Ed thought he was a cat
So he gave a rat
To his dearest friend Magee.
He didn't take it lightly..

The rancid little thing
That poor Ed did bring,
Fell from Magee's hand,
Into his frying pan.

The rat cooked in his dish
Among the chips and fish,
And neither of them knew
The rat had joined it too.

The men clambered, glorped, and glopped
Until the timer stopped.
So they put it on a plate,
And then it was too late.

The grimy paws dug in
As Ed's face begin to grin,
And Magee was most aware
Of some furry little hair.

Magee quickly threw it out
And hit Ed all about.
He shooed his pal away,
Soggy Ed was now a stray.

But Ed finished up the dinner,
Though felt a little thinner.
Now old Ed has fleas,
And will probably get rabies.

LET'S FACE FACTS

The mind is like a sponge
absorbing the spilt ketchup

of the moment gone
horribly wrong.

Or if one were
to rub two atoms together

they would burst
instantly into a poem.

Or
not.

Words go to jail if
they fail to capture

the state of mind
of the person who

believed writing was merely
putting pen to paper.

The writing untangles itself
and word for word reenters

the tip of
the pen.

The brain is made from
papier mache

but can be cast in bronze
or set in stone.

Some people don't even know
they are host to a brain.

A man whose name escapes
me now

but was an anagram
for toilets

cried that he could connect
"nothing with nothing."

I envied him and
was jealous of his seeing.

**** my doppelgänger who
autocorrects everything I

(dognapper leg
engorged palp
glopped anger
"Grapple Ogden!")

have strived to
manifest here.

I am an atom short
of a universe.

LET'S FACE FACTS

The mind is like a sponge
absorbing the spilt ketchup

of the moment gone
horribly wrong.

Or if one were
to rub two atoms together

they would burst
instantly into a poem.

Or
not.

Words go to jail if
they fail to capture

the state of mind
of the person who

believed writing was merely
putting pen to paper.

The writing untangles itself
and word for word reenters

the tip of
the pen.

The brain is made from
papier mache

but can be cast in bronze
or set in stone.

Some people don't even know
they are host to a brain.

A man whose name escapes
me now

but was an anagram
for toilets

cried that he could connect
"nothing with nothing."

I envied him and
was jealous of his seeing.

**** my doppelgänger who
autocorrects everything I

(dognapper leg
engorged palp
glopped anger
"Grapple Ogden!")

have strived to
manifest here.

I am an atom short
of a universe.

**

Yet another "thing" brought forth from me by or rather cast out of me by the wonderful Kim Moore at her Cheltenham Poetry Festival writing workshop. Don't even ask! It was to get us to write and write I did and this...is...eh...what came up! Jaysus!

It was a 7min. exercise...just write with no taking the pen off the paper hence when I stalled I started anagraming the word doppelgänger in order to keep the words coming. And as it was my doppelgänger who was shapeshifting all I was saying I thought it was only poetic justice that doppelgänger itself should be the word to get anagramed...serve it ****** well right.

Like with fluorescent paint
I glopped on a title

Basic Transportation

feel free to sit in this one
kick its tires

scratches and dings
cracked windshield

engine running
rough

I swear I can fix all of that

We stare at the explosion
the mess of paint
glopped onto the canvas
thinking of what could've been

a driver's cap
a bundle of newspapers
a can of soda
hot and chewy pretzels

meat
cut into red juicy strips
wrapped in thick wax paper
tied with twine

Whit Howland © 2020