IRMA SPEAKS CLEAR
- Aug 1
- 1 min read
By Mark A. Hill
In jaune Spring, he might have told me that love was hoodoo, He may have told me what all things meant before ember life became amber death. Now, my heart no longer holds the colour of the coin or the true meaning of circumstance, the now. The plastic tank of yellow-shelled parched terrapins that we sat afore is no more, and even the Menthol cigarettes have been smoked. The combing of each other’s dreams with breadstick caution is folded, all I hoped would re-bloom beneath tumble flies and become something else, did not. The all has ebbed and been spread like almond painted butter or failed soldieries. Now gentlemen, you will deal with me as is your will and obligation.