R Young. L’Odyssée. Mixed mediums on canvas. 70 cm x 50 cm. 2021.


When they asked him his name

And he said Odysseus

They didn’t believe him

Why would they in these days

Unless the old sage has no potency

Sitting up there on the shelf

The way the sage will do

Left alone to draw portraits

Paint the unexpected crow

Again alive knowing that

The tale of the crow’s wing

What you see, it’s all in the con-

Text , don’t you see?

He said to the bottle of gin

Harbinger willed out of diagonal

Diatribes by dreamers flying

Wagered out of the oak copse

Pretending to be the sign

Of some old Maximus betting

On forgetting how damned often

The raven cracks into the sky

As if bolder than the last stroke

Of laurel-scented time, forgotten

Water, clouds, sand blossoms bolder

Than time beating the sky all to

Hell, then rewinding, replaying the

Chameleon role of the sad soul

Swept away into the same story but

Different story every time clanging

Cherries, bells, stars, black bars



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