Last night, at 2AM, I was drunk, in bed alone, and my heart was on fire. And I wrote this text message on my iPhone –
Dear Evanline,
I know what I want is impossible, but I was tossing and turning all night thinking of you, imagining you strolling the busy streets of Montreal in your floral dress, every man and every woman in town admiring you as you pass, and I needed to express my thoughts to you in a poem, or I would literally die from a pain as intense as a thousand explosions inside my soul.
Here it is –
Let me drink from your sacred glass
My mouth filled with your wine
The taste of ambrosia on my tongue, so sweet
I am your servant of love
A messager of desire
I yearn for your heaven’s gate to open wide
To quench my lusty thirst
To feel your waiting breasts
That rise and fall with each hot…
And that’s when it happened. My iPhone ran out of juice and closed down.
“Crap,” I said.
It had taken my two hours to come up with the perfect words, and now I had lost them, like a balloon in the clouds. As I plugged my iPhone into the charger, I repeated the key phrases of the poem over again and again, trying to remember it, but the phone wouldn’t charge.
My iPhone was dead.
Today, I went to the Genius Bar, my dead iPhone in hand. I waited in line and was paired with Ed, a hipster dude in his early thirties.
“How can I help you?” asked Ed. He had curly hair and thick tortoise shell glasses.
I told him that my iPhone had died at the most inopportune time.
“I’ll see what I can do.” he said. “I might have to reboot everything and you’ll lose your data. Will that be OK?”
I told him about the love poem and begged him to see if he could recover the last version of it.
He was curious to hear more.
I told him how I met Evanline in Grand Central Station, at a bookstore. She had come to New York, for the first time, alone, and was searching for a guidebook. I was on my lunch break, wasting time, lonely for affection. Our hands met, reaching for the same book on “New York’s Best Restaurants.” We talked about books, and discovered our common love for the works of Charles Dickens, John Irving, and Curious George. As we left the store, we said our goodbyes, but pure instinct made me shout out to her, “Stop!” I volunteered to show her around town, and she said yes. She had a slight French accent. She smiled and her face lit up like the sun, brightening the massive train station. I lied to my office and said I was sick, and then I walked down Fifth Avenue with Evanline, taking in the wonders of the big city.
But then, as in so many love stories, there is the moment when the star-crossed lovers must separate. She had to return to Montreal. I waved to her as her train left the station. I decided the only way to woo her was to sit down with my phone and write poetry.
Ed was touched, in near tears.
“Dude. I’ve been working at the Genius Bar for three years, and that is the most romantic story I ever heard. I’m going to do everything I can to recover that poem, and after you win her over, I want to be invited to the wedding.”
“Deal!” I said laughing.
Ed went to work on my phone. I sat on my leather stool, daydreaming of Evaline. It was a time in the future when we were together forever.
“Read me the poem again,” she whispered to me as we sat naked in bed, “while we make love for the third time.”
I was jarred back into reality with Ed’s return. He was carrying my iPhone. His expression was difficult to read.
“I have some good news and some bad news,” he said. “First the good news. I have fixed your iPhone and have recovered your poem.”
“That’s great!” I announced. “So, what’s the bad news?”
“I read the poem.”
Ed told me that he is a graduate student in the Columbia University Writing Program.
“This poem is awful. Cliched. “The taste of ambrosia on your tongue” Do you even know what IS the taste of ambrosia?”
“Uh. Uh. Well, sort of. It’s like licorice?”
“No. You see. You’re not even writing from experience. A cliche. Better to say that she tastes like Diet Coke. At least that would be honest.”
“Hmm… maybe you’re right.”
“Dude, you’re lucky she never received this poem. It was as if your iPhone had developed a mind of its own to prevent you from sending this to her.”
“You think the iPhone shut down on purpose to prevent me from mailing a bad poem? That’s even more impressive than Siri.”
“Listen, I sleep with a lot of women. And you know why they want to sleep with me?
“You can get discounts on iPads?”
“No. It’s because I know how to write poetry.”
“But you told me my poem sucked. What can I do. Can you write a poem for me?”
“You expect a lot from your Apple service. No. Just be YOURSELF. Do what comes naturally.”
“You mean like send her a photo of my junk?”
“Holy Jesus, Mary, and Steve Jobs. That is the worst thing any man can do. Why do men think women want to see a photo of their dicks? Our penises looks like overgrown rats with one eye! Women want poetry. Think like, “When you depart from me sorrow abides, and happiness takes his leave.”
“That’s good!”
“That’s Shakespeare.”
“Can I use it?”
“Better if you came up with something original.”
“Jeez, women are complicated. They’re so hard to please.”
“You know, maybe she has an iTunes account. Why don’t you get her a gift card for music or movies?”
“A gift card? That doesn’t sound very romantic.”
“It’s not. But when you can’t do poetry, there’s only one other time-honored solution to wooing a woman.”
“What’s that?”
“Buying her stuff.”
ouch. and I love this. and yeah, he might be genius.
snort.
there’s actually a happy medium. send Leonard Cohen lyrics.
Bon posted bigger
or send Leonard Cohen
Amy in Philly posted More Than Just Polenta & Shrimp
I second the Leonard Cohen suggestion – especially to a Canadian. “I’m your Man”? Is the sexiest song ever written….
If you want a lover
I’ll do anything you ask me to
And if you want another kind of love
I’ll wear a mask for you
If you want a partner
Take my hand
Or if you want to strike me down in anger
Here I stand
I’m your man
If you want a boxer
I will step into the ring for you
And if you want a doctor
I’ll examine every inch of you
If you want a driver
Climb inside
Or if you want to take me for a ride
You know you can
I’m your man….
Varda (SquashedMom) posted Blog Gems: School Daze
mmm some of the sexiest lyrics ever…personally I like Michael Buble’s cover
Skip the photo.
V-Grrrl @ Compost Studios posted I feel brave
This made me laugh. Especially as I’d just composed a poem of my own.
slouchy posted Art Appreciation
I consider myself something of a woman and agree to skip the photo. Penises are not attractive, man. It’s just one of those facts of life.
Luda posted My cat lady status just skyrocketed.
Loved this!
mmrilla posted In Defense of Prepositions
This brought a smile to my face. Or maybe a smirk. In any case, I do enjoy your writing, Neil. (And don’t we get a truth quotient on this one?)
alejna posted k, fine
Hmm. I’m leaving the truth quotient of this one vague.
This has happened to me. Where technology intervenes before I send something stupid.
I say, keep it simple. Write: ‘You’re beautiful. You’re so beautiful.’
Or something like that: ‘I can’t stop thinking about how beautiful you are.’
Leave out the sex & sexy stuff until you’ve already had lots of sex and want more.
But I can’t say I’ve tried this method and it’s been successful. It’s just a gut feeling.
love this. I love a good smirk before bed.
summer posted Oceans of Love and Flowers and Blood and the Mountains to Hold it all Down
Pingback: dustbury.com » It’s the same old story
I’d rather have the bad poetry than the dick shot.
Megan posted Life Cycle
Yes, I agree bad poetry over photos. Unless the photos are of flowers, not sausage. I’d say Pablo Neruda is a solid go to.
denise posted How To Hug A Mountain, If You Believe Tree Hugging Is Overrated… [VIDEO]
Seriously, send your love a link to this post. It will make her laugh and melt her heart.
Snort. Takes a dick to send a dick shot. Stick with the bad poetry. Better chance you’d get laid.
Redneck Mommy posted What Do You Want To Be When You Grow Up?
I like poetry as much as the next woman. But I don’t understand why everyone hates the penis photos. What’s wrong with them? I like a good photo, especially if it’s arty.
Juli posted I broke my laptop.
Okay, note to self: remove “dick shot” from To Do list.
Damnit, now I’ll have to rely on poetry. Hopefully, I’m screwed!
Irish Gumbo posted Magpie Tales 82: Consequence
No, you write good poetry. You must impress all the ladies!
I totally LOL’d.
Sarah posted What Comes Next
So, the Genius Bar lives up to its name. Next time I’m there, I’ll ask for help with my term paper on Wittgenstein, and some stock tips.
The Honourable Husband posted Photo Friday: Glowing
Aw, I sorta kinda love this, even if at a certain point your aspirations are dashed.
Paige Jennifer posted Connecting the Dots
“You mean just text “I miss you” and attach a photo of my dick?”
Perfect. I had a good chuckle at that line.
When we first started dating, my husband wrote me a truly terrible poem about how my love was “sublime” and whatnot. I may have actually preferred a crotch shot. But I’m classy like that.
Stacey posted The Bird Man of Central Park
Nothing screams “trustworthy” better than a dick shot. Loved it, Neil.
180|360 posted Of Leis and Luaus
What is ambrosia? Peaches? Butterscotch? I love the bait and switch when your iphone dies. You got me.
Please no photos. Haikus?
Fucking awesome.
Also, if you ever get tested in the future. Ambrosia tastes like marshmellows, fruit, whipped cream and stripper. Stripper equals vannilla FYI. And you know what if you want to say ambrosia…say it.
Some other words (via wikipedia) used instead of Ambrosia
delightful liquid
untameable hallucinogenic mushroom
nectar
honey
So…I think Ambrosia is a pretty cool word. But I’m am kind of a dork so do not listen to me.
Love your tongue in cheek.
A Vapid Blonde posted What Can You Do?
I happen to love the word ambrosia, actually, because it’s so fun to say. Like “episcopalian” and “motherfucker.” I’m fond of polysyllabics, I guess. The gift of a poem is always welcome, if it’s heartfelt…I’m not sure the same could be said of a dickpic. Hard to see how such a photo could be “arty”: a wreath of flowers? artful drapery? a Dali-esque moustache? And I have my doubts about Ed-the-tech-guy. He probably writes very flat, very “real” poetry, in which all transformative language has been abolished in the name of “honesty.” Taste like Diet Coke. Blech.
deborah l quinn posted Of Mail and Metaphors
Wasn’t there a soft rock group from the 70s called Ambrosia?
ohsweetjesus, I am so fucking sorry to laugh but damn thanks for the honest of the apple genius bar!
Marna – jwoap posted What Really Goes On In This Steel Trap Of My Head…