Poem 7: Non-Trite Angst
OMG, angst sucks.
Like, if angst were a scent,
it would totally smell
like the fridge when it reminds you of
last month’s leftover curry.
Or like when you drive by all those sad cows
on the I-5
and feel super guilty,
so you start driving up the 101 instead.
…Like, as an example.
If angst were a feeling –
which, well, it is,
but you know what I mean —
it would feel like, you know,
a square dancing sumo wrestler
had confused your throat with the barn floor.
Or like when a cat exfoliates your face
with its emery board tongue…
and you hate cats.
If angst were a sound…
Okay, let’s get real;
angst sounds exactly like
whiny-boy-emo songs —
and maybe some country.
But, well, besides those,
it would echo in rooms
like a beeping heart monitor
or cram your iPod with
the screams of toddlers on airplanes.
What would it taste like?
Probably like eating a gallon
of strawberry ice cream
after you spent six hours the night before
vomiting up vanilla.
Angst would coat your throat and tongue
with four-day-old, half-melted
pork lard.
But, you know,
we’re a visual culture.
How would a director cast it
in some over-budget Hollywood flick?
Angst would look like –
no, I am not stooping to
naming off celebrities and politicians.
Sheesh. –
post-WWII, modern art
with weeping moms and seeping wounds
that you want to find meaningful
but just can’t.
Or like when you dump spoiled cream
into your coffee,
and it curdles into oil and wax.
Yeah, angst really sucks.
Like broken hearts,
shimmering tears,
cold fingers down spines,
broken sobs,
and all that crap.