Olympiad 1-4-79

As the Dime Store sirens flared bolts of irradiated invite, my query was denied. Their pimp-striped pilots only moaned, their lust fueled by encapsulated stench carried only by toothless carnies from the canyons. Canyons o’ Crazed Confliction. And behind… the dull dynamo hum. I screamed for the Kelp Queen to come to me, her tresses woven wave-like in the wabe. My demands were simple. The scars of the trucker's she must carry (as war carries death) for inbreeding has tainted her line. “Can Omaha be far?” she pleaded and tugged at my inter-ache as tin balloons tug with time . “For you?” I replied in a flatulent belch. The boiling madness was by now beyond the horizon but kept in check still by the neon dogs crouching by day under the interchange. It is they who will now stalk the disease plagued ports I sailed from so many days and images ago. Until her kleptic crew of vagrants and priests sprint with me in postpartum harmony. Hipsters for TRUTH.