CHRIS MAJOR

HAPPY HOUR

Saturday night,
the town centre's litter strewn
and can cluttered.
Teens swagger and sway
passed the fluid windows
of heaving bars,
underagers swilling furtive swigs
from a communal can
as their cig smoke hovers
like steam over quenched youth.
Squating, a young girl,
crumpled as a tissue on the club steps;
and as her boyfriend
writhes on the dancefloor,
she sobs,
shocked by the awful noise,
the flashing lights,
and being shoved aside
by rushing paramedics............


3 WORD SUICIDE POEM


                                 h
                                                      e
bang                                  bullet
                                     a
                                                                             d










2005 Underground Voices