Seventh Avenue Love Song by Marie Martin

According to Bachelard
there are two kinds of fire:
one that is lowly,
and one that is higher.

The immortal Promethean
danced first in the pyre -
that near-invisible core flame
of being,
so pure
it had to inspire.

This sides against Lesser fire,
which is full of flesh
and street grit.
It’s a conflagration of chaos,
leaving a trail of ash
and of shit.

In trying to decide
which type I preferred
I headed down Seventh Avenue
in search of a prescient bum
or an angelic trickster.

I came to renew
my love
for those aching valleys
of pavement and stomped gum.
I came to feel light.
I came to be light.
Hell, who am I kidding?
I came just to come.

Oh, dear city
your love is so good
I’d carry you right
in my veins if I could.
I sing of your iron flowers,
of your
blacksnotted stink.
Of your velvet-tipped othering
and your quick-witted slink.
Your philosophy:
a pile
of burning old tires.
That’s so fucking zen!
I’m so fucking inspired!
Your queens are in drag
or plastic-nosed
bitches in mink.
Your front of “civilization”
is really just another excuse
to have just another drink.

And I could walk forever
into your spiral abyss
your grid full of melodies
your underground bliss
your rattling trains
and your shivering streets
your stripe-haired young girls
and your bruise-eyed old beats

Even your bathrooms hide
a legion of eyes
smoking weed over toilets
while spreading their thighs
and those blowing lines
and the outlaws d’amour –
“Don’t move a thing,
stranger,
cause I want some more!”
(whatever throat,
ass,
pussy,
cock,
whatever vice,
whomever whore).

And all the urine and shit
goes down through the pits
through pipes we can’t see
in marvelous post-Roman fits -
Oh, ravage me, city,
with your glitter and piss!
Send me down your black river,
just give me a kiss!

Your bottom goes so deep
but you outsky the sky
Your rebel lights glow out into space
and your white noise
gets aliens high

So, Bachelard is French.
He’s not into soot.
But give me these ashes,
they’re making me good!
Thumb that cross on my forehead,
daub me with your excellent grime
your old men and trumpets
your theatres and wine
your dives and your holes
all that is ancient compressed
for America, that’s not bad
for America, it’s the best

We've done all we could
to pound soul in the wood:
we’ve fucked in the streets
and laid down decades of good.
Whole symphonies of greed
are at your command -
the seven deadly sins
are your seven-piece house band.
You conduct all that is virtuous
as well as the obscene.
In your helix of sorrow,
only ecstasy reigns
supreme.

And your syntax is so layered
with swear words and prayers
muttering foul-mouthed blessings
in the foul-smelling air -

I couldn’t love you more,
you ruby-tinged sore
you open wound,
you Achilles high-heeled shoe -
I prefer your decay
to the Frenchy sublime.
I prefer to read poetry
whilst coughing up slime.

So merci, Bachelard, but
you can have your pure spirit
I want sidewalks that split
and I want drunks who pivot
into the street
while eating goat meat -
Yes, I want something beautiful.
Yes, I want something sweet.
But it doesn’t have to be bland,
it doesn’t have to be pink.
I want something ugly
because I want something true -

I want the dross
under your dress,
O my sanctified slut,
O my city –

all I’ve ever wanted
is you.