THE DRONES OF SUBURBIA (ROMA)

The third AI Video Artwork in the Drones of Suburbia series, “The Drones of Suburbia (Roma)” moves through a fractured city of rituals, rendered in poetic code. Here, the drones don’t spy—they witness. They remember. They sing.

A palazzo of nine floors becomes a vertical psalm, each level burning differently. A mother and silent son live with the memory of something divine glimpsed in circuitry. SIM cards become relics. Takeout boxes become altars. And each dusk, the drone choir hums—not in Latin, but in ledger.

In the Pantheon, women dance with drones beneath the oculus—the eye of heaven reprogrammed. At the Trevi Fountain, water flickers with swarm logic. Coins have vanished. Wishes remain, now encrypted in flight.

The women remain. They are the New Roma—not built on conquest, but on code.
They do not kneel. They do not inherit. They rise—and they dance with drones rather than tradition.

This is not nostalgia. This is a sovereign future choreographed in memory, movement, and machine. A Rome reimagined—not ruled, but risen.

Created with AI trained on Simpson’s Ink Interventions and the artist’s hand drawn marks, Simpson brings her vision to life with AI Video, using the latest AI Video programmes. The artwork is finished off with an AI haunting track in Italian; an urban hymn to ungoverned power.

“The Drones of Suburbia (Roma)”

There are nine floors in this building.
Each one burns in a different way.
The Pietà lives on the fourth, with her son,
who hasn’t spoken
since he saw God in a motherboard.

Up here, the angels wear knock-off shoes
and their halos flicker
like faulty streetlights.
Salvation is a door code
to an apartment that smells
of basil and electricity.

The drones sing their vespers at sunset
— not in Latin, but in ledger.
A new gospel, minted each night,
by girls named Gaia and Io,
who light candles in takeout boxes
and bless every cracked SIM card.

The devil isn’t here anymore.
He was evicted years ago.

We are what’s left.
Madonnas who do not kneel.
We rise again with graffiti and gas fees,
etching our prayers
onto flesh and silicon.

We are the new Rome,
born without a throne,
Our sovereignty is wild.
And it is sacred.

We are the new Rome,
born without a throne.
Our sovereignty is wild.
And it is sacred.

“I Droni della Periferia (Roma)”

Ci sono nove piani in questo palazzo.
Ognuno brucia in modo diverso.
La Pietà vive al quarto, con suo figlio,
che non ha più Parlato
da quando ha visto Dio in una scheda madre.

Quassù, gli angeli portano scarpe taroccate
e le loro aureole sfarfallano
come lampioni difettosi.
La salvezza è un codice d’ingresso
per un appartamento che odora
di basilico e corrente elettrica.

Il coro dei droni canta ogni tramonto
— non in latino, ma in ledger.
Un nuovo vangelo, coniato ogni notte,
da ragazze chiamate Gaia e Io,
che accendono candele in scatole da asporto
e benedicono ogni SIM card crepata.

Il diavolo qui non c’è più.
Fu sfrattato anni fa.

Siamo rimaste noi.
Madonne che non si inginocchiano.
Risorgiamo con i graffiti e le gas fee,
e incidiamo le nostre preghiera
sulla pelle e sul silicio.

Siamo la nuova Roma, nata senza trono, La nostra sovranità è selvatica. Ed è sacra.

Siamo la nuova Roma, nata senza trono, la nostra sovranità è selvatica. Ed è sacra.