"watchmen" poems
Willets cull the seawall
snapper on the grill
rock ***** swoon
in shallow lagoons
long boats pass
under quiet
palm shade
Plovers dance and flutter
handrails frayed and torn
graffiti spots
at lovers rock
frigate-birds fall
from a high
noon sun
Thatched roof on a mud wall
fish flags settle score
anchors arch
in front line march
pillar cracks form
under rust brown scars
Elegant tern and grebe
watchmen fall in cue
children play
on crested waves
whimbrels and notchers
perch above Tentaciones
Striped pelícanos
the bandits of the sea!
merchants grow
in steady flow
siblings jostle
in a tide cooled sand
Heerman gull and boobie
durango smoke in yurt
boiler shrimp
and puffer blimp
castle buckets and scrapers
under a dusk light cheroot
Six pulls on a lead line
painted toes in sand
shearwater run
in a rainbow sun
the portly mexicano
flaunts his tacos
and wares
Rooster house for swordfish
bamboo shoots and sails
broken shells
and ocean swells
rise
on the
perfect
La Ropa bay
Apr 14, 2017
Apr 14, 2017 at 2:22 PM UTC
Batman, Superman, Iron Man to I cant fly I can not turn blue?
Captain America, Wolverine, Flash, I cant shoot lazers from my eyes or be there in a dash.
X-men, Watchmen, Xavier too, im not from krypton or mutated from a Zoo.
Im not another hero I was rasied as a zero, through words I can inspire and now retire.
Nov 7, 2014
Nov 7, 2014 at 5:27 PM UTC
I spy with my little eye
Everyone and all
The faintest smile
The subtlest sign
Everything strange and worrying
And all that is normal
Perhaps too normal
And don’t feel scared
It’s in your best interest
That wicked smiles
And dangerous signs
And everything strange and worrying
Is brought under attention
Of people you can trust
And don’t ask yourself
Who is watching the watchmen
With wicked ways
And subtle methods
It’s better to sit and relax
And act normal
But not too normal
Oct 23, 2015
Oct 23, 2015 at 7:23 AM UTC
BOX cars run by a mile long.
And I wonder what they say to each other
When they stop a mile long on a sidetrack.
Maybe their chatter goes:
I came from Fargo with a load of wheat up to the danger line.
I came from Omaha with a load of shorthorns and they splintered my boards.
I came from Detroit heavy with a load of flivvers.
I carried apples from the Hood river last year and this year bunches of bananas from Florida; they look for me with watermelons from Mississippi next year.
Hammers and shovels of work gangs sleep in shop corners
when the dark stars come on the sky and the night watchmen walk and look.
Then the hammer heads talk to the handles,
then the scoops of the shovels talk,
how the day's work nicked and trimmed them,
how they swung and lifted all day,
how the hands of the work gangs smelled of hope.
In the night of the dark stars
when the curve of the sky is a work gang handle,
in the night on the mile long sidetracks,
in the night where the hammers and shovels sleep in corners,
the night watchmen stuff their pipes with dreams-
and sometimes they doze and don't care for nothin',
and sometimes they search their heads for meanings, stories, stars.
The stuff of it runs like this:
A long way we come; a long way to go; long rests and long deep sniffs for our lungs on the way.
Sleep is a belonging of all; even if all songs are old songs and the singing heart is snuffed out like a switchman's lantern with the oil gone, even if we forget our names and houses in the finish, the secret of sleep is left us, sleep belongs to all, sleep is the first and last and best of all.
People singing; people with song mouths connecting with song hearts; people who must sing or die; people whose song hearts break if there is no song mouth; these are my people.
3.6k
The Watchmen, lonely, watching time,
upon freezing beds,
the cold, the wet, the dead,
along the River Rhine.
Flares,illuminate the sky,
young soldiers, writing letters home,
some they start to cry.
Wishing they knew why,
along the River rhine.
Those treasured tear stained letters.
A young souls last goodbye,
a flare shines in the sky.
Wishing they knew why,
Upon the River Rhine.
May 25, 2014
May 25, 2014 at 7:43 PM UTC
OUR POVERTY HAS COLOUR
Alexander K Opicho
(Eldoret, Kenya; [email protected])
Most illusive and elusive
Like the devils of Congo forest
Is the impish poverty
Permeating all seals with vicious wily
Into the midst of callous humanity
Biting country men and country women
With carnivorous dentalities so ruthless
Putting man to a forlorn shame
As the wife looks in desperate flaggerbastation
Putting matriarchal womenfolk to humiliation
As the expectant sire wallow in the askance of looks
Condemning communities to status ad absurdum initio
Thinning man from man, culling woman from woman
Eating flesh by flesh social koprpers of man
Eating the native flesh in the farms of Brazil
Tearing the ***** steak into ghetto lacerations of Chicago
Whizzling sombre morning tunes to the Zulus in the black tundra
Cementing pale casted clusters for the Patels of India
Commanding suave drills to poor (wo) menfolk; left! Left! Left! –abouuuuturn!
With its accomplice Mr. Hunger son of starvation, they both command drills
For black factory workers, Maids and gravediggers to dance
Watchmen, thieves and prostitutes to match
In the hinterland of Africa all the riff-raff in deep despair
Dance in a tandem to the irritating drills of the duo;
You come on! Left! Right! Left! Right!—fowaaard match!
Backward match! Left! Right! Left! Right! Sharpp uuuuuuuturn!
The duo communiqué; Go home and wait for your pay announcement.
Surely; what colour is our poverty?
Nov 29, 2013
Nov 29, 2013 at 11:13 AM UTC
I ask that you be heard, tossed about and dreamed of.
It is your thoughts, my upset energies, and nightly turbulence.
Sleep provokes night and life and darkness prevailing in us.
When we wake up we are gone as our night precedes dawn
It is always the other way, bottom up and spaces spread.
At times we hear the police van’s shrieks, in night’s iron grill.
I ask that you be heard, tossed about and dreamed of.
It is not always the stick beating the road in rhythmic silence
And olive-green overcoat with flapped pockets and heavy boots
And six months old large-sized memories of a Himalayan home
With black-lined large dove’s eyes flitting among coal fires
Their smoke towering over the pines in snow-bound peaks.
I ask that you be heard, tossed about and dreamed of.
It is the turbulence we are speaking of, in the foggy sea we are
Or on the peaks where everything is bound in fuzzy snow
At the mountain passes where vehicles duly pass oiled by hot tea
Or in the mist-filled airports where aircrafts do not take off
Of politicians who decide mankind’s future in the apocalypse.
I ask that you be heard, tossed about and dreamed of.
It is my dreams as they were and the neighbor’s dreams
In the straw-roof, in the banyan trees with glints in their eyes
And much fine-powdered dust on their thick –coated leaves,
In lonely watchmen’s houses on the bleak stony spaces
And lonely watchmen keeping vigilant eyes on boulders
Strewn in brown spaces and scraggy bushes with strange lizards.
I ask that you be heard, tossed about and dreamed of.
It is the towering tombs and the trees that enveloped them
The children playing cricket in flying bats and stone stumps
Outside the vaults where kings and queens lay dead for ages
Their cold breath felt on the broken glass of Time’s windows.
I ask that you, I and women play a game of kabaddi in the trees
When it is still not dark enough in the minarets in the west
And children are still hitting ***** visible in the green of the trees.
Jul 15, 2010
Jul 15, 2010 at 3:33 AM UTC
Sound the deep waters:--
Who shall sound that deep?--
Too short the plummet,
And the watchmen sleep.
Some dream of effort
Up a toilsome steep;
Some dream of pasture grounds
For harmless sheep.
White shapes flit to and fro
From mast to mast;
They feel the distant tempest
That nears them fast:
Great rocks are straight ahead,
Great shoals not past;
They shout to one another
Upon the blast.
O, soft the streams drop music
Between the hills,
And musical the birds' nests
Beside those rills:
The nests are types of home
Love-hidden from ills,
The nests are types of spirits
Love-music fills.
So dream the sleepers,
Each man in his place;
The lightning shows the smile
Upon each face:
The ship is driving, driving,
It drives apace:
And sleepers smile, and spirits
Bewail their case.
The lightning glares and reddens
Across the skies;
It seems but sunset
To those sleeping eyes.
When did the sun go down
On such a wise?
From such a sunset
When shall day arise?
"Wake," call the spirits:
But to heedless ears;
They have forgotten sorrows
And hopes and fears;
They have forgotten perils
And smiles and tears;
Their dream has held them long,
Long years and years.
"Wake," call the spirits again:
But it would take
A louder summons
To bid them awake.
Some dream of pleasure
For another's sake;
Some dream, forgetful
Of a lifelong ache.
One by one slowly,
Ah, how sad and slow!
Wailing and praying
The spirits rise and go:
Clear stainless spirits,
White,--as white as snow;
Pale spirits, wailing
For an overthrow.
One by one flitting,
Like a mournful bird
Whose song is tired at last
For no mate heard.
The loving voice is silent,
The useless word;
One by one flitting,
Sick with hope deferred.
Driving and driving,
The ship drives amain:
While swift from mast to mast
Shapes flit again,
Flit silent as the silence
Where men lie slain;
Their shadow cast upon the sails
Is like a stain.
No voice to call the sleepers,
No hand to raise:
They sleep to death in dreaming
Of length of days.
Vanity of vanities,
The Preacher says:
Vanity is the end
Of all their ways.
2.3k
little islands of sanity
sacred the tenements
sacred the janitors
sacred the night watchmen
little islands of sanity
-----
little places of refuge
tiny hearts still beating
children play for real
amid people
who **** for fun and glory
-------
i dance!
-------
little islands of humanity
sacred the simple
sacred the honest
sacred the poverty
sacred tenemets
amid our shame
and greed
-----
come!
dance!
------
little islands
tiny lovers
the world
Nov 24, 2010
Nov 24, 2010 at 10:24 AM UTC
The misty morning moaned through great spiritual fogs, while the dogs lay exhausted on the tombstone curbs. A black car crept and the driver had no hands. In the purple screaming clouds were the faces of a thousand dead birds, hawking about, calling inscrutable names, grasping at imaginary worms from the trees of the burning wood.
Where have I gone?
The grey meandering man licked his lips as sullen death encapsulated the brittle bones and every step was bringing him closer to the ashen ground from whence the monsters came. A phosphorescent haze would whirl and dance in sweet contortions, a dance for the dead, as the night fought day with ecstatic swords.
The sun is crying.
The son is crying.
Halt for the watchmen, bats in hand and gloves hanging from belt loops. Halt while the lands are molested and the peasant sneers at waves that hum and bring about simultaneous life and death.
Open the door! Open it wide.
Life is the eternally beating drum
The drum from which we hide.
May 1, 2013
May 1, 2013 at 4:04 PM UTC
Tonight Guy Fawkes might get it right,
it's bonfire night.
Westminster,
the stage is set,
place your bets before the bang or hang old ***** high.
At Mansion House before fine fare,
sit politicians gorging there and getting fat from this,my land and I stand here with hand held out,
a teapot of a man with drooping spout and wilting will,
still,
Fawkes the hawk may walk the walk and then we'll see the ******** talk, when Parliament goes up in smoke,
Oh Guido,Guido take a match
don't let the watchmen catch you creeping,with lit taper,or you'll be 'sleeping with the fish'
It's bonfire night tonight
I do wish Guy Fawkes gets it right
and one more time,
't would be no crime
to light the fuse
and run.
Nov 5, 2013
Nov 5, 2013 at 1:12 AM UTC
On my bed night after night I
sought him who my soul loves, I sought him
but did not find him...
I sought this morning
a handful of domestic tools.
I raked, I shoveled, I let fly
a gust from my mighty
two-stroke gas blower, which
shuddered to death in my hands,
before all of the leaves reached
the end of the ******* driveway.
I adjure you, O daughters of Jerusalem
that you do not awake my love until
the motor has had a chance to cool off,
or you might flood the engine.
David was anointed with the
oil of myrrh and cassia. My wrists
are caked in Havoline from
1998. Solomon ate banquets,
loved Sheba, three hundred
concubines and boats of perfumed wood.
Ramen at lunchtime. Sixty yards of two-by-fours.
If I never resemble a king,
let me sup of television dinners
let me work my hands in the valleys
of a clogged fuel line, let my bed
fill with the twin odalisques of
leisure reading and ***** sheets,
and give me never three hundred concubines.
And if I go about the city at night,
pleading with the watchmen, have they seen
she who my soul loves, let them answer:
"There."
The driveway is clean, now,
all the leaves left at the end to rot,
or be swept away.
Jun 7, 2010
Jun 7, 2010 at 4:22 PM UTC
The watchmen sits at the darkest hour waiting for the morning shower.
Sep 17, 2015
Sep 17, 2015 at 7:36 PM UTC
Misty hair
Of angels fair
Cimmerian astrals
To kings and empress's
Slaves to eachother
For as god to be the watchmen
Snow white
Of Spain
Calling
Her king again
Shy
But as for him
All open
In back door hush-hush
For their marble's meet
In focus!!
Jun 12, 2015
Jun 12, 2015 at 2:52 PM UTC
who watches the watchmen
or something to that effect
its an important thought
they keep an eye on us
but who watches them
are they their own check
a very ab-usable system
if they can't watch themselves
we get more
watchers to watch the watchmen
but that same problem pops up
their overseers get corrupt
so we must watch them
but you know you can't trust us.
Jun 17, 2015
Jun 17, 2015 at 10:37 PM UTC
There's a tale that's spoken
When dawn has broken
By gateman and watchmen and guards
And it's echoed by thieves
As the night time leaves
As they shuffle their crooked cards
Of a demon disguised
And a doctor despised
So be weary of coaches at night
There's a roaming physician
Of the devils tuition
A curse and a bringer of plight
Oh, Doctor Sinestre
The butcher of Leicester
A man with a hunger for pain
With top hat and tails
And talon-like nails
There are many he's happily slain
He travels by night
And is fast out of sight
And away by the first light of day
He takes eyes and ears
As grim souvenirs
And your body is left on display
It's said he was born
With a singular horn
Which he uses to gouge his prey
And my grandmother swears
He was brought up by bears
Which he killed in a grizzly display
He's a magical voice
A remover of choice
To beguile the strongest of wills
He can tear you apart
And pull out your heart
So quickly the blood never spills
Oh, Doctor Sinestre
The gory molester
An animal dressed as a man
If you hear him approach
In his ebony coach
Then away just as fast as you can
He feeds on the weak
On souls of the bleak
And seekers of fortune and strife
He removes your afflictions
Diseases, addictions
As swiftly he cures you of life
He has eyes in his ears
So he sees what he hears
His teeth once belonged to a snake
The soles of his feet
Don't meet with the street
Not a print or a sound does he make
There are maps of strange lands
On the palms of his hands
And thick purple hair on the back
There's a bat in his hat
All sluggish and fat
For if ever he fancies a snack
Oh, Doctor Sinestre
The mayor of Chester
And prince of the circles of hell
He giggles and gloats
As he fiddles with goats
He dabbles in chickens as well
A spaceship he flies
Through Lancashire skies
He can turn you to gold with a kiss
He's a ghost driven mad
By his alien dad
And.... Are you TOTALLY sure about this?
Jun 1, 2013
Jun 1, 2013 at 10:09 AM UTC
wasting well water wishes
while in wastewater wading
waiting waist-high wailing
weeping, wailing—
what a waste!
wasting well water wishes
while we're waxing waning
waning waxing waging
waging, wasting—
wherewithal!
wanting well water wishes
while whole world wishing
wasting wishing wanting
wanting wishing—
whole wide world!
welcome well water wishes
while we're wakeful watching
wakeful watchmen warning
warning watching—
wonderful!
whew!!
Mark Toney © 2022
Mar 6, 2022
Mar 6, 2022 at 11:02 PM UTC
The pilgrim's pull ashore....
Strange glass waves smash their feeble ships...
In the meanwhile upon land
In the distant abyss.....
The wildmen dance in song singing....
Ya ha ha-way!
Ya ha ha-way!
Ya ha ha-way!
Ha ha ** ha ha ha-way
Ha ha ** ha ha ha-way...........
Connecting to the creator
Hellion's to sojourner men
Outlandish semblance
Blush maroon colored skin...
Pinna's stitched into costume
As bead's wrap their neck
Efflorescence garbs their smiles
As sage smokes their chest's
Trace bouquet Smell's as oak
As the Willow's they do gather
Pinecones and nut's the both
Are used, eaten, and slathered
Tis
Their friends with the forest
Watchmen of Cimmerian adumbration
Not thy average native
Not found on t.v stations
They follow not the world
Nor the things of material crud
They gallop exposed
All unclothed painted in by the mud
Their mundunugu's and isangoma's
Their healer's of sickened loma's
Their future reader's
And old time Greeter's
They hash up balm pharmaceuticals
And mix in remedy anesthetics
Antibiotic doctors
Believer's in angelic medic
The pioneers come in
Scratching their heads
Bearing babies of far distance
Bringing disease with no end
They park their Vessels on edge
Of those wild men they call beasts
They plant their flag of hatred
And the redskin's are forgiving treat's
The ivory men draws gun
Whilst the natives draw their god
The pale man doth run
This is native land didst the whitened did trod
The natal men's Architect was stronger
Against the real true brutes
As the shaman sent home those foreigners
Back to England and Europe's coupé
As when the bleached beau's had left them
They went into different song
It goes like this
Please don't miss
These are the original's of the law!!!!
They Carol in fire hot dance...
Wee hee nah wee hee nah hee nah
Wee hee nah hee nah
Wee hee nah
Wee hee nah hee nah
Wee hee nah hee nah
Hey **
Jun 6, 2015
Jun 6, 2015 at 8:51 AM UTC
centelleo, centelleo, mi amour',
I shalt travel by foot, right to thy door!
Up above the moon so high,
I shalt exhilarate thee in thine mind.
When the colorful universe hath passed,
And All the glacier's melt so fast,
Then thou wilt illuminate,
centelleo, centelleo, on ourn impresionante date.
Than the watchmen in the dusk
Giveth thee thanks, of aloe and musk:
He couldst not seeith which way to flyeth,
But thine own light to all inviteth.....
In those dark brown eyes thou keepeth,
And always in mine soul thou peepeth,
For please don't ever close thine eye's
Until mine lips art met with thine own so fine....
As thy centelleo glints mine room,
And as thy centelleo is flared by thee mine muse,
I shalt continue to be thy poet
Writing a million poem's a day for thee so everyone shalt know it.
©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
Jul 10, 2015
Jul 10, 2015 at 5:37 PM UTC
filleted dreams, drip drip dripping into endless streams,
a falcon, a fisherman, a lonely seaboat with a blue stripe on white,
never ceasing, never dying, constant revelation, constant redemption,
dark nights, the tap tap tapping of raindrops on ceilings,
one leg cold and one leg warm, always reaching, never grasping,
a wine-drunken beam, a pill of golden light,
a breath, a whimper of sleep,
a drumming, a drumming, a drumming
of ever-closer watchmen on the rooftops of tenement houses,
weeping and watching and oh so silently
sewing closed their mouths with threads.
something in the darkness, something in the watchmen,
something in the drips of the tap and of the rain
and of the filleted dreams of endless streams,
cry technicolor, cry chromatic,
weep visions of paradise like water from Eden,
no, yes, my cautious child,
darling mother, sleeping father,
drunk drunk drunk on stolen nectar,
rot, rot, rot into the sour deep,
buried under rubble,
smothered, squeezed, dissected,
infinite life, finite spirit,
cry, cry, cry,
cry stolen and pale into the screams of your indigo dreams.
May 5, 2015
May 5, 2015 at 10:06 AM UTC
He comes out of his house, off into his ****** limousine,
The pride and glory of American handicraft,
Drives away past his main gate, guarded by a Luhyia national,
The nation from which watchmen are mass manufactured,
The gate is banged closed with a sharp emblem dominating;
tafadahli umbwa kali, please fierce dogs are in don’t dare enter,
when no piece of a dog is in, hen pecking husbands perhaps,
He drives away in low spirit, like the tail of a snake,
Sharply contrasting his tiger thoraxed debates in the parliament,
In defence of state corruption; Anglo leasing and her sisters,
The wife has chased out our state officer, his sole Succor,
of the night and chilly loneliness so nameless ,in the streets of Nairobi,
Is the epiphanous street of koinange, after Mbiu Koinange
The colonial orchestrator of intellectual globalectics,
He sired political immorality that sired social depravement,
To rove his avenues as the state and money capitalist
Convert beautiful daughters of the poor peasants
Into defenseless protégés of class misfortune
Roaming the back streets minus
Any lingerie in their bosoms.
Jun 10, 2014
Jun 10, 2014 at 10:15 AM UTC
pear leaves strum the high wire
fern roots claw a sun drenched bank
creep vines mount the hedgerow
sow bugs jump a grated worn step
picket wall stain on cedar
mountain stream brisk at lush green pass
four legs down the foot path
biscuit brown trailers fill the pipe
spiders march on dew web
knots and rivets cut hard at the seam
maples cover the forest floor
sap ***** ping the front gate
dandelions drift on west breeze
blue berries plump at shepherds grove
wood sill holds a stained glass
letter box lined above the scrub
delft ware on the mantle
(with petals and script for a promised guest!)
junior poised with mouth agape
birds and squirrels whistle jovial tunes
goldfinch darts the sea ranch
tabby cat rests in a white wicker chair
a crafters window in the alpine
follies await the summer task!
queen bee on the flutter
airedale set on a woven grey mat
watchmen of the hollow (+ earwig and mite!)
scurry, under rustled moist leaves
frogs leap at trickle creek
shutter bugs mount on gryphons lair
still water ripples in the shaded pool
folding fingers on corner bridge
foragers cut the high shelf
silver fish come to life
whiskey jack sings on indian green
elijah and xavier pause...
at a long days end
Apr 28, 2017
Apr 28, 2017 at 9:39 AM UTC
at the sight of you
moons are dull grey spotlights
flat, dimensionless, and known.
which could make us akin
if i let the end begin.
but i drag it out and twist it tight
all strapped in place
i dig a tunnel in my soft spot.
stretch the truth until it breaks its back.
bones of sugar
clumped together like lonely hydrogen
in a coronal marsh.
i thought i could tame it.
i see
silver and black wind
builders and watchmen.
your world famous carousel hugs
turn to languorous shrugs
but they both make me dizzy.
a gaze eclipsed for the moment
you're less a mind, more a slogan.
when his eye meets yours
it leaves behind
sunspots.
Jul 21, 2014
Jul 21, 2014 at 2:28 PM UTC
To be rebuilt, to be restored, to re-establish broken walls
Of former gates now rising up, to them that will rejoice
On assignment from the palace
Nehemiah of noble rank
With zest and zealous zeal
A great work to begin, relinquish finding fault
Continue the consigned course, even if by force
A purposeful quest, yet enemies seek to oppress
Chosen people of Jerusalem
Their aim to hinder
To turn our plans to cinders, of ruin again
Aside from jeers and jokes, we evoke the passion inside
From such a purpose as this
For Nehemiah here to rebuild, not to rebel
To hear of enemies plans, such work began
Armed hands of spears and swords
Guarding watchmen day and night, to then distract, a covert act
To call him away, an unprincipled trip, good intentions not
Yet passing times, forward seasons
Gave no reason, for continued up-rise
No scheme or lies, could dissolve desire
Nor cause delay
Gathered rules, with listening intent
Help the people, re-join and restore customs, not law
Promising years, place heathen aside, do not idolise
A Saviour will return
The writings of Malachi
A faithful prophet, of faithful words
Written by Geraldine Taylor ©
Jun 15, 2017
Jun 15, 2017 at 1:31 AM UTC
We met on the morning when the sun waded
through the window
mopping up the nights shadows as it invaded
every corner of my working space.
I was ready to react to other poets at work on AP.
She came along with a blistering title
and abundance of words, beguiling
and packed with imagery, dark and dense,
laced with succinct and sinful metaphors
wolves and watchmen, ****** energy swirling
around in thickets and primroses
promises broken and bleeding on the threshold
of their hearts, but gone, each on their own
sun and sin sprinkled pathways to other partners.
Only she wrote poems
He wrote her off!
Who was this stranger, tearing her heart out
on these pages, soulful and sinful, unheeding,
unashamed at being beaten and bruised
by her lovers tantrum now
migrated to a new nest of instant **********
She bled her words out in rhyme and rhythm
Holding on to fragments of a dream
fast fading at the edges.
I wrote her some lines of happiness
instinctively telling her to calm down
and think about what freedom meant
and where it lead in the rocking horse world
of thin relationships.
She replied with two words
in acid structure: **** off!
I never heard from her again.
The sunshine continued to invade the day.
Author Notes
True story. Old story. Love story are born and die this way. There are hundreds of poems on this site that used just those words when either gets dissed. Bad luck goes good luck comes. The sun continues to invade the day.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.
Apr 19, 2014
Apr 19, 2014 at 1:18 AM UTC