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"clammered" poems
The *** with match, lit the fire scolding kettle with burnt goaless ambition. claiming snobbish golden prowess paid in wanton , savage, screaming tuition. "It is I" said *** "Who has sent aromas of worlds preperations in lifes gluttonous lust smiling rewards genorously hailed with slothed culanary trust..." "tis true" whispered kettle "It is I, the *** forged in iron clad who in laborious toil so generously cast my sweet savory scraps amongst your soot and soil..." "tis true" hissed kettle, "For I, the *** adapt in multiple arrangement of compliment and comfort where you lack with singular solitary function wailing, seared and scarred in black..." "Tis true" whistled kettle "I, the *** filled in glorious substance and magnificant sustenance praised in lifes delicate, vital, victuals and viands in with which I do enhance..." "Tis true" howled kettle "Yet it is I, Kettle, in further fashion of design than copious function in fare do not heed your song and dance..." "Blah" clammered *** "For it is I, the lowly kettle, sing to each melodious morning to begin the days unknown magical soaring..." "Pishaw" growled *** "It is I, kettle, bestowed in somber, modest truth of fact nakedly express that you too, my dear *** are simply black..." "humbug" steamed *** *** humbled... kettle mumbled... "It is in each honorable day we serve our distinguishable stay in detectable unadorned identicle way. "Tis true" said ***
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Sep 24, 2012
Sep 24, 2012 at 3:27 AM UTC
appalachian-andrew
*** and Kettle
The *** with match, lit the fire scolding kettle with burnt goaless ambition. claiming snobbish golden prowess paid in wanton , savage, screaming tuition. "It is I" said *** "Who has sent aromas of worlds preperations in lifes gluttonous lust smiling rewards genorously hailed with slothed culanary trust..." "tis true" whispered kettle "It is I, the *** forged in iron clad who in laborious toil so generously cast my sweet savory scraps amongst your soot and soil..." "tis true" hissed kettle, "For I, the *** adapt in multiple arrangement of compliment and comfort where you lack with singular solitary function wailing, seared and scarred in black..." "Tis true" whistled kettle "I, the *** filled in glorious substance and magnificant sustenance praised in lifes delicate, vital, victuals and viands in with which I do enhance..." "Tis true" howled kettle "Yet it is I, Kettle, in further fashion of design than copious function in fare do not heed your song and dance..." "Blah" clammered *** "For it is I, the lowly kettle, sing to each melodious morning to begin the days unknown magical soaring..." "Pishaw" growled *** "It is I, kettle, bestowed in somber, modest truth of fact nakedly express that you too, my dear *** are simply black..." "humbug" steamed *** *** humbled... kettle mumbled... "It is in each honorable day we serve our distinguishable stay in detectable unadorned identicle way. "Tis true" said ***
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48
All the times you roll over in the middle of the night and whisper the sweetest words I'll ever listen to. The waking-up smirks, yawns, and hand-holding. The scent of your plaid shirts draped over my shoulders on all the walks back from the ice cream parlour. Each beer can that was tossed away, and clammered onto the kitchen floor. I have bad aim. The growing pile of shared space and objects and gifts, exchanged for no reason at all, other than our love, also shared. The time I fell asleep with my finger in between your lips, comforted by the closeness that one finger had with your heart. The hours spent driving to and from and circling seemingly endless parking lots. The cigarettes shared, second-hand while holding hands. The second glances, "what" "what?" "nothing, I just love you so much."
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Jun 4, 2014
Jun 4, 2014 at 7:53 PM UTC
sunstarsmoons
Sweetest Memories
All the times you roll over in the middle of the night and whisper the sweetest words I'll ever listen to. The waking-up smirks, yawns, and hand-holding. The scent of your plaid shirts draped over my shoulders on all the walks back from the ice cream parlour. Each beer can that was tossed away, and clammered onto the kitchen floor. I have bad aim. The growing pile of shared space and objects and gifts, exchanged for no reason at all, other than our love, also shared. The time I fell asleep with my finger in between your lips, comforted by the closeness that one finger had with your heart. The hours spent driving to and from and circling seemingly endless parking lots. The cigarettes shared, second-hand while holding hands. The second glances, "what" "what?" "nothing, I just love you so much."
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