Poetic Review: Adam Stafford, Fringe 2018

A man walks into a bar only it wasn’t a bar and it didn’t have to be a man or this man. There was a space more akin to a Iiving room. They used to cut up animals here but it felt soft and warm and there were couches. Salubrious couches. There was some coughing and a weak clap as an avuncular school teacher turned up, cool with all that, he maybe would meet you round the back of the temporary block for a fag after hours, not deliberately mind you but if it happened who cares. Also he was probably someone’s dreamboat through an eighties filter.

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