Stuart Miller-Osborne

I am often asked about My favourite movie scenes It depends on my mood It depends very much on my mood The Ride of the Valkyrie Choppers in Apocalypse Now Spring to mind I can remember watching it in tears Not because of its depiction of war Far from it as I did not give…

Hi Joe I am missing you so much And feel so ashamed Josie has disgraced herself It just seemed to hit me I had been so happy on the beach But began to feel guilty about being so happy And then Stella entered my life Stella the Fucking Bitch She seduced me and soon I…

Hi Josie Marie-Claude contacted me to say that you are much improved Taking Stella out in the sun was probably not the greatest of ideas Your video still has not arrived if you sent it at all I chatted to Mummy earlier and she certainly has not received it so a dream is a dream…

Even when visitors arrive Juliet does not dress As she considers herself To be the Original Eve

I am sitting in the shadow Of an old wooden shack In the low desert Jackie is riding my motorbike Naked along the dust trails It reminds me of a scene In the movie Vanishing Point

I often join Memphis Belle At her naked yoga classes Before we drive into the desert

when my father returned from the war he began planting forget–me–nots next to the wooden shed at the end of our garden over the years these have spread down the steep embankment and across the railway lines they now cover the nearby hills often reflecting the morning sky

It seems empty just to say Thank You But really that is all one can say So I will just whisper Thank You As I watch the blush dawn Break above the sea

The wooden wheelbarrow had seen better days It was often targeted by the many children Who stayed at the Manners Court Farmhouse I was one of these children so was my sister Grace We frequently pushed the wheelbarrow into the wild meadows And collected flowers of all colours and perfumes So that we might later…

Pale blue flowers with minute petals Break like waves against my fathers tree He sleeps beneath its flowing branches I often sit on his wooden bench And engage in silent conversations With my mother who rests within The sorrow of my aching heart