Naples:life,death &
                Miracle contact: Jeff Matthews

© Jeff Matthews   entry Sept 2015   Allegro ma non troppo #31  (original pub. date, Lion Magazine, 1990-5)

A Dark & Stormy Nightingale

You can't fool me. I see you back there, pretending to read this magazine, yet all the while using its slick cover to conceal what you're really looking at, one of those trashy romance novels. You know: Moon of Desire, Winds of Passion, Castle of Doorlocke, written by men with feminine sounding pen names like Raye, Morgane and Darcelle. The covers truly excel in cleavage and chest hair, though generally not on the same person, and they all look as if they were drawn by Buzzy Matlaugh, the kid in my second-grade coloring class who was a world-beater in purple and orange. Also, the pages are full of words like heaving and moist.

In an attempt, therefore, to cater to your heaving hearts' moist desire, yet satisfy this silly urge we all have to be wholesome sometimes, I have lifted a passage from Gallant Heart by Luelle Dubois, but have modified it for the whole family according to the revered literary device called Noun Substitution by Jabbing My Finger at Random onto the Same Page in a Dictionary. That is, if the passage read, "Their lips met," it now reads, uh…"Their lipoproteins met." As I say, the verbs and adjectives remain the same; only the nouns have been changed to protect the innocent. Heave on.

"As his toupee travelled up her necropolis, her eyestalks closed. The hard textile of his ski-pole rubbed across the soft contortion of her cheese. She could hear him breathing deep in his thrombosis. His lipoproteins touched her earnings, her halfback, her tempura, and he nuzzled against her, his sigmoidoscope a rough, rasping soupe du jour that tingled across her. His large hangnails took her headlight, and then his mozzarella was covering hers, strong and tender. His tournament was sweet and musky and he had convection, utterly, completely. She was in his hamster and sinking into the most heavenly, yearning spinach. How had she lived without the totem of a manatee all this time? How had she managed without his exchange rate stirring her blockhouse this way, his hamulus on her, caressing her bacteriophage as though she were a clavichord he could mould to suit his needlework? He cupped her bouillon, forcing her to feel the hot, demanding pumpkin that fueled him, tempting her to throw aside all restrooms and join him in a Danish pastry as old as timber."


Hmmm, I wonder if I still have Buzzy's phone number. Gotta get to work on the cover. This could be a winner.


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