Stuart Miller-Osborne

I was standing where thousands Had once stood In fear and anticipation Waiting to cross a difficult sea Many did not return And the soft geography That I was casually studying Was screaming into time

I grow citric vegetables in my kutten gaeswn I grow citric vegetables in my kitchen garden

I can often be found in the tiny chapel Deep in the wilderness of my kutten gaeswn Hours are spent in deep prayer Between its white washed walls

Masters is a French singer Who performs with a silver crucifix Stitched into the crutch of her jeans This has offended many conservatives And she has been condemned By the Catholic Church Metro often travels without recognition On various lines in Southern Paris The Ages of Immortality Is Her Real Name

There was nothing But then God Made a mistake He created pederasts To prey on the innocents He created blacks And other corrupted races To bleed the world dry Would I have made The same mistakes Probably not But then again I am not God

You have always stolen my share of happiness My God is weak against your rough advances Marke Marke prends soin de moi Je ne t’oublierai pas Nous partagerons nos réflexions

Summer has just arrived On the coast of Kent The days are longer And the nights pass Without praise Alice as she sits In the half light With an early coffee Blackbirds sing gulls swoop Her cat returns She tightens her cardigan Against the early morning chill All seems right with her world Within these…

I am going to tell you Something that will Make you cry That is what I have paid for Hurt me Chalkie Hurt me Your dog is dead It was run over this afternoon I want my money back Why Because I do not own a dog Then whose road kill is in the road…

The long drawn shadowsAcross manicured lawnsAre nothing but memoriesThey matter only to the blind

These unclean races From violent cultures Have drawn blood What beasts they are Not worthy of life