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Good, fella

i.m Frank Vincent

 stoical about pigeonholes
he bore his beatings lightly

the serial deaths
charting the inventiveness of violence

but there are only
so many ways to get your head smashed in

crushed by an SUV is a coup
de grace, its hard to die better for effect

actions and reactions, it seemed
like justice, Joe Pesci buried alive

Frank getting his, for once
it's a curious thing to cheer horror

and more curious to co-opt
entirely alien cultures for immersions

everyone at school
was a wiseguy for a couple of weeks

broad cornish accents
saying bada-bing, whaddyatalkin about

westcountry gangsters - "go home, my lover
and get your fucking shine box"



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