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There comes a day.. it comes to us all in the end.. when you realise you have written.. a..prose poem. I’m not sure what a prose poem is but like pornography, art, political speech- you know it when you see it. Or in my case, write it. So here it is.

A Pilgrim at ‘The Pig’-

“The only thing that’s new is you finding out about it” Mike Watts

There is a place called The Blind Pig
In Ann Arbour. It’s a bar
Or a club or venue
Whatever

It’s a place where The Stooges played
Where the Ashton’s played and the Minutemen
I think
Whatever

I’d like to go there some time to visit
Like I went near to Hansa one time
That’s in Berlin
By the way

I’d like to drive there
Maybe ride on up on a big old bike
A motorbike I mean

It would be great to see a band there
Get all liquored up
Dance a little
Walk outside late in the moonlight
To maybe take a piss

Though in truth I only have other people’s word for any of this. These are just stories I have heard older men tell each other – not even directly meant for me to hear.

For all I know this is all just a novel
a great big novel I’ve overheard other men reading clips of aloud.
It might just be some old punk mythology.

Iggy might be some type of trickster god. If you’re looking for an Odin figure, that’s Ron Ashton.

Maybe I am just feeling the need to go on pilgrimage

Like I went once to Berlin
(Did I mention that already)

Maybe every ten years or so I need to go to Mecca
I just need to create the place in my head first

But create it from a real place
Because there’s no such thing as non-fiction.
And everything is real if you understand it properly
Everything is REAL if you understand it properly

Because I’m forty three and in some pain

But I’m not going to curl up and die
I’m choosing not to die

Cos that’s an option

So I’ve got to focus on something

Inject it with meaning
Make it a destination and set my gaze upon it.

So I want to make it to the Pig
The famous Blind Pig
That probably exists

And I’m going there.

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