Gailen saw the cherry tree standing frail beside the great blue structure, atop the fiery ocean ceiling. Kneeling, his hands cupped and mouth wide-open, he gathered up the fallen fruit and placed it gently in the silver pocket that hung empty on his stairway. The sun blazed hot then hid. His eyes lengthened, his mind spun bleeding, brave and broken in the shadow of the grave. Gailen placed his hands, soft and pleasant in the warm and welcome water, washing well away the sorrow and the pain. Her eyes stared up at him from the seas, full-length buried, hurried and untouched by the sleet and silver rain. Slither and squirm, slither and squirm. Gailen's lips, unseen nor kissed, were moistened by the gentle stream and tears, her voice hung heavy on the breeze and her scent sang of laughter and hungry summer love, "Alas my sweet", he whispered white and widely, as the cherry tree creaked beneath the sun.

Tre.............?????????????? 7=y+3/scalpel

Cherries fell like rain as Gailen shivered and snaked, seven dreams walked open-armed and brave. Brave?!! He scowled, his eyes a desperate scream, a stream of empty nothing, his bed a vaccuum, his hopes a paper bag of big zeros and letter Os. Blind and bled, blind and bled.

They had met beside the swirling distant circles of the faded fortune's method, blocked and blanched and warped and torn. From his twisted, shattered hand he held forth uncertain gifts of destiny and stains:

satin;

grapes in glass and varnish, wink and twinkle, brush and laugh;

ankle-berries and tear drops, blood upon the sash;

the sash a bridle and a cape;

the cape a tooth upon which he tore his eyes and ripped his thoughts till they fell from his soul and bounced like tiny rubber dreams;

and a garter.

Gailen made her hands a blade, cutting through the rough hewn garden, splicing stone and silver brittle tails, warm wood and tray-pegs turning. The fevered ocean a silent mirror, still and sparkly. Might he breathe once more? Hope his stirrups, rising ever upwards till he stood upon the sky, his body smooth and silky, he floated never touching the hard and the sharp, the invisible teeth of sun traps never bared. Normality his cloak, triviality his key. His mind a blaze of focus. 14(y)=t(n+v²). Purple. Caked and slashed and mud strewn he wandered, screaming: "Mellow, mellow, mellow be my path I plead". Aching hurried smashed and distant, he spat and spewed and sneered and crushed - aaaaaaah my beauty dashed and flamed within my vanity, my shallow, empty stare. My face a wart, a puss-filled boil and a scab. My face a dream. My face a nail with which I hang a butterfly to the stair. My face a boil.

A cake.

Gailen danced, wise+2/52, he rose up floating, lifted by the warmth of her fingers and her gaze till sunsets splashed and sparkled at his feet. Unholy he strolled amongst the Gods and bantered gaily and frank. Of scurried petals did he sneer and scoff and mock and scale. Scoff and scale, march and breed. His paradise a toilet, his mind a cross and frail, his hands a fake image of dispair and gravity, tries and chemicals. His gift a chemical get-out and passport to oblivion and dust. You fucker. He crushed and joyfully squeezed her breath, her beauty and her eyes so clear. (How could you get her eye?) He danced afresh, his heels his wings; how they admired Gailen's grace and upright trade. His gift a cancer. Gailen danced and they stood and clapped and cheered and branched and glazed. Silver and cherish, hold and bleed. Your mind a cup of thin, fragile ice in my ugly fevered hand.

Blazed and beauty, blazed and bruised. Brushed and cut.

Hailberries;

rancid cherished torments in soft fabrics and white stained shit;

three dark dreams, unnoticed your favoured means of vengeance;

unto me that which I never did to you;

madness;

madness and streaming beauty, courage and scars, nothing and even less, my descent a crash of plates in silence, my fall a spark in hell;

my dreams;

cream and courage, stains and blood;

stains and blood;

a kid in Woolworths, at the Pick n Mix with an empty bag, who's here - who's not? Washed and touched, left beneath the tree tied and steaming, crushed and dash, "dust and ashes dead and done with", hollow-hearted and fake, a picture scratched upon the field. My love a turnip, such am I blessed.

My love a bucket of spit. My cross a skid-mark.

Gailen once loved the cherries, but now he could choke only on the stones.