Martin Shaw

Biography

The Perennial Alien…… Time has been a cruel curator, leaving me so translucent that a summer sneeze among the Michaelmas daisies might scatter my remains to the wind. I am a creature of seasons, though they do not favor me. In the depths of winter, I submerge myself in the grit and oil of my craft, wallowing in pigment to forge a new Northern Star. But the moment I break the surface, I am harvested. I am treated like a dandelion on a manicured school pitch: decapitated by the mower’s blade, left to weep that thick, white latex that marks my foreign blood. They called me a "winner" once, and a "near-miss" four times over. These titles are empty husks. They carry no weight until the impossible happens—until the flying pigs of the world realize that their only true purpose is to serve as biodegradable muck-spreaders for the rest of us.