Memories of the Chelsea Hotel I wanted to say something To you or to you or to you About needful creatures Their costumes and tools Petty squabbles, button pressing folly And perhaps a 100 other murderous games But stopped myself just in time For reasons of diplomacy and tact Not wanting to imply anything Or distress you (or you, or you) Without a clear object in mind And thought perhaps quite reasonably That I should make sure that I myself Was not running my own hidden emotional Ponzi schemes Or pretending to be the doctor while all the time Knowing that I was the disease So I said, as I all too often do, Nothing much at all Settling for the solace of my pixels Scattered metaphorically On your ever white virgin sheets And promise to never again say or imply That you were only a metaphor A place holder or a reasonable facsimile Of impossible salvation