deb, don't we wish. as i said at PF, i missed the katrina thing, but this is potent nontheless.

The things that has drawn it here is coming,

agreement issues.

his small eyes forcing towards the two who stand, shocked, unmoving

'forcing towards' seems awkward. 'Compelled past,' perhaps?

AUs give me a happy, sometimes. A poignant happy, but a happy.

oooh. I like that Deb.

'forcing towards' seems awkward.

It's not only awkward, it's incomprehensible. What the hell? I have NO idea what I was trying to write there. Off to fix - and I caught the typo on thing-things. See also change to Buffy's and Xander's reaction.

edit: Perkins, thankee.

Wow - something weird happened in the copying process.

That line, in my Word directory, reads

The darkness with the gun stares, his small eyes forcing themselves into a parody of width and concentration aimed towards the two who stand, shocked and unmoving.

Fixed it here, but whoa, creepy, gremlins in the 'net.

The darkness with the gun stares, his small eyes forcing themselves into a parody of width and concentration aimed towards the two who stand, shocked and unmoving.

Ah yes. I figured it must be a gremlin or a typo. This is much better.

it also had the nice emboldened title in the middle of a sentence a third of the way down the page, but it copied over here normally.

Man. Now I feel as if I ought to sacrifice a goat to it, or something.

Edits (finally) made on the part one of "When You Are Tired of London ."

Probably won't get a new part tonight, as I'm wiped, still at work now and need to work at 9 a.m. tomorrow morning.

Fay, talking about Gaiman and something he wrote, inspired this:

It is not sunset over the Parthenon that lays a sharpened kiss
Upon the universe held captive in a jar writhing and screaming.
The old man in Sunderland deaf, pats it and leaves it in the dark,
Then goes to eat his shark's teeth soup, ground fine and ragged;
Sings foolish songs of time and hope smacking his lips; never
Blinking at the shadows of other things or the glitter in the fire.

The shadows grow bold, glitter finer, striving for freedom from the fire
As the man from Sunderland dreams of acid love and a Lamia's kiss
And mutters darkly in his dreams, reviles the eaters of plums. Never
A one for simple joys, sweet, tart and cold; he revels in the screaming
Of the ritual critics, chanting with each breath and breathing ragged,
The universe crumbling in the dust under the stairs, infused full dark.

The old man chokes at a tightening collar, thick rubber and dark.
They glitter in the shadows, pull it taut, drawing him to the fire.
The rose bush thorn on the glass taps louder, tapping against the ragged
Wind, slaps against the window, his eyes, acid Lamia's stinging kiss.
The universe has stopped; but the nightingale takes over screaming.
Two old women and a weasel find their vacation crumbling at never.

The universe crumbling in the jam-jar, the glass edge, here is never.
They turn and stumble back to the party, bumping heads in the dark.
The nightingale awakens them to their fate with her broken screaming.
They dance, angry, writhing, in the death throes of the Universe fire
While the old man writhes against the choking of the Lamia's kiss,
The universe crumbles in the jar, trapped, with edges turning ragged

There's no hope for the universe, trapped in the dark, turning ragged
Is a law broken somewhere? Gryphons shouldn't marry, no never.
And vampire's can't, won't dance unless the dance is your last kiss.
Reality continues to crumble; goldfishes howl at the moon in the dark.
Something's broken somewhere. The mystery won't return to the fire.
The old man remembers the jam-jar, writhes to hear the screaming

The mystery with the dog collar has taken all his breath for screaming.
The rose bush taps its message, fighting, as the wind pulls it ragged.
The man's numb hand falls on his library card, throws it in the fire.
There never was a library card, nor a universe, nor a mystery, never.
Jar breaks, the universe skirls free from the cupboard, from the dark;
Lamia turns to cardboard, curls blue in the fire after a benedictory kiss.

The paper kiss burns worse than acid. The old man screaming,
forever in the dark, train rocking over paved time, turned ragged
Women forever and never in twilight, all their heads of light, on fire.

Oh, Deena, how lovely.

Thank you, Deb. I'm really proud of it. I wish I could write poetry like that all the time.