The strangest sex I ever had,
happened right inside my head,
visited by some famous ghosts,
in my Hotel Chelsea bed.

Ah, I know, that you are thinking,
I have just imagined this.
and that these are a self-fulfilling,
somewhat insane perverted wish.

While all that could be true,
for most all of the rest of you,
you can surely rest assured,
herein, I will not misconstrue.

For I am innocent of fantasy,
this all really happened to me.
A scary haunting, particularly,
and I can prove it, honestly.

The first night of my stay,
I heard her enter, bursting in,
all piercings and open safety pins
rushing hard on heroin.

She pounced on and landed hard,
forcing down my shoulders,
with cigarette breath kisses,
and elbows hard as boulders.

She punched me roughly,
in the area of my kidney,
I rebounded entering slickly
in her smack slack junkie pussy.

She asked me to choke her,
and she to throttle me too,
Just after I had lost my breath,
I felt myself cum, coming to.

The second night, Mary came,
tears of relief her pouring rain.
She had waited, oh, so long,
for her lover, but all in vain.

She had mistook me for her husband,
but when the luxury liner went down,
she couldn't seem to understand,
he'd not made it to dry ground.

She loved him very, very much,
and she strained to make me see,
for just the bare resemblance,
she came to give herself to me

She was inexperienced with,
her unused woman flower bud.
She cried in pain when I came in,
on the sheets her virgin blood.

The third night was the ingenue,
with jazzy European cool,
laughing when I might defer,
making me to feel the fool.

She as slick as a Mac the Knife,
Brechtian cabaret degenerate.
German chanteuse décadent,
self-conscious feelings accelerate.

She slid in upon me savagely,
seducing with sophistication.
I had hardly no control,
object of her undulation.

In low voice emitting growls,
she insinuated all my faults.
Her fingers almost to my bowels.
I jerk awake to smelling salts.

Fourth night in a blue light,
she wanted love, but not just me.
Somebody else had stood her up,
the dose was stronger than need be.

Everyone had let her down,
singing with voice of heart torn.
The blues took her for it's own
and she took crying to art form.

Affectionate beyond belief,
desolate from what they'd done.
her self-esteem was fatal thief,
of any fame that she had won.

She held dick like a whiskey glass.
and shook me to my deepest part.
Still, I only took a piece of her ass,
and she took a piece of my heart.

Fifth, hooves of horses thundered in.
Torrents of words, all directions,
rocking hard through tempos chargin',
currents of sights, and conceptions.

Jesus didn't die for her sins,
she hasn't even died yet really,
but spirit starts when life begins,
her rock is subservient to poetry.

I fought to fill my lungs to breathe,
she trampled me upon my bed,
and she wouldn't let me leave,
she just might have left me dead.

She pulled no punches honestly,
leaving everything on the floor.
She slammed her verses onto me,
introducing me to rock poetry's war.

You might think that all this sex,
occurred all without love,
but I think I was a conduit,
of the many artists from above.

On another floor in the hotel,
where the elevator never goes,
and is neither heaven nor hell,
but a collection of these souls.

People don't always love it here,
it is creative people's choices,
a concentrated collective ear,
listening close to all the voices.

Thus in the bed within my room,
ghosts would come to touch me.
I responded with a semen plume,
from what I felt in Hotel Chelsea.

05/05/2012

Author's Note: Written for the anniversary of the virtual Hotel Chelsea build in Second Life. The sex is a device to draw little mini-profiles of famous Hotel Chelsea residents.

Posted on 05/08/2012
Copyright © 2025 Dan Linn