DENNIS HERTZ

Charles played the ponies,

win, place and show.

Weeks on end the greenbacks flowed.

He glowed.

 

Charles played his fists

to the target, precise and pissed.

Tchaikowsky kisses, bourbon warmth,

discovered and tragically swarmed.

 

Barfly Charles hid in rooms,

groom of many, seldom sane, never vain – 

click, click, “Shitty machine”, he’d say.

His words remain,

to me anyway.

 

Charles died drunk, Valhalla, good man.

I bid you cheap rooms with neon signs, 

critics’ grunts silenced for good.

Dirty old man, truth in both hands –

how they despise it

when you summarise it…

familiarise it.

 

Truth, Charles, you knew it like no other.

I’m happy you bothered.

 

Charles played the ponies,

win, place and show.

Greenbacks sing,

he did his thing.