Stuart Miller-Osborne

On my first day at the gallery I was introduced to an Polish girl Who was the daughter of the artist featured in the exhibition Most of his works were lightly erotic and somewhat dreamlike His model was seen in various stages of undress in her morning room

Julie who had been in Portland for the past two weeks Rang me and said that she would be at the the railway station The short break seemed to have done Julie some good As her face showed colour and her eyes were blue bright She had spent some time with her American father and…

De Mentithino used to be a great place to live But when the grain mills closed The city began to die The good guys moved into the suburbs And the grease balls moved into town I stayed because I am a schoolteacher My name is Miss Perkins although my real name Is Tabby Thur and…

I once carved my initials Deeply into a soft and forgetful stone Hoping that it would remain visible For many years I once carved Byron is Dead Behind a waterfall using only a craft knife Hoping that it would remain visible For many years

This field is extraordinary As it is full of sunflowers And crab apple trees Melanie is harvesting These bitter fruits She is in her safe space Away from all things harmful I am sitting on a blue tractor Counting the wide faces Of the happy sunflowers Without care or presumed loss

There was a steam train waiting at Rose Station It was taking on pure spring water for its onward journey I was filming it using my lilac and crimson camera And then it vanished into the forest with little or no warning I turned to my wife with tears streaming down my face I suffered…

We are all artists Piss artists Fuck artists I am a boring artist Without much gravity I paint using vivid colours Vivian looks after me We live facing a beach A beach that has seen Far too many storms As a group we spend Too much time on this beach I also collect pebbles And…

It was raining in my hotel room When I arrived on the island Even the sea was refused permanence You live in my unspoken memories Their textures Are no longer fluid Time is now flat

For the night train to arrive It is raining steadily Puddles are developing On exposed platform tiles People are vanishing into obscurity Shadows under white neon lights The air is cooling on the hour My station is fading into darkness It is not expected to recover

As soon as I woke up I could see that Donal Had covered the cottage table with the pages Of his tormented manuscript which numbered one hundred I was wearing only a vest and he touched my flower As I brushed past him there were tears in his eyes There were always tears in his…