tangiers in 1964, without punctuation. the dancing boys.
After five days or three or maybe a month we climbed up some stairs to a big room full of smoke and men both local and english all of them watching a tinpot Moroccan trio tracking a rhythm of sorts and all down the wooden stage behind them sat about a dozen boys in a line of sorts all watchful for a signal from someone we couldn’t see and when it was given one by one a boy would rise up and throw a little dance number on the front of the stage nothing taught and I’m watching some sort of bargaining process in the audience as well as the money and kief changing hands wondering with half a mind about the company about me who seemed almighty dependant on gaining some temporary companionship for the night if they won the auction which of course this was as the boys one by one were offered up and knocked down to be led away by some handler and kept put in a locked room maybe until the top bidder had had enough smoke and tea and chat and was ready oblige himself but after an hour the air was too thick to breathe and the notions too strong to stomach so we wandered away deeper into this city that william s burroughs loved so hard looking for any imprint kerouac made but beaches aren’t solid on permanence are they.
I love the first few words of this especially.
you’re catching up