Main Drag Pubs

Weekly this sorry procession rolls out a parade of wannabe kings and queens, heirs unapparent to the realms of nothingness. Girls with elaborate hairdos, boys drenched in cheap cologne; drawn to the main drag pubs, solitary ventilators of the monochrome kingdom. Factory gates closed, chained, padlocked; the great Friday escape, a weekend parole ‘till Monday morning cracks a brutal dawn of hangovers and regret. Girlish expectation of that certain special someone to sweep them up in the arms of romance, die as dead as stone at the first drunken leer. Boyish dreams of page three sex kittens doubling as wives to come home to; dreams which exponentially dissolve with the gradual expansion of nurtured beer guts. Doomed to this since the rude prime spark of conception; but when there is next to nothing embracing what there is becomes the only thing to do. Girls grow shrill and dowdy, hairdos architectural disasters, age and sucking filter tips trace sallow lines about lipstick smeared mouths. Boys grow fat and ape like, bitter shirt-busting bellies barely defying gravity, secreting peptic ulcers swiftly germinating to perforation point. Dreams drain of value, are clear no more, lost in nicotine clouds and beer spills; nothing remains save senselessness and habit, still drawn to the main drag pubs. All they wanted was a life, not too much to ask; but the main drag pubs are all there is and happiness was never their promise to keep.