aegiswings

One should avoid sending e-mails while drunk. Here is a particularly good one I sent last night to a random myspace acquaintance who frequently posts poems she writes as bulletins there:


Can I Commission a Poem From You?

Hallo Nicole,

I have this friend, and ever since she heard me recite a poem -- no, it was less a poem, and more like lyrics to a crunk song -- that I had written about an acquaintance's rear end she has been begging me to write a poem for her. Now, I spent the majority of her birthday trying to compose a haiku written in the original Japanese about Autumn for her with no success whatsoever.

Every time I send her an e-mail on myspace I include a bit of song lyrics from whatever I happen to be listening to at the time. She always responds with "Is this the poem you wrote for me?" and I regretfully reply, "No, that is just lyrics from a David Bowie/Rasputina/Le Tigre/Dresden Dolls song I was listening to."

In recent weeks, I haven't been sufficiently inspired to write any poems at all so I thought maybe I could follow in the footsteps of Lorenzo de'Medici and commission a poem to be written for her. And you happen to be the best poet that I know.

I'd like one of your beatnik-style stream of consciousness poems. Here is the theme:

Write about how I loved her. And how somehow I became her "best friend" but I still do love her and how she doesn't see this at all, even now. And how she isn't over her ex-bf who dumped her a few months ago after they were together for 4 1/2 years. And how he isn't even a shadow of his former self. How he was once a cool goth metal guy with long hair and a motorcycle, but now he is in law school and wears a dress shirt and tie to a halloween party! How he's become so squeer and she only sees his former self and she still clings to that memory. And how she came over to my place tonight and read an e-mail from him where he invited her to a romantic get-a-way in Maine over Christmas that they had been to once before. And how she dropped a sandwich on my floor and spilt a beer on my bed. A foamy beer. That I now have to sleep in. And then she left. Out of my room. Out of my apartment. Out of my life. I'm almost considering not letting her take me to see Nine Inch Nails tomorrow.

Write a poem about that. For that girl. And I will pay you back by buying you a tasty dinner at the fancy restaurant of your choice. I'm serious.

Thanks so much,

~ Mike