Pink Cocktails ::: Oracular Visions

by Lei Zhao

Somewhere in between TBS
and HBO, I lost myself
in the silver haze of
unmaterialized regrets,
and dreams deferred by the
thunderous rattling of
tumblers shaking stirred
pink oracular visions raining
free from the AC vents
up overhead, an insipid,
slow erosion pervasive
with its rust-colored shingles.

These visions of desirous
snakes plague me incessantly
leaping off one page into
an LCD screen, where once I
saw what used to be truth
split in half by a solemn
dagger, wielded in the hands
of a man whose face looks
familiar to me like the red earth
spawned spruce trees lining
the road back to my youth.

Sometimes in the hours when
rabbits dart through summer flowers
avoiding swift death from raccoons,
that’s when I hear the soft,
almost iridescent silence of,
butterfly wings beating a sobbing
cry from someone leaning against a wall
in the desolate corner of a bar
where they are serving
pink oracular visions at
only five dollars a shot.

My gut trembles with the collective
sighs of thousands stuck listening
to mellifluous jazz oozing from
a telephone where nobody answers
at the other end, and frustration
erupts in filaments of chain
lightning striking down
at the tiniest, shriveled blade
of sad, dewy grass.

Somehow I think I forgot what love is
and so just sit here breathless
with my ears covered awaiting
that next sledgehammer blow
delivered by slender micron
Muses swirling in between my lips
and the next swig of that cocktail
of pink oracular visions.
I must not succumb yet I am
deliriously indulged drowning
in manufactured encouragements
born of a raving crowd chanting
sweet nothings to a stillborn
moon, cold, yet lovingly embracing.

And so to everything I have written
here; may it be cast to the ground,
trampled underfoot and explode
like an unused mustard packet,
leaving a humorous-tentacled stain
attracting dust, roaches and flies
to examine it with passing disgust
until the next humid storm
washes it down the drain
never to be seen again.

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