we sat on orange beams of light in front of the church under the gum trees this meetup was one of my most recent well liked on the jolly attended and sunny on the Lookout down below miners, in blue garb, mixalot of shouting and triumph like "LFG!" and "GFY!" and spit and poke at bits of spam that crawl out of abandoned memory pools dry rot starfish like anus they smell of death

the south side has been in the Garden Route News, lately: "miners are struggling because of the congested filter and family chores" lost their minds jumped into the cloud "some run and jump into the cloud holding their offspring" no funerals in the cloud easy to be forgotten_push moral smear campaign "grow a beard to obfuscate your speed phase" is the suggestion

Angels, about fifty meters behind the church, watch over plebs watching a rugby game on the big screen at the pub we don't know the score we are way looking down on the miners "This is not what I expected" big oke gets up and walks a line through the middle of our picnic eyes cross over one another and in a steady zoom close up her almond eyes sign in a cool way that this is really cool to be here grab my nacks the other okes didn't seez the moment too busy on tiptoes extended tongues catching dust spacing out the circle is getting bigger about nine of us now eight after capitulation of big oke It was known the church dislikes meetups bcoz read only noisy in the afternoon prayer sinful to get totalled on a sunday we all were relaxed not hectic so easy as if friends again and again friendly faces today introverts delicate sunday physique she on the uncut catholic fluffy grass another chick had big hands and a coin clipped face dating back centuries probably if I was being shafty I'd sweat it down

rising a brown haze as if burning hash exhausts out of mining rigs, smells terrible, ruins the moment the filter on the inflating rim of the memory pool is congested, comically, commentator: "the south side miners have been accepting bribes" rugby plebs are mortared uninterested we are winning

on the signal group they had more people confirming to meet today while (I do prefer a surprise) I roll back into the bush from whence I came with machete and burned a minute or more chipping my floppies get going back left foot dragging on the way back when auxclick church bell bonks "probably a minute left" I say and look at her nobody heard me I sit down on a different beam sheepish

"There's someone on the east side who can thaw out your legs, my bru" some oke hanging from a branch "I don't want to go east" I say then he responds for too long about the east side

the rugby is unfinished and plebs are rolling down the hill spilling lager into the potholes voices tuck and roll and bounce off the tarmac "stick to the rules!" a pleb shouts at the referee who they pulled out the TV glitching beating shit out of on the roll

oke cranks off branch and skids into abstract range of me "What's your name?" on the beam I respond "Sterling Bolivar, how do you do?" thick gum tree, also known as widow maker, bark peaks and valleys creaks and snaps to collapse on everybodyshocked other than myself and the oke who asked me my name with his short sharp black and thick hair bridging over flushed geothermal cheeks and an aggressive mouth trying to find its friends he says "It wasn't me" I asked his name he said "George Rex Junior" and grabs my floppies and swings me round and round destroying anti-spam posters I fall and roll and stop on an abandoned memory pool.