Stuart Miller-Osborne

I swam near the wooden bridge Hardly breaking the surface My lack of effort Was witnessed by the other campers As they sipped their Rose Vinegar Supplied by the quiet Dr Hawley Just as I emerged from the river They all began singing It wasn’t quite delightful, delightful, delightful It wasn’t quite delightful – but […]

The boy with the hollow eyes Lit an oil lamp And stared at his reflection In the teaspoon That had been placed in front of him This was his object of desire       

  Socialist in Furs   Socialist in Furs Was the working title Of my poem But I changed it When I discovered That you were Of a more extreme persuasion   Lines Without a Father and hand in hand we walked the violet paths towards the fortunate hills   Daughter of Silence I found a […]

You are sitting at my typewriter typing a letter to me You have removed your shirt and your breasts are punctuating I do not care for your punctuation but I am enjoying the spectacle      

On the 6th of June 1612 the Philippe Virginie set off on her voyage of discovery. She had been at sea for one year and one hundred and thirty one days when she spotted an island. As night was falling the captain ordered that she should weigh anchor for the night However due to the […]

How sweet you smell as you piss in this wood of bluebells But I am not fooled as I know that winter will soon be upon us and thou will not smell as sweet then     attributed  to Amos Derrikk (1566-1649)  

Thou wishes me on a dungheap wrapped in silks belonging liquefying slowly     attributed  to Amos Derrikk (1566-1649)    

  Wiltshire Landscape hang clouds threading time leading hills breaking cover the night is near   Bath Babel Bath   Today I had to walk solo, lost in the incredible street music of the city. I recorded the visit on my humble camera as my rumble trace memories were beginning to fade   Mondrian and […]

in a field of clutching buttercups lola cola wrote to edward patterson reminding him of his duty some distance away her lover counted the yellow flowers in blocks of ten at two minutes before three in the afternoon lola cola accepted a sarsaparilla from a passing magpie    

I met her on the Day of Psalms Selling tea to passing strangers   As I sat on the café wall I thought of my childhood in India   The tea seller had also been raised in India But unlike me did not take milk in her tea