The camera is always out and about, inspiring my poetry too.

he was hanging around Chalk Farm, London

This guy was troubled and struggling with demons within
He was a lovely man
he needed help with a strange assortment of many bags
a multicolour scarf drags
and complicates things
as the tube elevator failed him
we both agreed the wooden ones were more reliable
and that it was only cigarettes that ignited the fires of kings cross
yes wooden much more fun
more organic
alive!
"have you seen the cogs and gears?" I asked him
I referred to diagrams of the underground
I felt confident he would know what I meant
and he did
"yes my son! Black oily and beutiful!"
he must mean the grease, the solid brass
pressed pieces of giants clocks
you can peep at the them you know
just at the base of the stairs..
he was a doctor apparently
he looked into minds
they are not usually as technical
more something.....oh...I slipped tangent of thought
and a grating thought ground me
a sea of people surround me
they had appeared from the last train
the clutter and clattering like walking the boards
or a cakewalk in a funfair
we agreed again,
wooden escalators
he laughed but the laugh seemed in pain
like it was old or dying
i felt he was drained by those troubles
and then he twitched and pulled back his hair
I looked sideways as eye contact was painful
I felt he felt I may be analysing him
I think I was
who would not
I asked in the silent voice
yet for dignity
as though he a casualty
I looked away
pathetic I am, I thought
Rejoice he projected
happy he was chosen
Im not a samaritan though! or am I?
yet with the effort expended in elevating his bags
I had opened a channel
and draw naught
on his cross
the start of interchange
an escalation unexpected
unplanned
outside chalk farm, London