Poetry Corner – Sven Stears

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svenSven Andrew Stears

A Note about Sven

Sven Stears is a performance poet. He has a mail order degree in poetology, and a PhD he wrote himself in crayon on a beermat in versetronomy. A professor at Miskatonic University, he currently lectures in Making Stuff Up.

A more serious note about Sven

Sven Stears was born in 1988, in Germany, to English parents serving abroad with the British Armed Forces. He currently lives in the south of England, and is working on his first manuscript, “Attack of the Flightless Ape-lizard” which is a collection of poems about the B-Movie we have all been living in for the last 250,000 years.

Like you’d expect from any good B-Movie it has no real beginning, middle or end, none of the actors really knew their parts, and everyone tried to hog the stage to hold on to their fame for 15 minutes longer.

Visit poetrysvenwrites.wordpress.com to see more of Sven’s work, or contact him via Facebook  facebook.com/poetrysvenwrites

The Old Man at the Bus-stop

A life time of journeys
were painted on his skin,
in scars and welts
all weathered
and leather.
Crack’s traced tracks
a map of stories
he’d yet to tell,
that maybe explained
that far off look in his eyes.

Dust had settled
in the gaps between
ravines on his face,
Framing features
with the sandman’s gold.
Each motion
gave audible creak
as bones struggled to move
in the well worn grooves
warring the arthritic.
Rising from slumber
blue light escaped him,
a rattling last journey,
leaving coded maps
in scars for someone else to follow.

Dorian Gray

With the passage of time, all faces merge to one.
Some of them die away, and the rest of us carry on,
As I move from town to town, I see ghosts of my past,
And as I put another foot forward, I pray it’ll be the last.

My world is in a painting, my life is in a frame,
It depicts my every sin, and shows my every shame,
But while the faces it depicts, must grow old with time,
Not one wrinkle has been added, to this face of mine.

Friends come and go, and most of mine have gone,
when faced with immortality, life is one long con.
A betrayers knife is in my hand, there is blood upon the blade,
At my feet, a friend and artist, on the ground, unmade.

The eternity I once craved, has tested my constitution,
I’ve been judged and found wanting, and now crave absolution.
As I take this knife to my painting, there is nothing I leave behind,
Except a body, aged and broken, for the stretcher men to find.

 

 

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