in the outskirts of Rome a Settebello snaked through The Post Industrial Landscape<\/p>\n
on a swivel chair in the observation saloon<\/p>\n
a boy named Anthony (Tony)<\/p>\n
wrote a poem<\/p>\n
he wrote this poem in brown ink<\/p>\n
Pietro dei Cieli \u00a0<\/i><\/b><\/p>\n
on a cold night <\/i><\/p>\n
peter lay in the iced grass <\/i><\/p>\n
and imagined himself <\/i><\/p>\n
looking down <\/i><\/p>\n
and seeing <\/i><\/p>\n
the reflection of the heavens <\/i><\/p>\n
in his one good eye <\/i><\/p>\n
after he completed his poem Anthony (Tony) looked ahead and knew that Milan was only three hundred and ninety miles away<\/p>\n
in the outskirts of Milan a Settebello snaked through The Post War Industrial Landscape<\/p>\n
on a swivel chair in the observation saloon<\/p>\n
a boy named Peter (Pietro)<\/p>\n
wrote a poem<\/p>\n
he wrote this poem in brown ink<\/p>\n
Anthony dei Cieli \u00a0<\/i><\/b><\/p>\n
on a cold night <\/i><\/p>\n
anthony lay in the iced grass <\/i><\/p>\n
and imagined himself <\/i><\/p>\n
looking down <\/i><\/p>\n
and seeing <\/i><\/p>\n
the reflection of the heavens <\/i><\/p>\n
in his one good eye <\/i><\/p>\n
after he completed his poem Peter (Pietro) looked ahead and knew that Rome was only three hundred and ninety miles away<\/p>\n
in their thoughts the boys saw the fast trains passing each other at speed as an anarchist daubed graffiti on the walls of a factory in The Post War Industrial Landscape<\/p>\n
pornography disgusted by art <\/i><\/p>\n
pornografia disgustato da arte <\/i><\/p>\n
the anarchist vandalised these walls in three different colours<\/p>\n
red (rosso)<\/i><\/p>\n
green (verde)<\/i><\/p>\n
white (bianco)<\/i><\/p>\n
he had taken the paints from the collection of an artist called fiore <\/i>who was painting his portrait trackside<\/p>\n
in turn her portrait was being painted by the driver of the train which passed the pair three times a day<\/p>\n
she was aware of this and threw flowers to him each time he passed<\/p>\n
flowers are the new guns <\/i><\/p>\n
the train driver wrote her a poem and sent it to her each time he passed<\/p>\n
Altri popoli citta<\/i><\/b><\/p>\n
in other peoples cities<\/i><\/p>\n
my friends send <\/i><\/p>\n
letters of decoration <\/i><\/p>\n
to each other <\/i><\/p>\n
in the observation saloon two industrial magnates sat with their wives on the swivel chairs. each imagined the others wife naked for the whole journey<\/p>\n
as the mile posts faded they grew alarmed that their dreams would fade<\/p>\n
they thought about holidays<\/p>\n
about swimming in the sea<\/p>\n
naked with their partners wife<\/p>\n
whilst their factories<\/p>\n
ran unhindered<\/p>\n
by the industrial disputes<\/p>\n
that scarred The Post War Industrial Landscape<\/p>\n
as much as the anarchists did<\/p>\n
they each passed a note to each other<\/p>\n
written in pink ink<\/p>\n
the wheels are turning
\nmy heart is burning<\/i><\/p>\n
and slyly they kissed<\/p>\n
their swivel chairs<\/p>\n
turned away from the direction of travel<\/p>\n
their embrace was witnessed by tourist from greece who went to the toilet and with her black lipstick scrawled<\/p>\n
pornography disgusted by art <\/i><\/p>\n
pornografia disgustato da arte<\/i><\/p>\n
across all available surfaces with the exception of the mirror as its reflection told her that her destination was only three hundred miles away<\/p>\n
the train driver in his raised cabin looked at the unfinished portrait of the flower girl and added petals to the landscape that lay behind her<\/p>\n
he called his unfinished work<\/p>\n
the flower maiden <\/i><\/p>\n
but he was a guilty man as he knew that his love was shared. in front of him and acting as the roof to the observation saloon was the streamlined beauty of the machine. he loved the subtle curves of her body and how she exposed her beauty to all as the miles decreased<\/p>\n
he fumbled a cigarette out of a Lucky Seven <\/i>packet and placed it into his mouth but did not light it. he imagined it aflame and clouds of grey smoke filling his cabin<\/p>\n
as he finished his cigarette he rose from his driving chair and found the door and jumped from the speeding train<\/p>\n
he died at the feet of the flower maiden who painted his portrait as he died<\/p>\n
she called it<\/p>\n
flowers entering heaven<\/i><\/p>\n
and proposed to give her work to the anarchist. but he had finished his task and was placing explosives between the girders of a nearby bridge<\/p>\n
all anarchists must destroy trains <\/i><\/p>\n
as they sat in the dining cars of their respective trains both boys looked out of their one good eye at the attractive bar. They were too young to drink and had been given coca cola<\/i> by the attendant who had two good eyes. the boys looked at their bubbling drinks and counted the coaches of their trains in the windows of the glass factories in The Post War Industrial Landscape<\/p>\n
there were seven<\/p>\n
the boys calculated the average speed of the trains and the time of their arrivals by using the bubbles of their soft drinks as counters and dividing this into the warped reflective movements of their glasses when placed against the window of the moving trains<\/p>\n
they confirmed their theories by placing their half consumed drinks by the plexiglass walls of the resting compartment<\/p>\n
when satisfied with their calculations they retired to the restaurant section and commenced their meals with their naked mothers and respective fathers who were industrial magnates<\/p>\n
on the high girders of the doomed bridge the anarchist placed his last batch of explosive into a hidden yet exposed part of the structure. he calculated that both trains would pass simultaionsly over the bridge from different directions at three in the afternoon<\/p>\n
he would detonate the catastrophe from a nearby orphanage and then help to recover bodies from the wrecked trains as any good citizen would<\/p>\n
he lit a Lucky Seven<\/i> and waited<\/p>\n
the trains would pass in an hour<\/p>\n
the artist called fiore <\/i>saw the grey cigarette smoke hanging high in the girders of the doomed bridge and called to the anarchist<\/p>\n
he did not reply<\/p>\n
she stopped a passing cake seller and purchased his revolver as he journeyed to the factories in The Post War Industrial Landscape to sell his wares<\/p>\n
she called to the anarchist again<\/p>\n
he did not reply<\/p>\n
pornography disgusted by art <\/i><\/p>\n
pornografia disgustato da arte<\/i><\/p>\n
she shouted at him. The anarchist looked down and threw his cigarette at the flower maiden<\/p>\n
as she was standing in the forecourt of an Esso <\/i>garage she took aim at the smoking cigarette and shot it in half with a certain aim<\/p>\n
the two parts of the cigarette landed safely but the bullet continued its upward journey and hit the anarchist in his right eye killing him instantly<\/p>\n
his last words were<\/p>\n
there is no art<\/i><\/p>\n
non c\u2019e arte<\/i><\/p>\n
during the next hour the flower maiden buried both the anarchist and the train driver in the same grave next to a factory that produced sanitary equipment<\/p>\n
she made the explosives safe and climbed onto one of the gantries that crossed the track and awaited the trains<\/p>\n
when the driverless train passed she jumped (in the manner of a suicide victim) onto the leading car and with some difficulty opened the cabin door<\/p>\n
the boys calculated that she took control of the train with only seven miles remaining<\/p>\n
when the train stopped at the great station all of its passengers alighted (some smoking Lucky Seven) <\/i><\/p>\n
the artist called fiore <\/i>painted each of their portraits (in the modern style)<\/p>\n
later she returned to the graves of the anarchist and the train driver and daubed graffiti on the walls of a factory in The Post War Industrial Landscape<\/p>\n
pornography disgusted by art <\/i><\/p>\n
pornografia disgustato da arte<\/i><\/p>\n
in the outskirts of Rome a Settebello snaked through The Post Industrial Landscape<\/p>\n
on a swivel chair in the observation saloon<\/p>\n
a boy named Anthony (Tony)<\/p>\n
wrote a poem<\/p>\n
he wrote this poem in brown ink<\/p>\n
Pietro dei Cieli \u00a0<\/i><\/b><\/p>\n
on a cold night <\/i><\/p>\n
peter lay in the iced grass <\/i><\/p>\n
and imagined himself <\/i><\/p>\n
looking down <\/i><\/p>\n
and seeing <\/i><\/p>\n
the reflection of the heavens <\/i><\/p>\n
in his one good eye <\/i><\/p>\n
after he completed his poem Anthony (Tony) looked ahead and knew that Milan was only three hundred and ninety miles away<\/p>\n
in the outskirts of Milan a Settebello snaked through The Post War Industrial Landscape<\/p>\n
on a swivel chair in the observation saloon<\/p>\n
a boy named Peter (Pietro)<\/p>\n
wrote a poem<\/p>\n
he wrote this poem in brown ink<\/p>\n
Anthony dei Cieli \u00a0<\/i><\/b><\/p>\n
on a cold night <\/i><\/p>\n
anthony lay in the iced grass <\/i><\/p>\n
and imagined himself <\/i><\/p>\n
looking down <\/i><\/p>\n
and seeing <\/i><\/p>\n
the reflection of the heavens <\/i><\/p>\n
in his one good eye <\/i><\/p>\n
after he completed his poem Peter (Pietro<\/em>) looked ahead and knew that Rome was only three hundred and ninety miles away<\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u00a0<\/i><\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" in the outskirts of Rome a Settebello snaked through The Post Industrial Landscape on a swivel chair in the observation saloon a boy named Anthony (Tony) wrote a poem he wrote this poem in brown ink Pietro dei Cieli \u00a0 on a cold night peter lay in the iced grass and imagined himself looking down […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":3,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":[],"categories":[],"tags":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/stuartmillerosborne.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/812"}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/stuartmillerosborne.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/stuartmillerosborne.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/stuartmillerosborne.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/3"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/stuartmillerosborne.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=812"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/stuartmillerosborne.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/812\/revisions"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/stuartmillerosborne.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=812"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/stuartmillerosborne.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=812"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/stuartmillerosborne.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=812"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}