation
Conception's vastness like incalculable equation
Ephemeral effulgence is indomitable pervasion
Treacherous traverse and eternal occasion
Succinct salience is symbiotic allegory
Fecundity's verve a transcendent promontory
Imperative ascension the conjunctive's divinatory
Audacity's exigence and fertility's invocatory
Erotica's erectile like mentality's trajectory
Futurity's fatidic and inherent delusory
**** it fell right over like categorical imperative's contradictory
Jun 27, 2015
Jun 27, 2015 at 12:32 PM UTC
The annual cycle of friends and family, meeting
An oil and water duty of circumstance, intersecting
At Christmases and global conferences, occasioning
Probable murders at Christmas in the families, mixing
Their duty to drink but live distant lives apart, loving
The comfortable satisfaction of the distance, living
Their lives with social media connections, liking
The comfort of ignoring without unfriending
Their oil and water friends and family.
So
I have supplanted this duty with desire, allowing
Me to unfriend these occasional friends, becoming
Myself at last with a vicarious pleasure of, enjoying
Being a stereotypical “Grumpy Old Man”, relaxing.
Mar 6, 2014
Mar 6, 2014 at 9:58 AM UTC
Sometimes we live our lives out of fear.
Sometimes we are unaware of what is actually real.
Sometimes we take things for granted before they disappear.
Sometimes we need to break our glasses to see in the clear.
Look around and what do you see?
Beauty lies within the nature of every facet you perceive.
Take a moment to suddenly pause time;
becoming aware of your zen state of mind.
When you observe droplets of water falling from the engorging sky,
visualize that moment frozen in time.
Become mindful of the chemical process elegantly combined;
as you experience the moment before it passes by.
Clarity will suddenly reach its remarkable peak,
after reliving the vicarious journey of the droplets feat.
Sometimes we stop living our lives out of fear.
Sometimes in the mist we become aware of what is real.
Sometimes we cease taking things for granted after they disappear.
Sometimes we need to fix our glasses to continue seeing clear.
By: Michael M. De La Fuente
May 24, 2014
May 24, 2014 at 5:24 PM UTC
Volatile vehicle vicarious voice
charting course on changing choice
guilty of your glancing guess
life of listening, liking less
stretched by the stripping strings
waiting with wasted wings
fueled by their falling fears
protected by prospective peers
This is about people that really don't have much of a personality or voice, until a bandwagon comes along that they can jump on.
Nov 9, 2013
Nov 9, 2013 at 9:24 PM UTC
I am victim only to constant distractions,
restrictions, prescriptions, vicarious factors,
as various factions of elitism prescribe defeat
to the common man; the hard working talented
beaten upon by the self driven commerce land.
Businessmen, crooks, warlords and bankers;
victory purports itself the higher moral ground.
******* the world, lie on the crimson sand.
The brevity of riches in led laden ditches,
trenches v armistice; one man’s control over
cadets and lieutenants. Equality it seems
is general ignorance, propose roll reversal
and receive corporal punishment. Capital
interests will be met with bursaries, bail
out the banks and return to your knees,
put out your hands and beg for your feed.
If the top three percent own more wealth
than the lower half put together while
politicians claim to be fair-weather,
conclude that sincerities amiss, that
your representatives are on the pay roll
of profit driven lobbyists. Career crazed fat-cats
couldn’t care less if you're in tattered garments
or there’s a hole in your dress, their polished
boots carry them from vault to vault
while we fill another with oil-baron asphalt.
As social repression pushes populations
science progresses, enabling armed forces
to kettle us, cut us off and circle on horses.
Power-shifts across the globe become jaded
by investment with private militias and fascist
supremacists seizing resources from war
torn villages to fund their crude sourced
morality, migrants and refugee families
are vilified by ignorance forged in cynicism
caused by the inequality of education.
Here lie the symptoms of infinite regression,
hold mirror to gene-pool as it replicates
the same flawed equation, as populations
expire and conspire so does the problem.
Bombing a country without repercussions,
is as likely as a breaking the waters surface
without sending ripples to the adjacent atoms.
These are the dark ages of social stagnation.
Oct 22, 2014
Oct 22, 2014 at 11:00 AM UTC
Let us mine into the depths of Shakhty, and scorn the Western state of communist superintendence.
We are embroiled in a political and industrial conglomerate where cold wars lay the foundations of unstoppable monstrosities.
Converse with Andrei Romanovich Chikatilo, as you splatter milk across the surface of your psychological cereal, and raise questions around the episodic nature of criminal profiling.
I love the olfactory beauty of a railway station, whose stench is dissimilar to the pastures of raunchy and deadly opportunities which result in Rostov butchery.
Nevertheless, it is rooted in crop failure and the enforced collectivization of agriculture.
Mar 27, 2015
Mar 27, 2015 at 10:11 PM UTC
There is someone who I love
Someone who hurt this Christmas
And there are many others out there
Who are bereft of the brightest warmest sentiments the heart can experience
While the rest of us are ignorant of these happenings
All wrapped up in presents and drinking cheers
We fall short of being grateful for having somewhere to belong
For some the winter in their hearts is not nearly over when the holiday season is over
They are hurt from within and have yet to find somewhere to belong
It is sadness which confines me
The thought that my loved one goes sick
From within every Christmas
To think the winters in my love's soul
Are but shared by so many around the world
Yet the rest of us are careless, selfish and blinded by our needs
How many Christmases and winters would I spend in hurt and suffering
Just so that the one I love felt right at home for one Christmas night
How forgetful are we that a warm room and a petty meal
Might be a human necessity to subsist through the winter
But love and a sense of belonging is all that keeps us alive
We can not afford to not touch lives
And share our love and kindness with everyone
My loved one, if you ever fear you're alone
Don't worry God knows where you belong
If anything in my heart there is a place for you
If you feel alone you can belong with me
Strangers and enemies if you feel alone you can belong with me
Let us all be fearless in our efforts to share our blessings
We can not afford to not let others know they belong with us
It is a vicarious pain which I have come to assimilate as my own
The hurt which the one I love feels at times
And which many others feel all the same
The world is full of another type of hunger and yearning
Thus we shall not weaver in a journey
To help others find meaningfulness in their lives
And help them feel like they belong
If I could only accomplish to make the one I love feel a sense of belonging...
And if you feel like you can't make another feel like they belong
Because you yourself feel alone in this world
Please never give up the fight
Look within your self and know
There is someone out there like me
Yearning and waiting to let you know
Here...you are loved
Here...you are meaningful
Here...you belong
Look at a stranger's eyes and smile
Look within in their soul and find solace in their existence
There are more than six billion souls out there
And although on the outside we seem different
In the end we are all connected and we belong
Jun 14, 2011
Jun 14, 2011 at 5:38 AM UTC
You, photo sharing
pop-up rhymester
a one-day glory
for a full-time jester?
is that all you’ve got?
exulting in adulation
of ‘up thumb’ display
painstaking toil
for a chirpy convey
much bother for naught
go away from that evil
a rectangular cage
a duality so curbing
too daunting to assuage
surely, not asking a lot!
banter a bit, out of the cage
break her reckless grind
a cursed double-life
no cage to hide behind!
it wasn’t what she thought!
mother’s day isn’t just a day
it is your lifetime, borrowed
moment by moment
nourished and hallowed
a vicarious life – don’t let it rot!
May 12, 2015
May 12, 2015 at 8:06 AM UTC
There is a weird
And not so wonderful fetish
Particularly British
Common
Amongst commoners
In the United Kingdom
Although the aristocracy
And royalty
Are seen by all
With eyes to see
To have behaved
Abominally
Tortured and twisted
Enslaved, enchained
***** re-shaped
With bloodstained hands
The entire planet
Sending ordinary
More innocent
English men
To do their ***** work
Their dastardly
Disastrous deeds
As slaves of knaves
Through common British eyes
These horrible people
Are placed high upon
Holy pedestals
Romanticized
Idealized, Idolized
Canonized
Perhaps there's some
Vicarious thrill
Exercising
Enforcing
Power and evil will?
But the hand no pleasure gets
When, through rubbing, wets itself!
Sean Hunt
Windermere January 1st 2016
Jan 1, 2016
Jan 1, 2016 at 3:19 PM UTC
Daily I listen to wonder and woe,
Nightly I hearken to knave or to ace,
Telling me stories of lava and snow,
Delicate fables of ribbon and lace,
Tales of the quarry, the **** the chase,
Longer than heaven and duller than hell--
Never you blame me, who cry my case:
"Poets alone should kiss and tell!"
Dumbly I hear what I never should know,
Gently I counsel of pride and of grace;
Into minutiae gayly they go,
Telling the name and the time and the place.
Cede them your silence and grant them space--
Who tenders an inch shall be ***** of an ell!
Sympathy's ever the boaster's brace;
Poets alone should kiss and tell.
Why am I tithed what I never did owe?
Choked with vicarious saffron and mace?
Weary my lids, and my fingers are slow--
Gentlemen, **** you, you've halted my pace.
Only the lads of the cursed race,
Only the knights of the desolate spell,
May point me the lines the blood-drops trace--
Poets alone should kiss and tell.
L'ENVOI
Prince or commoner, tenor or bass,
Painter or plumber or never-do-well,
Do me a favor and shut your face
Poets alone should kiss and tell.
1.9k
Are we not brought up, in stories?
Stories of hero worship, dark fearful nights
Soft tender tears, hot red lips
Fairy Mothers, frightful demons
Realms where magic and realism
Locked us up for a perpetual inter-play
Growing up and ‘living’ a story
Is all about the Story teller
Fearful ‘Dracula’ who entered my teeny nights
Was made up this unpredictable predator
By the cousin Story teller, than
Bram Stoker, as I learned later
Much after ‘Leslie and Richard’
Went their own ways
I stayed with the Soul mate;
“Bridge across Forever”
It was the story that I lived in,
Faith blinded, in the Story teller!
Teller can make you up and pull you down
A hero today is villain tomorrow
Abandoned fury; Bereft emotions
Erratic desires; Impromptu positions
Mix and shake them well
Teller can rapt a discerning listener
Teller can also cast a spell with the story
With made-up faces and un-made-up minds
Hewing a profile with vicarious feelings
With deceitful facts and illusory events
Teller webs a story, you ‘live in’
‘Make believe’; but beautiful!
Then one day, listener grows out of the story
Magic fades and sanity sets in
Tears turn phony, Lies lay bare
“The Gift was kept by my parents”
Said the Kid, “not by Santa Clause”.
Let that ‘wake up’ not hurt forever
Stories are told by Story teller
Characters seldom given to testify
A beginning and end carefully crafted
A long route that can have ‘twists in the tale’
I am learning to listen to stories as ‘Stories’
Not life in essence, every time.
Jan 13, 2016
Jan 13, 2016 at 2:40 AM UTC
what is this love
for I have beheld it
cast in metamorphosis
a love that makes
transformations on the mind
permissible transformations
improvisations of the self
in ****** intensity
which emphasises the drama
of sometimes, dark, violent
and repressive potentials
vicious energies of hate and ambition
that propel the enactment
of intense and exhausting experience
of vigorous vertiginous chaos
indomitable in its desires
what is this love
is it a registered predicament
made memorable by vivid language
that would butcher in ritual
gratuitous memories and testify
to an urgency of unwisely relinquished emotion
what is this love
does it flourish in flawed
and unreasonable understandings
accumulated upon the mind
in vicarious thrill of sympathy
where traits are highly exaggerated
and eagerly anticipates
the oppressive weight of the past
that functions upon a common collapse
of distinctions
or does it manufacture artificial precepts
pretending in attractive collaboration
to associate fiction rather than fact
what is this love
is it that by treaty or inheritance
with loving ferocity would embalm all tears
and hide all those collaborations
in flared conflagrations of the heart
and yes create a turmoil in the mind
hotter than a thousand summers
and vividly stamp upon a twisted body
a moral viciousness of fathomless malice
that wouldst close its ears
to the admonitions of conscious
and thus through an improbable
incantatory verbal rite
touch the hidden order of all things
in disassembling nature
what is this love
if only it was known
Aug 17, 2013
Aug 17, 2013 at 5:26 PM UTC