The Min’ds Eye got pin’k eye.


68747470733a2f2f36372e6d656469612e74756d626c722e636f6d2f39313463666336376435373530356338386133613862353030396665646232662f74756d626c725f6f3162777a7744785a4831726f6d7639636f315f313238302e6a7067Here’s a verse I saw writ above a urinal in gentlemen’s entertainment establishment:

Put your finger in. Wiggle it. Wiggle it. Wiggle it. Again.┬áDo that fancy little dance you do when the deejay goes, gobbledy goobledy. Look, it’s a bird. No, it’s death. Flying south for the winter. Miami, USA.

It’s hard to keep it together with all that visual realist haiku mumbo jumbo bullcrud messing with our minds and spirits, you feel?

Whatever happened to the limerick?

You know the one about the mono-erotic guy with the huge freaking wang. Now that’s art. That beams in like a laser on the emotional spittoon that is my soul and just lets loose with a thick, horking loogie.




I got a sick case of the synesthesia, real bad like


My moon roof woofed some misty thunder and it set off an exploding stink eye something fierce. Small wonder the bus driver had to pull over and open the the doors and all the windows ’cause this crazy old maid’s fudgy foot streaked off into a mad fit of giggler’s ear that toned an oily kid down with banger’s knee and up and out with a heckuva neck puffering that had this cat with surly eyebrows finger bangin’ his nipple tits sending a wicked lemon flash to his nose pump. And with all that humidity to boot. Sheesh Lou-eesh.

Man, what a morning that was.

One for the books.

Gashdongit! I think the ninjas stole the fudge!


“Shh, Jake,” Larry whispered, “you hear that?”

“Hear what?” Jake asked back.

“That whisperin’ in the night.”

“What whisperin’s that?”

“Ominous like. I think it’s the sound of silent death,” Larry said.

“How’d you hear it then? Ain’t it silent? As the name implies?” Said Jake.

“What are you on about, man?”

“I mean, silent death means just that. SILENT. If you heard it whispering in the night like you’re sayin’ then wouldn’t it be whispering death?”

“Whispering death?” Larry exclaimed, “Are you buzzed out? That ain’t what anything would be called anywhere I heard of ever. No one says whisperin’ death. What would it be like all swishy-swishy-swishy-poof you’re dead? Ga-ack, that’s a sick twist.”

There was a long, chubby, contemplative moment between them, then Larry said, “How the hell did you get in my sleeping bag anyways?”



It’s more than just a pickle, Pete, it’s the Universe

monekysonraft1Floating with an infinitely casual attitude through the vast black velvet brine of space the little cuke made its way. From here to there and everywhere. Just being its own dill self, jamming with the cosmos. “Heylo, Supernova, what blows?” “What’s tricks, Space Moon?” “Looks like a gooder you’ve got going on there, Planet of Sexual Maniacs.” Traversing the megacosm, letting it all hang out, Polski Ogorski style, this pickle is now and then and future forever. A trans-galactic sweet and sour sandwich snacker. Man, is that pickle some kind of inspiration out there in the Ocean of Emptiness. This gherkin is the void’s dream. Shine on, cornichon, shine on.

Felinious Goshdoggery


Like a tiger in the night. She’s got leopard skin shadows. Like a lion in the light. She smells like a jaguar. Run run run. She’s a panther lady. Her fur is waxed fantastic. Beige and black and gold and mottled. She licks it clean, smooths her emotions, purrs as she sips a glass of sparkling wine. What’s the verdict, lady? She gives it 7 lives outta 9. She’s a wondercat feline fanged being beyond simple meow meow. Where did she go? Where did she get to? Nobody knows. She’s on her own in the big, big city.

Nathan Stinkeye P.I.

case of the backward mule

The room was dark and tight and rank like a proctologist’s nightmare. Or fantasy, if that’s someone’s thing, who’m I to judge? I’m just a guy with problems like any other guy, you know, with bills to pay and the elephantitis and no air-conditioning. The squeaker on the other end of the phone had whined something to effect that murder was on the menu and that dinner had been served. Well, I wasn’t hungry but I figured I still had room enough for a slice of sleuth cake. So, I found myself jerking my way into a low-rent men’s cuddle and cream motel in a part of town so undesirable that even dirtbags considered it an urban rash.┬áStanding there, staring at what amounted to a corpse buffet, trying to hold down three quarts of fortified wine, two chickens and four waffles, I asked myself why I kept going. The answer was simple. Crime stank. And I was the pine tree hanging from the mirror that was society. Time to freshen the air.