Bogart and Bergman in Casablanca
never left the backlot

Kerouac and Ginsberg in Tangiers
where Allen discovered America
and Jack his desolate angels

Crosby, Stills and Nash
on the Marrakech Express
but only one rode the train through the night

Fagen and Becker and The Fez
borrowed a dildo from Burroughs lunch

Canetti had his voices and his prize

Homer had his monkey's paw
from the Medina in Marrakech
Where Orwell wrote an essay

Where Genet kept a journal
amongst Choukri's censored streets
Williams so far from Key West, sharing cups and Bowles

Gaultier and Saint-Laurent played dress-up
as the local girls cover up
from head to toe

Having left the safety and security
of the backlot known as Europe
I drive headlong into a bridge
into the unknown
and the fading faces of Morocco