Essex versus the rest of the world

Seemed like a good idea, last week,
meeting Christine, to catch up on everything seeing as thelast time was in 1993
and she was sick in the Burger King bin.

Walking there you think about 20/20 and her
lip gloss telling everyone that Tom Russell
dumped you because you wouldnt suck him and to her
it was as easy as winning twister.

And when she gets up off the grass, to greet you
the print on her legs are hyrogliphics
and her velor shorts are in places they shouldnt be, she pings them out with an index and grins.

And its awkward, and you wish you had worn more make up as you somehow feel unfinished,
and she is sort of upsetting, but interesting.
So inbetween squinting and jokes with origins,
we look at the common and tell each other things in long chain fagging linkings;

the bedsits, outfits, the unbelievable comedy,
the story of how the still clear things like knowing, faded like velvet
and made us in increments thick as babies,
unreal and easy to remember, like song lyrics.

You don't want to be sinking,
so you sing the stories, so that you are winning.
You say, remember when we used to set fire to things we thought were interesting.

Oh god, she says,
it could all be so beautiful if it wasnt so boring.
And when she says, I heard he broke your heart again, talk about a pattern of losing
we are at the fairground, on the waltzer, and we dont know yet how much everything is costing,
and we couldnt give a shit
we are Essex against the rest of the world, setting fire to things, becoming interesting.