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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 |
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