The Artist's Martyr By Ken Sleight I The artist's sabre strikes with delicate precision leaving an obelisk in the ocean silhouetted by an orange-red globe. Vagrants on the shoreline dance in a waning glow while sea shell jagged vengeance is cloaked in shadow-sand. Sweet and discrete, surgical revenge critically acclaimed perfection for all but one - who's scar is split again Scalpel Retractor Suction -- No anesthetic. While the sunblind bunnies shake their towels salt-sand bites a wound spread wide. Ghost steel laces wrap themselves round legs rooted in loose sand. Shackled in the meaning of an obelisk at sea. 20/20 vision is too good he sees, he cannot help it, he sees the cutlass as it's thrust into his exposed spine. Dragged and jerked back into a mind forged dagger sea. And reality fades into mirror-water ripples where ocean kisses unformed glass orange-red now blood-red drips into wet sand. II Each rust nail infects as it bleeds (one soldier doesn't win a war but one company is the key) Razor nails draw portraits of cubist red........ Slit wrists imply a want but that is far from true. "Don't you like it, the pleasure in your pain," she said. "So much depends upon A red polished nail Glazed in clear coat Inside your white bare neck." Another nail, a nail, a nail, a nail, and there were five dug in content to feel the life flowing over across under into and sleep -- until called again (to take a life, to save a life) III Balanced life and death on silver studded wire beneath the sight of God yet miles above the ground. One slight gust, one loose breath, one fluke landing bird results in time-lapse death. Ticker-tape parades to honor a man who lived the edge. Behind the scenes the story falters as reality misfits the sublime. Not by his fault - but by his choosing An artist's deceit on windsong beauty the lark tipped a scale and cloth-eyed justice forced him from his perch. Sing O lark, for you have birthed a God, from martyr death to marble bust. Bask O lark, bask in the guilty light for you have birthed a God with your windsong deceit. Bathe O lark, bathe in the limelight till the filament lays torn and the veil of lies is lifted from your form copyright 1997 by Ken Sleight