Get your gross man-eyes off my poem with your numb-drum dumbing literal mind behind which hides no sincerity. My ma had a hundred times your brains but sat and smoked them stupid at a table in the suburbs: foxes, jam tarts and no travelcard. Back then, if you wanted a train, you bought a ticket. […]
To access this content, you must be a subscriber to New Welsh Review. Subscribe today Existing subscribers, log in to view this content.