Stuart Miller-Osborne

The battle was nearly over With the last pockets of resistance Being efficiently neutralised Thomas J Banks Stared into the forest Nothing living was left His only thought Was as bleak as his station How Many Niggers Have I Killed Today this is not a war poem

I watched as Caroline Broke up with her boyfriend She was staring into the middle distance Her eyes were expressionless I could hear his muffled pleading But she did not reply A single tear ran down her cheek

I was waiting for a train at Gare du Nord When I noticed a girl smiling at me From a carriage window The girl reminded me of an actress With her saucer brown eyes And short dark hair

One mans accepted freedoms Can be seen as another mans prison

Have you ever been on holiday and when you return Things have changed and it is not really the same You feel like your cherished memories have soured I can see your point Lynda but these new memories Might actually be superior to your previous ones

The only paradises that we remember Are the ones we have lost This begs the question Did they actually exist the first place That is a very bleak thing to say It is not bleak neither is it radiant Whose thoughts are these I am not sure they may be mine

You have missed the last train It went twenty minutes ago I am closing the station in ten Where will I spend the night Not here it is against the rules The streets are lonely and wet I would help you if I could But it more than my job is worth There is a…

my pastimes are very slow why rush the things you enjoy i create what i call art installations yet they are nothing of the sort just small glass jars containing ideas at present i have four jars the first jar contains two clear glass marbles i have added some coloured cottons and beads it is…

Hi Samantha I trust you are well We have just seen Sephine off So it is only Joe and Josie I do hope that Sephine’s mum will be okay It seems that she caught one of those exotic imported diseases Which are so uncomfortable and so fucking preventable Poor Sephine Poor Amanda Poor Robert On…

Like many poets who explore their pens She could not accept the path That stretched out in front of her weary eyes