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The Study of a Lemming
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Message
Posted
My art is not a pristine gallery piece. It is the fermentation of a spring day: the sidewalk grime and the dog-waste smeared by the rhythmic treading of Indian-made walking shoes. It is the grit of the street, the unwashed reality of the path we all walk.
I pray that this collage—this jagged assembly of my years—eventually forms something fathomable. I hope for a legacy that the masses might speak of with a fleeting fondness once I’ve gone. And when it’s time for the stone, let it be honest. Carve a banana upon my forehead and the only eulogy that matters
Martin Shaw
Posted
Black Cab Ghost
The magic of youth is now the tragedy of age.
Everything has been stretched, over-repaired,
and altered like a pair of old blue jeans.
Wisdom is no replacement for that early spark.
I am an Uber birthed from a prestigious Black Taxi,
watching the "For Sale" signs bloom like weeds
in the windows of those who moved on, or simply died.
We were there to fix the Victorian stomach—
pungent and sharp, like raw garlic.
It is this traveling through time that has defined me.
A cliché, perhaps: the one-trick pony,
blinkered as if descending a coal mine.
I have resorted to art, so God might be reminded I am still here.
He has answered wryly, allowing one last glimmer
of riches and fame before I pass my dry-rotted baton—
thrown like a chip to the next squawking seagull.
So, for all you onlookers, you makers of the baloney
waiting to cosh my face one more time:
I teeter on the abyss that steels us all.
But remember—the longevity of a carrot is in its night vision.
Let me be that overcooked vegetable for you to devour.
If you don’t like me, feed me to the birds;
it is my last opportunity to look down from greater heights.
Edited
by Martin Shaw
Posted
This Writing is my work before someone puts their foot in the door. That ‘foot in the door’ is mostly what I have been writing about in these prose.
I must say, I can only assume that most have experienced the wrath of the critics in art. And as you get better and better in your skill,… The wrath from the same people becomes personal.example … If a man steals a video, it’s just a video to most, but if he steals a large quantity it becomes a whole new ball game, thus tge critic becomes boring and repetitive . My art is made for other people to enjoy (not being presumptuous) and so is my writing. You might ask who has said anything? But it’s no one in particular although everyone in the making. Life in my time has bloomed pessimism, much more than my grandad had on him many moons ago. This is a waste of energy, an air thick with mas——-tion. I hate it. You hate it. Maybe we are all guilty though.
Edited
by Martin Shaw
Posted
I'm guilty of many things; probably of the very things you mention. I wonder though if your musings would get a more enthusiastic response on a literary forum than they're likely to achieve here. If you find one, point me to it: I have been accused of indulging my literary rather than my illustrative interests - to me, art is art in all its forms, but one can have a hard time trying to explain that to others.
Posted
Yes, I take the hint Robert thanks . The euphoria one might have by looking and understanding deeper meanings could be lost on a straight forward art forum, like the one we have here. And before you say ‘deeper meanings? Where?’ How very British of you
There is nothing wrong with it (.this place) i mean I like it, but the handful of people that commit themselves and ask questions are withering. down to hackers, perhaps? Or lacking the insight for good solid advertising by keeping it vibrant. Don’t get me wrong… that isn’t the point of my poetic posts. The point is in their content if you have the time.
There are so many ideas that could forge this place, but by just policing it, theres going to become an untimely death.
There are fake names on here, many of them. And by not cutting them away they cause this site to fester and stagnate, relying on the few people that wade through it all. All human interaction on the ether is dying, and proof that it’s still there is becoming micromanaged by these trolls and stalkers. There mother loved them perhaps. .
Edited
by Martin Shaw
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