Iron Horse We rode together under a gross and overwhelming equestrian stature. As a small part of her fictitious admirer I was supposed to be terribly confused. There was a confict between reality and fantasy. Small children played around the muddled symbol of contrasted innocence. The warmth of tears rose unfamiliar in her eyes. Suppose, one would think one disturbed her even as she uttered conventional responses, her innocence was lost laying somewhere unknown. Her invented, unimportant lover momentarily invented non-existence. Non-sense. The shock of how actual and existing lovers, yet casually insignificant, preceded him, confused by the iron horse of dominating baby images. The instant was firmly implanted where what seemed to reach happiness, acceptance? Proper place? I attempt to read her biography in a false relationship of eyes compelling me to another tired sweet day. I pressed closer. I bear witnesses beneath her consensual activities. I make inquiries in the darkest rooms, deflecting her to my place. She seems to hesitate before showing off to all the gang. You're just a figment. I've got a real lover. This occasion ascented anything but weirdness, a reaction identified personally but seldomly concealing an occupation of trained eyes, smiling vaguely at the steel cold horse. I merely went around... Substances, tastes, the blush, my rasping voice...
JAMES W JOHNSON