Apothygra of synapses.

A pit pony curled its bitten lip and 

remarked to his cart made of Tolkien 

the apothygra of synapses seems distance 

And far as the star down the track 

waiting to be laid across the well 

Trodden road of rattus trapped 

Making animalis ballon

To spare his hide for glue

What happen to the boy whom 

wished to be cyclopes so buried 

his head in sand dune croc Monsieur 

Made of Musket and guns until 

Greek roux rolled phonetics 

toungues off production lines 

Inventing exclaimation’s  

pyroclastic volcanoes

Soda siphon clastinet’s.

Waves in paper cover 

bottles of expression 

For femme fatal.