Frank Corcoran

Recently become himself an archangel, Gozzoli Ben couldn´t email away my tears: ” Caro Corcorano, which black ? Why terror? The vortex? For my and her early death? For good ? For painterly talent? For your tones not quite reaching over our top, amico mio? We are all gone. Si. Into a world of light. Encore. Si, mister. I had it not easy – I remember well my first amateurish goose-quill attempt, the Annunciation Angel Gabriel falling over on his Umbran nose. It took time and tenseless spaghetti and reams of renunciation. I painted over the top. Across the top. Painted quills and wings into eternity.”
Normally a normal sort o´chap, I staunched my tears. As I will now. A shroud is calling. D Major, cheap, frilly-normal, cheerful.