I was the tourist <br />el simpático <br />and your brother offered you <br />and almost himself <br />I forgot about your brother <br />and we took a flat in the Marshan <br />with reed mats and one water tap <br />about a foot from the floor <br />an we smoked hasheesh <br />and ate well and loved well <br />and left for the south <br />Essaouira, Fez, Marrakech <br />and got to Taroudant <br />thru the mountains <br />and bought alabaster kif bowls <br />for a few dirharms and watched <br />the dancing boys in desert cafés <br />kissing old Arabs and sitting on their <br />laps, dancing with kohl eyes <br />and heard the music in Jejouka <br />in the hills under the stars <br />the ancient ceremony, Pan pipes <br />fierce in the white moonlight <br />by white walls <br />with hooded figures <br />stoned on kif <br />for eight nights <br />and the goat boy in a floppy hat <br />scared us,beating the air <br />with a stick, beating whoever came close, <br />Father of Skins, goat god, <br />and the flutes maddened us <br />and we slept together in huts <br /> <br />San Francisco, 7.xi.72<br /><br />Harold Norse<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/to-mohammed-on-our-journeys/
