Just as the Profumo newspapers<\/p>\n
Were hitting the street<\/p>\n
A young boy<\/p>\n
In a blue van<\/p>\n
Was being driven towards<\/p>\n
The Post Office Tower<\/p>\n
The van stopped suddenly<\/p>\n
And the young boy<\/p>\n
Banged his head<\/p>\n
On the driving mirror<\/p>\n
He decided not to die that day <\/i><\/p>\n
He slumped back<\/p>\n
Bloodied<\/p>\n
Into the passenger seat<\/p>\n
Dreaming of Hinton Twelvetrees<\/p>\n
Teaching his class about<\/p>\n
Gut Apples & Identical Power Houses<\/p>\n
The young boy scrawled on his notebook<\/p>\n
Red Brick is never sick
\nBlue Brick is my pick <\/i><\/p>\n
Childish prattle (rattle) what a battle was his rhyme<\/i><\/p>\n
As a punishment<\/p>\n
For defacing his<\/p>\n
Small Black<\/b> Bible<\/b><\/p>\n
He was made to sit next to the girl<\/p>\n
With the long copper hair<\/p>\n
That nobody liked<\/p>\n
Her name was<\/p>\n
Melissa Melissa <\/i><\/p>\n
They were travelling towards Dover<\/p>\n
But there were many trains<\/p>\n
So they chose the train<\/p>\n
With Credit Pollard<\/i><\/p>\n
Written on the side<\/p>\n
In light blue paint (still wet)<\/p>\n
A main in a wheelchair was waiting<\/p>\n
For his train on the opposite platform<\/p>\n
He was not crippled<\/p>\n
But had seen<\/p>\n
God<\/p>\n
And considered him to be his<\/p>\n
Identical Hero<\/p>\n
Next to him<\/p>\n
Sat a woman in a turquoise scarf<\/p>\n
Who was eating a Black Apple<\/b><\/p>\n
The juice from the fruit<\/p>\n
Had fallen onto<\/p>\n
Her scarf<\/p>\n
Staining the delicate material orange<\/p>\n
The colour of the sunset<\/p>\n
Cline Clasp Gas Fields Rich in Rape Passed Rapidly\u00a0 <\/i><\/p>\n
The day of violence had passed
\nOnly the music remained<\/p>\n
Tom Sixpence
\nTom Sixpence<\/i><\/p>\n
They sang as the night drew far close vose vose forever closed<\/p>\n
Tom Sixpence always brought the rain that washed the new lichens<\/p>\n
Off of the houses house passing<\/p>\n
The elderly lichens were not touched as they had decayed<\/p>\n
And had turned to Gold<\/p>\n
At the age of fifty-five<\/p>\n
The young boy<\/p>\n
Leaned on a farm gate<\/p>\n
And watched his birthday unfold<\/p>\n
On the mirror opposite<\/p>\n
Which had been nailed<\/p>\n
On to a dead tree<\/p>\n
By his predecessor<\/p>\n
He took a pen knife<\/p>\n
From his pocket<\/p>\n
And carved<\/p>\n
Si Sup Saradus
\nEpicuron Naradus <\/i><\/p>\n
Into the rotted wood<\/p>\n
For no other reason<\/p>\n
Apart from the rhyme<\/p>\n
He knew no-one would read it as they were only interested<\/p>\n
In the reflections of the mirror<\/p>\n
He picked up a stone and threw it at his aging self<\/p>\n
The mirror shattered and was blown away<\/p>\n
By a dust storm passing<\/p>\n
The stump trees led to the church at the base of the hill<\/p>\n
In the graveyard<\/p>\n
There were forty-eight graves<\/p>\n
Arranged in six tidy rows<\/p>\n
Of eight<\/p>\n
Of six<\/p>\n
Arranged in eight tidy rows<\/p>\n
There were forty-eight graves<\/p>\n
In the graveyard<\/p>\n
The stump trees led to the church at the base of the hill<\/p>\n
The was not the geography of design<\/p>\n
It had happened accidently<\/p>\n
As the resting<\/p>\n
Had died<\/p>\n
At random times<\/p>\n
The young boy and the girl with the copper hair<\/p>\n
Hid behind the gravestones<\/p>\n
For one minute each<\/p>\n
Until the game was over<\/p>\n
Twenty-four minutes<\/p>\n
After it had started<\/p>\n
He watched the people leave<\/p>\n
The Rossetti Exhibition at the<\/p>\n
NATGAL (as it was now called)<\/p>\n
He counted them in fours (a Pythgoran number)<\/p>\n
As they walked towards the Strand<\/p>\n
He had reached the age of<\/p>\n
One Hundred and Five without interruption<\/p>\n
And was seated in a wheelchair (many years retired)<\/p>\n
In Trafalgar Square<\/p>\n
He was alone and had been so all day<\/p>\n
Occasionally kind hearted people<\/p>\n
Asked of his welfare<\/p>\n
He eloquently explained<\/p>\n
That he was not crippled<\/p>\n
But had met God on many occasions<\/p>\n
As the evening lengthened<\/p>\n
It started to snow<\/p>\n
Which surprised the young boy<\/p>\n
As the month was July<\/p>\n
Yellow petals had begun to descend<\/p>\n
Symmetrical in shape<\/p>\n
And vivid in colour<\/p>\n
The young boy<\/p>\n
Began to weep<\/p>\n
As he knew he had died<\/p>\n
And that his restless hand<\/p>\n
Was now floating<\/p>\n
In the vibrant waters of the fountain<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u00a0<\/i><\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0 <\/i><\/p>\n
<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
Just as the Profumo newspapers Were hitting the street A young boy In a blue van Was being driven towards The Post Office Tower The van stopped suddenly And the young boy Banged his head On the driving mirror He decided not to die that day He slumped back Bloodied Into the passenger seat Dreaming […]<\/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\/958"}],"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=958"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/stuartmillerosborne.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/958\/revisions"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/stuartmillerosborne.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=958"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/stuartmillerosborne.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=958"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/stuartmillerosborne.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=958"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}