Deconstruction

Void Where Prohibited

by: David Mathis

'So what ezzactly is over the rainbow' siad the parrot to the earth, but unfortunately the earth speaks not and so the curtains closed on another day of sitting. So what is snow made of anyway? sugarfluff or frosting, or is it made of ice? 'how should I know,' said the man to the panda. 'It simply has no taste.'

No taste-- like air or spagetti noodles when they are wiggly and cooked-- like a sheep braying for its pancho. not that all sheep wear panchos or all dogs go to heaven, for within the sun there appears to be a flamable substance of some sort, or so said the clock. The clock was always right.

The old man laughed as he sat down and strummed a guitar that was made of gold, but he could hardly lift it for the life of him: he had stolen it you know. The bats all laugh by the heat of the day as they sit perched and ready to feed in the night-- the night where the air is cold and they can hear as plain as day. And do not, my child, forget the sky as it is filled with a black boquet of the wings of the bats as they fly to town to feed.

The veil it then came to a jagged end in gasping groaning breaths as the unbearable continued to crawl: much like a puppy in its last moments-- and then the rigor sets in. Away in a kite as far as the moon, where the weather is always predicted accurately-- the only the drawback is an abrupt and rather unexpected shortness of breath.