Stuart Miller-Osborne

The eastern sky is quite bright With small torn clouds Floating aimlessly within its display Hungerford is still shrouded in darkness Only the face of the town’s clock Provides any illumination The cold season is far from spent Bitter winds are expected But one can feel the mysteries Of warmer days Hanging in the rigid […]

The red telephone box in the Strand Is full of journals and books All but the deepest publications Have views to France Unless the cloud is low I am a dictionary

Judy was sitting in a stream I was standing next to our tent It was a warm spring day Judy was naked and was sitting in a stream   Do you realise that primates  Can scratch their backs  But I cannot even wash mine   That is because we have no soap   I am standing […]

On the serious streets of Southwark I saw you wander by You did not notice me in Costa’s Nor did you wonder why         Outlaw  

It was a nightmare created by a mind of fatigue I was in a hotel with you Today was our last day in a pleasant town The sea had been kind to us It had shown us a reality And how to really live We were greedy for more   But here we were trapped […]

an orange sun glows over the thin black forest the snow lies untouched     08/01/22

Do not touch me  Why That is my name  It is a strange name  Perhaps  What is your name my friend  I have a poor sense of timing  Why is that Because I was late for a wild swim And my dearest friend drowned Would you like me to be your friend That would be […]

I own a pub It is called The Stuffed Owl And has quite delightful views This makes it very popular During the longer warmer months In view of this I close the pub During January and February Just to recharge my batteries Today has been a day of wet snow Harsh squally winds and not […]

Tuppence and I Live next to a pub The Stuffed Owl  Is its unusual name Sometimes after a night out We sleep in to twelve But are careful When opening the drapes As our bedroom Overlooks the beer garden  

On certain afternoons in the summer Jeanne and I rest on our centre bed We are often naked or lightly clothed And either masturbate or fuck Depending on our mood There is a painting of Cornelius Whur On the wall that overlooks our pleasure I wonder what he makes of our immorality He knows that […]