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Men without women, or, how at my local pub I’d sit and watch an ageing whore by Mandy Beaumont • Bareknuckle Poet
he got that tattoo for that bloke she used to mess around with. Can’t remember his name. Never wore closed in shoes. Always smelt of Chinese food. Smoked the blues. He hung around the edges of corners and seemed like he was always placed and waiting for me to walk past him. I always thought he more »