mr. van pelt knows that god still breathes in this world
it was a viet cong rocket
slightly off its mark
as left him living but terminally shaky
and with
not much use left of his ears
but 'in the right places'
he'll often tell me with beer on his breath
having just drunk a draught of my wallet's ale
to my certainly grateful health
'you can hear his voice
a bellowing whissssssper...
and it polarizes the frosting on your cornflake bones'

mr. van pelt wants me to let you know that he hopes
on your next visit to the city
you'll have time to come meet
bathsheeba
take your shoes off in her house
lower your eyes when you meet her
you want to want her
he knows you
but you've heard?
you wont want to let her touch you

there are things that belong to something sacred

and mr. van pelt believes in love and said once
that it was what made the world go 'round
then told me the story of how
he once bagged
persephone
and of the subsequent aborted pregnancy
it's sad to see him wonder
about the features
of the child that never left the arms of god
but he'll often smile
in the midst of this
and i think he's hearing the whisper
and it bears forgivness
like the fragrance of sage