The Army Soap Song

Thin Holy-Rollers raid the Club of the Uncertain at twilight, unmasking the heroes as mosquito-faced frauds. “It’s a vintage dummy roller-derby!” remarked a pedestrian, his soft, pulpy-looking wings slowly unfolding from beneath a carapace of stair-carpet. “Holy cow!”

Left to sizzle, I finally acknowledged him as my better. “Still, I bet your soap army can’t crack this code: bzzz-bz-zzt-zzz-bzzzt…zzzb-bzz-tttz-bbzt-ttbzzzzz…zzz-z…bzzzz…” Ashamed, he walked the crooked streets of Old Foady, an amber trumpet underneath his arm. “Ha! No orchestra for you tonight, Baby Bubble!” she whispered, sulkily. “That’ll teach ya to keep your toes clean.”

He was right, though; it was a rare Radar Book stolen from The Little Library. Thousands of tiny books lined up neatly inside a matchbox; you needed an electron microscope to read ‘em. Bah! A monkey on its death-bed.

Paperbacks burn in Swallow Arms Park. “Pull down the gymnasium and release the slugs! Let them sleep on your tongue tonight! I’ve had it up to here with this town.” He swam off, looking for a milk riot, his onionskin uniform glowing in the broken sunset.

I was a Grey Baby, born of Dog-Mother Sac and her twisted brood. Galaxies seem to spin and shift beneath my web-footed foster parents’ feet. At Easter, we froze the piano. Melodies leaked out from beneath absolute zero. Black, percussive frost-bite and drum-skins made from the snow between your legs. Don't laugh! Your frozen finger-songs were the toast of the allotment.

I’m no longer afraid of my own ears.