quinara: Wishverse Buffy in a white frame. (Buffy Wish white box)
[personal profile] quinara
Attempting to distract myself, moi? No, no, I just thought I'd post something for the sheer hell of it...

One of my aborted projects for [livejournal.com profile] seasonal_spuffy this year was a series of poems by Buffy to match those I wrote by Spike last time(? - or whenever). I thought it was unfair that Buffy didn't get to have as much poetry in her voice... But I also realised that writing poetry as Buffy is hard (*whinge*), so I didn't like most of what I wrote. (One day they might come out. Maybe.)

However, I've salvaged from the project the following - Buffy's diary entries, the night before the big battle (ie. in the basement) - something serious and something not quite so. Definitely Spuffy. Apparently about 900 words in total. No particular warnings.

Verse is a bad habit. She picked it up from him.

Tuesday May 20, 2003

02:12

Terrified, you said, and I replied
Well, now I can’t remember, but I said
I told you
The words flipped circles from my tongue
The words I can’t remember now
But know I said them
Somewhere
Someway
Somehow
Speech came to me and carried you away
On wings
Like all that trashy mush you like
About that urn
(I’ve gotta learn sometime the things you know
So I can see inside your head
And know the way you see the world
The way that you see me

I told you
Someone told you
Someone really should have told you
Maybe me – I told you
You don’t have to be afraid
(My fear’s enough for both of us)

(Nix that
I wish you’d nix that

There is a love inside me
Unfocused
But still true
It falls on you, sometimes
Like when you look at me
Or stand near me
Or mooch around in another room
(Or go out at night
Or exist
Or
)

.
.
.

03:26

There’s one night left.

Spike, I know you’re reading this.

I know you’re not asleep.
I know that when I turn my head your eyes will close
but you’ll be smiling, so
DON’T


Oh, sure, shuffle and murmur all you want.

I can’t write while you’re watching…


Oh, Spike, the vampire who hangs in my house!
He is annoying, smells like cigarettes,
Won’t go to sleep, be that not-stirring mouse,
Eats Giles’ Jaffa Cakes ‘til there’s none l/



Apocalypse is nigh, but Buffy writes
(Or so she did before I stole the pen)
And now I think she wants to start a fight,
Will call me soon a waste of oxygen.

She does not know (ha ha!) that I don’t breathe…
You’d think she would have picked that up, of course,
But slayers these days? Well, sometimes they leave
Their training early – cart before the horse.

Poor vampire, I – a slayer in his bed
Who does not know the ropes of killing things.
Will I have to protect the house instead?
And shield us from the darkness this night brings?


All right, that was a joke, love, you’ve the balls
To slay whatever beastie spies us here –
Go on, protect us (though you’re not that tall)
And make that horrid shadow disappear.

Well slayed, I’ll say, when thou hast slayed it dead,
And I’ll accept that balls are not required
To rid the world of demons, make them bleed,
Or else be by those demons well admired.



Damn right I will admire you, your skill
In chasing shadows back to native dark;
I’ll look on you in light, you know I will,
And see it limn your features bright and stark.

So go, my slayer, fight this awful night,
Defend me from its cruel and wicked ways!
Or maybe you could stay here, make no fight,
And we could sleep on till the morrow’s day?




Okay, I’ll stay here, Spike, but tell me this –
How come you’re so in practice with this form?
‘Cause clearly all along we’ve been remiss
In seeing what you hide beneath your scorn!

You told me you wrote verses; now I see
The way your hand scrawls messages and know.
This is your calling! Just like mine to me!
A drive you can’t avoid, a sign you’ll show.

And that, that’s pretty funny, don’t you think?

Oh, piss off, Emily Dickinson, all right?

I love the thought of you and stains of ink…



In nasty places, ‘cause – guess how I write?

Why, Spike, I’m shocked!
           So you write in the nude?
Don’t seem that shocked to me there, Slayer.
                                                                            Well,
I guess that’s how you’d write with attitude
And shoot your prissy image all to hell.

I guess, but Donne and Byron, they’d do it.
Been having fantasies of them, I s’pose?
You know me, baby, oil and fights on grit.
With Angel and his Barry Manilow?


Wow, way to go there…
                                That was pretty bad.
Just got to keep your eyes from tinting rose.
But where’s the pretty picture gone? I’m sad.

Where vanish dreams and fancy’s flight? Who knows?




OK, you win, with purple   -murple prose verse.
I think you win with ‘murple’ as a word.
You’ve had a century just to rehearse!
You’re right. I’ve words you’ve never even heard.

Are these the things we did that you can’t spell?
They could be, yeah.
                            Shame I can’t write them down.

This notebook has no lock; it’s just as well –
I s’pose we wouldn’t want word getting round.

Though, Dawn, hey, reader, hi! No need for you
To worry what the holy Buffy did
Or what corrupt thing Spike would have me do
Or what is hidden in the Slayer’s id
Or what the lies are he would say are true
Or how she thought my limbs worked like a squid
Or how he thought that when I died I grew
Or how she tied me up to do her bid
Or how he liked to strain his wrists bright blue
Or how blissed out she’d lie there cosseted
Or how Big Bad got off on that one too!
Or how when you’d wake up you’d flip your lid.




I’ll be here in the morning.
                                
                                All right, love.
You want we stop? I’ll put the pen away.
We’re both as silent as they are above.

Kay, no more rhymes – what do you want to

.

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Quinara

December 2015

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